Primary Justice

26

THE RIVER PARKS ARE probably the most scenic parts of central Tulsa. Attractive greenery, nature walks, exercise parcourse, bike trails, playground equipment, picnic tables, and hot dog stands—it all can be found between the Arkansas River and Riverside Drive. The park performed a variety of important civic functions. It was where harried parents brought their children to get them out of the house, where housewives came to aerobicize their way to personal fulfillment, where homosexuals congregated in search of companionship.

It was also an ideal place to have a private conversation in public, Ben decided. Harry Brancusci, Sanguine’s accountant, had agreed to meet Ben there during his lunch break. They talked as they walked slowly upriver along the jogging trail, their voices dropping to a hush whenever someone passed nearby.

“So Jonathan Adams suspected that money was being diverted out of the Sanguine corporate gross profits. Why did he need you?”

“For proof,” Brancusci said quietly. He was a thin, dark-haired man, probably in his mid-thirties. He had the disconcerting habit of shutting his eyes whenever he looked at Ben and opening them again whenever he looked away.

“Somehow, Adams learned a slush fund existed. Don’t ask me how. But he needed proof. So he came to me. Only Sanguine accountants and top executives have access to Sanguine financial documents. In the case of accountants, we have them only briefly. And no one accountant has access to all financial documents. Sanguine Enterprises is divided into three divisions, financially speaking. The first division is composed of franchises that pay a percentage of their monthly gross profits; the second division is composed of franchises that pay a straight fee and keep their profits. The third financial category involves nonfranchising activities, administrative costs, office expenses, leases, executive perks—that sort of thing.”

His eyelids closed as he turned to face Ben. “Sanguine has three accounting staffs, each corresponding to one of the three divisions. I’m in the franchise straight-fee department. So I never saw more than one-third of the Sanguine financial data.”

Ben wiped his brow. It was a hot day, and unlike those trotting past him on the jogging trail, he didn’t enjoy sweating. “Why the elaborate cloak-and-dagger approach to something as simple as doing the corporate books? That must have made people suspicious.”

“Not really. It’s pretty standard corporate operating procedure. It’s a nasty world out there. A lot of people would be interested in knowing how Sanguine is doing from quarter to quarter.”

“At some point, though, someone must have access to all three sets of data. Someone must compile all the financial information so that Sanguine executives can see the big picture and judge how the corporation is doing, plan for the future, pay the taxes—whatever it is executives do.”

Brancusci nodded his head. “Sure, someone. Some officer of the corporation or vice president or secret conclave of accountants. But not me. And not Adams.” His thin face turned away. “Adams wanted me to follow the paper trail and find out who had access to, as you say, the big picture.”

“And?”

“And?” Brancusci raised his eyebrows and shrugged. “And I did. Follow the trail, that is. With the assistance of a blonde, teenage office messenger who was not altogether unfriendly to me—” He paused doubtfully, as if unsure whether this was a conquest of which he should boast. “I monitored the flow of interoffice mail throughout the two-week period prior to this year’s annual meeting in Nashville. One day a thick report with numbers that didn’t come from any of the three standard accounting departments was circulated among the upper echelon. So that night …” His eyes stretched out across the water. “… what do you know, I had to work late. Walked into Sanguine’s office under the pretense of delivering something he needed, unlocked his desk with a paper clip, and swiped the report. Photocopied it, returned it, and no one was the wiser.”

Ben decided the less said about that the better. Given recent events, he was in no position to criticize. “What did you learn from the report?”

“I learned that Adams was right. A large amount of money was being diverted from the gross earnings of the corporation.”

“How large?”

“Difficult to say for certain, but it’s in the millions. I’d guess about three million dollars, over a number of years.”

Ben nodded. It was the same ball-park figure Sally Zacharias had derived.

“The diversion of funds has been concealed by a series of false invoices. Each accounting department was told that another department was receiving the missing money. A perfectly covered trail. The money is accounted for on the books, but nobody not-in-the-know knows where it’s really gone.”

“So what are the coded papers I found?”

“That was a summary I generated. Based on the information in the report I swiped from Sanguine’s desk.”

Ben paused a moment and let a black-leotarded woman, shielded from the world by a Walkman and earplugs, pass by. Then, he decided, it was time to ask the $64,000 question. “Who was getting the money?”

