I thanked her and retreated to the car.
Janet returned my call as I drove to my apartment. I gave her directions and told her to meet me there for lunch.
A mere two weeks before, my life had been simple, tidy, and largely pleasant. I had a job I liked and understood, in an organization I loved but nobody understood. True, my boss and I had something of a conflicted relationship, but, to the degree the Army allows any individual such latitude, I had been the master of my own fate.
Suddenly, I was inside the cat’s paw of any number of parties. Janet, for one; manipulating me to investigate her suspicions. Spinelli, jerking me around every time a new corpse turned up. Barry, maybe lining me up as a future scapegoat. And now, somebody I didn’t know, or maybe did know, was setting me up for something worse. The fates seemed to be handing out tickets for a piece of Sean Drummond’s ass, and I wanted to know why.
I got to my apartment, flipped on my computer, went to Google. com, and typed in “Janet Morrow-Boston Globe.”
Three direct hits, and a long list of partial hits. The first direct hit was a news story that concerned a murder conviction Janet had won for a Crips gang member who shot three goombahs from a competing gang. Janet was quoted as saying, “Justice has been served,” and the defense attorney naturally swore the trial was disgustingly unfair and vowed to appeal. Next was more of the same, a life sentence for a bigamist who snuffed two wives for the insurance premiums, and then a conviction against a pimp who killed two of his girls in a murderous rage.
So this was both interesting and instructive-three murder cases within a seven-month period. District attorneys typically assign their top brawlers when the charge is murder, or, as we say in the trade, headline magnets. This suggested that Janet was a fair-haired girl when the big ones were in play.
I noodled past other entries till I found one titled “Janet Morrow receives Patriot Award,” part of a newsletter from an organization calling itself “The Patriot League, Responsible Citizens Dedicated to the Preservation and Improvement of Law and Order in the Grand City of Boston and its Local Environs.” Surely a worthy cause, whatever the hell it meant. Described in the article were the date of the dinner, who attended, and so forth-stuff people read only to see if they’re mentioned. In a speech, the chairman of the Patriot League, Jack Something, exalted Janet’s many legal accomplishments, her unparalleled conviction rate, and he anointed her the Avenging Angel of Boston. Cute.
Grand Vistas was next, and multiple entries popped up. It appeared to be the kind of malleable title befitting everything from a porn site “for lovers of big-assed Latino women” to a tourist agency. Eventually, I found a company Web site.
Your standard corporate logo popped on the screen, a huge Z, like Zorro, with a bunch of portals for everything from corporate information to job opportunities. I thought maybe I should start with the job openings. I might be needing one.
Grand Vistas described itself as an international holding company registered in Bermuda with extensive investments and interests in telecommunications, zinc, diamond mines, gold mines, shipping, and heavy equipment leasing. Sounded like a company with identity issues. Nothing about owners or investors. Nothing about the corporate structure or its corporate officers. A few pictures of ships and mines representative of the company’s wide-spread businesses.
Geez. Trojan wrappers offer more information.
I dug the contact’s phone number out of the folder. I studied a long string of numbers that started with 0011, an overseas exchange, though I didn’t recognize the country code.
I was connected to one of those metallic voices that spooled me through ten options, none of which sounded like who I wanted to speak with, I suppose, because I had no idea who I did want to speak with. I was finally allowed to punch nine for a real human being.
“Grand Vistas. How may I help you?” answered a female voice, in English, but accented in some European flavor I couldn’t discern. I informed her I wanted to speak with somebody who knew how the corporation operated. She pointed out that a number of offices knew how the corporation operated, and couldn’t I be more specific. Accounting perhaps? Absolutely not, I replied. Legal? No, lawyers are assholes. Operations? Yes, fine.
A voice eventually answered, “Philippe Jardeau.”
I said, “Hello, Philippe, do you speak English?”
“A leettle. Can I help you with sometheeng?”
“I hope so. Name’s Bill… Bill Clinton, and I work for Morris Networks.”
“Cleen-ton?” he asked with that odd way the French have of mistreating our vowels.
“Of all names, right?”
“I suppose.”
“I always tell people I’m the one who did inhale.”
“I’m sorry, I-”
“Hey, get this. My wife’s name’s Monica. Wow, she catches some shit.” Well, enough with causing confusion about my telephonic disguise. I asked Philippe, “Hey, what’s your position in the company?”
“I am the aseestant director for operations.”
“Hey, I’ve got the right guy. Thing is, I’m working on a company audit, and the name of your conglomerate came up. I mean, we do all that swapping together every year.”
“Swapping?”
“Yeah-exchanging shares and utilization on each other’s networks.”
“Ah… yes, I am familiar with theeez. ”
“This audit is critical to us getting a big Defense Department contract.”
“Okay. I see.”
“And we’ve booked a lot of revenue from you guys. Eighty million, last quarter.”
“Yes?”
“Turns out our Defense Department has no record of you.”
“And why is theez a problem?”
“It’s a simple verification issue. Bureaucrats, right?”
There was a long pause before he said, “I am afraid I cannot help you.”
“Hey, pal, nothing hard here. Just name the telecommunications companies that are swapping with Morris.”
“I, um… one moment.”
Philippe must’ve had his hand over the mouthpiece because I could hear muffled voices. The language wasn’t English, but neither was it French.
He then informed me, “We are a private company, yes? We do not divulge our holdings to outsiders.”
“You know, I’m always telling Jason he screwed up not staying private. Now we have to wear our underwear outside our pants.”
“This is your problem, Mr. Cleenton… not ours.”
“Good point.” I asked, “Would you be more comfortable discussing this if I flew out and met with you? Tell me where and I’ll be on a plane tonight.”
“No, that w-”
“Philippe, this contract’s worth two billion big ones. Jason’s gonna get a big-time case of the ass if we lose it ’cause you guys are uptight about a meaningless confidentiality issue.”
Another long pause, and I assumed Philippe was once again chatting with somebody in the background. He finally said, “What is your office in Morris Networks?”
“I’m with the audit firm. I work with Barry Bosworth. Know him?”
“Uh… no. A moment.” When he finally spoke, he said, “Direct your questions to Mr. Bosworth. Do not call and bother us again.” Abrupt tone, loud click, and an empty line.
Boy, he sure tidied up the loose ends.
I mean, in most ways, I knew nothing more than when I started. But in knowing that, I knew considerably more.
Some companies stay private and forgo public money because they’re family firms and don’t want anybody else messing with the family jewels. Others because it’s an ego thing, and still others because they’re owned by paranoid control freaks like Howard Hughes and regard public stockholders as nasty germs. But even those companies are willing to list their holdings. I mean, to some degree, the whole capitalist game is a big-pecker contest, and what’s the fun if you don’t post your inches?
So Grand Vistas was this mysterious holding company head-quartered on an island known for no taxes and laissez-faire rules regarding business. Both employees I’d spoken to were foreigners. Yet the lingua franca of the company wasn’t English, nor French, but nor did it sound Spanish or Asian. We were down to a hundred-some-odd languages, but good detective work often boils down to elimination rather than addition.