Private L.A. (Private 6)

“They’re all women,” she shot back. “And they’re on their way already, working in their car, if I know them. The key, of course, is where the money is coming from, and the nature of the files and security codes that surround transfers from whatever fund they end up tapping.”

I said, “I just want to know it will work.”

“It’ll work,” Sci said. “Think of it like a tick.”

“You mean as in dog tick?”

“Or deer tick, or in this case, digital file tick,” he replied. “The program they’ll devise will be tiny and will attach itself deep in the metadata of the transfer file. To any but the most sophisticated of coders, it will look simply like a string of numbers, an afterthought.”

Mo-bot nodded. “The tick will also have the ability to replicate itself so one of its offspring will travel in the metadata of each subsequent transfer, on and on, kind of like a computer virus, but not.”

“So how do we get the money back?”

“The tick will be programmed to transmit a location back at each stop, each account,” Sci said.

“No matter how many times the money’s transferred?”

“That’s the idea,” Mo-bot said.

“Okay,” I said. “I’m impressed. I didn’t know we could do that sort of thing.”

“Learn something new about your company every day, Jack,” Sci said.

We’d reached the parking garage by then, and I told them I’d meet them back at the offices. I wanted to swing by Justine’s. She’d called in sick and I wanted to see how bad her hangover had turned out.

As I climbed into the Touareg, my cell rang. I fired the ignition so the Bluetooth function on the stereo connected before answering. “Morgan.”

“Is that you, Jack, my California friend?” came a male voice soaked in the Caribbean.

It had been a while, but I recognized it. I backed out of the parking space, heading for the exit. “I believe I’m speaking with Carlos San Cielo?”

“Long time, Jack,” San Cielo replied. “I’m calling from the Caymans.”

“Lucky you.”

“Beautiful day here,” he said. “Thanks for the assignment.”

“Thought of you first. Hope you found something?”

The detective hesitated. “I did. But it cost you a bit more than my ordinary retainer and daily fee.”

“How’s that?” I asked.

“This shithead attorney down here, the filing agent,” San Cielo replied. “He tells me he can’t divulge the names of the owners of this ESH Ltd, even after I lie and tell him I represent Mr. Deep Pockets, who wants to make many of these phony corporations.”

“Okay?” I said, driving out of the parking garage and heading toward the Harbor Freeway, Santa Monica, and Justine’s house.

Another pause. “I had to pay him five grand to get him to cough up what you wanted to know.”

“I’ll pay it,” I said, weaving through traffic. “Who’s behind ESH?”

San Cielo whistled, said, “I cannot believe it when he said it, so I asked to see the articles of incorporation for my own eyes.”

“Out with it, Carlos, I’m a busy man,” I said.

“Oh, yes, of course, Jack. It is just that I am not so used to … Thom and Jennifer Harlow and a David Sanders and a Terry Graves. They own this LTD called ESH.”

I left the freeway really confused. The Harlows and their attorney and head of production had moved money through an offshore corporation to their own company? Why? I supposed there had to be certain tax benefits. But then why had Sanders claimed that the Harlows were almost bankrupt, when they had access to millions offshore? And why had Sanders lied about it in the first place?