“I can’t say for sure. But I can tell you who wasn’t. The corporate shareholders. That was the reason for the entire elaborate deception, unless I’m greatly mistaken. Sanguine is a public corporation, you know. Based on provisions in its corporate charter, it has an obligation to pay annual dividends to shareholders when the corporation generates large gross profits. Or to report its decision not to pay dividends and explain why. But if you reduce the corporate gross profits enough, nobody expects dividends to be paid. More money for the slush fund.”

Ben took a deep breath of fresh air. All this corporate bookkeeping stuff was really over his head. At the D.A.’s office, he had avoided white-collar crime whenever possible. But, he supposed, the details weren’t important. He followed the gist of the matter. Someone was ripping off millions of dollars, and Adams found out about it.

“Why was Adams so determined to track this down?” Ben asked.

“You tell me,” Brancusci said. “I’m no shrink. But I can tell you this. Sanguine and the rest of the upper management types—they always treated Adams like dirt. He was old guard, definitely not one of the boys. Adams was with the company when Sanguine bought it and brought in his own management crew. Adams stayed on as a condition of the buy-out agreement. Evidently, it was cheaper to keep him and bear the nuisance than to pay him off. But that didn’t mean they had to like him. It didn’t mean they had to treat him like a human being.”

Brancusci bent down, lifted a small rock, and flung it into the river. It skipped on the surface four times before sinking. “Don’t be fooled by his job title. Adams was a vice president in name only. They never gave him anything important to do, and they paid him accordingly. Sanguine and his cronies were getting rich; Adams never even got a raise. No one said anything, but the fact was they were trying to hound him into quitting the job he didn’t really have anyway. I mean, this whole slush fund is a perfect example. By title, Adams was one of only five vice presidents in a multimillion-dollar public corporation. He should’ve had access to all important financial papers. But he didn’t. He didn’t know what was going on. They kept him locked out.”

Ben wiped his brow again. The weather was uncommonly hot, and the air seemed thin and hard to breathe. “Adams was going to blackmail Sanguine, wasn’t he?”

“Yes. Maybe. Hell, I don’t know. He was going to do something with the information, that’s for damn sure. Something to improve his current station in life.”

“And what about you? You seem to have incurred a great deal of risk in this business. What was in it for you?”

Brancusci gazed out at the river. Then he said quietly, almost under his breath, “Let’s just say I have a strong distaste for injustice. And poverty.”

Ben pulled the summary out of his jacket pocket. “There’s a coded notation in the left-hand column on the second page.” Ben pointed to the line on the ledger. “It’s marked Ca-Em. Is that a reference to Emily?”

“I don’t know. I copied it like I found it. Could stand for anything. Obviously, it’s in code, and I wasn’t privy to the key.” He scrutinized the summary. “It appears to be grouped with other corporate real estate holdings in Tulsa. I’m almost certain this item three lines above is the office lease payment for our Tulsa headquarters. I recognize the amount.”

He continued to study the summary. “Ca-Em. Four hundred and seventeen dollars and forty-six cents. The same every month. Might be a mortgage payment or installment payment on some property. Kind of small, though. I’d bet it’s a rental or lease payment.”

“You may have to testify, you realize.”

Brancusci stopped walking. Although he faced the river, Ben could see the panicked expression in his eyes. “No way in hell I’m going to testify. I’ve already spilled everything I know. Personally, I liked Adams and felt sorry for him, and I want to see his killer caught as much as anybody. Maybe more. If I didn’t care about the old man, I wouldn’t be talking to you now. But I can’t testify. If anyone even finds out I’ve spoken to you—”

“If you’ll produce the report you based the summary upon, a personal statement may be unnecessary. But if you don’t, I guarantee you that either I or the police will slap a subpoena on you. And if you lie under oath, I’ll see that you do time for perjury. Your choice. The penitentiary in McAlester is a nasty place.”

Brancusci grimaced. “My choice, huh? Yeah, right. I should’ve expected to get screwed again.” After a moment, he resumed walking down the jogging trail. “I’ll give you the damn report. Give me your phone number. I’ll call you when I’m ready. We’ll arrange another meeting. Nothing personal, but I don’t want you to be seen at my apartment.”

Ben pulled a business card out of his wallet and gave it to the accountant.

“One more thing before you run off,” Ben said. “Who was in a position to know about this slush fund and profit from it?”

“Hell, I bet they all knew about it. All the vice presidents, except Adams. The only way to keep them quiet would be to, well, share the wealth. But only one person could have authorized it. The one person it would be absolutely impossible to leave in the dark. Sanguine.”

He turned to look at Ben and, for the first time, his eyes opened. “Your client.”