Least Wanted (Sam McRae Mystery 2)

His eyebrows gnarled in concern. “Hell, it’s possible that all our clients are lying to us,” he said, in a tone that suggested the obviousness of that proposition. He glanced sidelong at me as he sipped his coffee. “Why?” he asked.

“Well, I was just thinking, Brad does have a bit of a history.”

Walt shot me a look. “That’s putting it rather delicately, isn’t it?”

“I can be less delicate, if you prefer. He’s had legal problems before.”

“Frat house high jinks.” He pulled a sour face. “Frankly, I think my sister spoiled the boy.” He shook his finger at me. “But I don’t think Brad’s a criminal.”

“When we spoke, he struck me as defensive and a bit argumentative.”

Walt waved a hand. “The boy was just nervous and tired of answering questions.”

“Sure,” I said. I wasn’t buying it. “We’d better hope the audit clears him. If Kozmik presses charges, Brad won’t respond well to a cop’s third degree. He could barely stand the first degree.”

“I know, I know.” Walt held up a placating hand. “When someone checks the computer system there, I hope it shows that a hacker created that account.”

“Yes,” I said. “I hope so. I also hope the company agrees to do it, and whatever they find clears Brad. I intend to run a background check on Brad when I do one on his old boss, Darrell Cooper, and the guy who previously held Brad’s job. Vince whats-his-name.”

“Vince Marzetti.”

“Right. You would do that with any other client.”

I turned from Walt. Brad stood at the kitchen door. Tall and hunched the way tall people often are, he was in his mid-twenties. His face was boyish, with soft, delicate features and sandy-blond hair. Brad’s glance drifted my way, his gray eyes guarded and his mouth set in a sullen line. I wondered how much he’d heard of our conversation.

“Hi, Uncle Walt,” he said.

“Brad, my boy!” Brad managed a slight smile as Walt turned to greet him, setting his cup down to shake Brad’s hand and give him a one-armed embrace. “You remember Sam?”

Brad nodded. He looked about as enthused as he had at our initial meeting. “Hi,” he said.

“I should be going,” I said, delaying a moment to wash my mug.

A look of relief washed across Walt’s features. “Good luck with your visit. I assume you’ll be talking to your friend while you’re there?”

“Friend?” I drew a blank then recovered. “You mean their general counsel, Leonard Hirschbeck?” I snorted. “I know the man, but we’re hardly friends.”

I finished rinsing my mug and placed it on the drying rack. “Take it easy, Walt. Nice to see you again Brad.?

?

Brad grunted. I guess I’d left him speechless with awe.

CHAPTER FOUR

I left Walt’s. The mention of Leonard Hirschbeck had taken my mind off Ray and onto Brad Higgins’s problems. Kozmik Games was a short trip down Kenilworth Avenue to a small outcropping of mid-rise office buildings just past Greenbelt Park—an anomalous national park and camping area amid suburban development. The buildings had a slightly worn air, like the post-WWII single-family homes in the neighborhood. The small brick houses, once the stronghold of white, working-class folk, had changed hands over the past thirty years to include a broader cross-section of ethnicities.

Kozmik had offices on the third and fourth floors. I took the elevator to four where the company logo covered the opposite wall—”Kozmik Games” in cartoonish yellow letters against a blue oval background dotted with small yellow stars and planets. The hallway ran almost the length of the building, ending in perpendicular hallways on each side, like a big capital “I.” Turning left, I headed toward the accounting offices.

I stepped inside a large room and strolled to the end of an aisle bisecting rows of bland gray cubicles. To my right were two private offices, their doors closed. A Led Zeppelin poster caught my eye.

The room was hushed but for the clicking of keyboards.

I peered into the first cube, where a lanky fellow was entering numbers onto a spreadsheet. I stole past him and proceeded to the workspace at the far end. A nameplate on the divider read “Bradley Higgins.”

Brad had an L-shaped desk tucked into the cubicle. His chair faced away from the entrance, providing visitors a stellar view of his back. I recalled the story of Wild Bill Hickok, shot from behind while playing poker with his back to the door. A file cabinet obscured my view of the monitor. From this vantage point, no mortal could have read the code Brad used to create the account.

I crossed to the desk and sat down. Craning my head, I examined the ceiling and its juncture with the wall behind me. No evidence of a security camera. Too bad. It might have revealed the identity of whoever planted the money. Of course, someone in the company would have gained that information too.