Little Deadly Things (38 page)

“No, that was a guess,” said Dana. Marta watched her son. It was his turn to beam. She knew that demonstrating his skills in front of his father filled Dana with satisfaction.

“You have a few cat hairs on your clothing. They’re very curly. Only a Rex cat has hair like that. I took a chance it’s a male and that you named him Rex.”

“Did my son get it right, Denise?” asked Marta.

“Yes, he did,” she said, nodding her head. She smiled at Jim, “You must be proud of him. But Dana, what about the rest? The last-minute decision? Job troubles? All that?”

“I’m sorry if I got too personal right away. But you’ve got cat hair on your forearm and on the bottom edge of your jacket, and on your slacks where they would meet your jacket if you were sitting down. So, your cat jumped on your lap as you were sitting and you were wearing the jacket at that moment. You seem like a careful person—I mean, you’re an accountant, right?—so you would have taken off the jacket before you sat down. Or you would have noticed the cat hair if you weren’t in a rush.”

“You’ve got a good eye,” Denise said quietly. “Now tell me the rest. This actually makes it easier for me to tell my story.”

“Okay. Your clothing is stylish, the edges of your sleeves are frayed. So times are a little tough and that points to job problems. You passed on buying new clothing, but made sure your hair was properly cut. You are conscientious, which is why you came to see Mom at Colleen’s funeral, so you didn’t lose your job because of anything you did wrong. Maybe it was something you did right that got you in trouble?”

It was clear to Marta from Denise’s smile that she enjoyed the boy’s attention.
He will be quite a prize for a lucky woman some day. Or a lucky young lady very soon,
the proud mother realized. She felt a momentary pang of—what? Not jealousy, but something akin to it. She felt protective. Dana would find someone to love him. She would have to trust that person to love him as deeply as she did. Could anyone care about him as much as a mother?

Her rumination was interrupted as the waiter came by with a platter of appetizers. Crunchy cod fritters, sweet plump cornmeal fingers, and crescent-shaped turnovers, some filled with lobster, some with beef. Steam floated up from the platter and carried a piquant aroma of pepper, oregano, and garlic. The four diners attacked their food. The only sound from the table was the clink of silverware and expressions of enjoyment.

When the waiter returned, Marta asked Denise, “Do you mind if I order for the table?” Denise nodded and Marta spoke for a few minutes in the rapid, guttural Spanish characteristic of Puerto Rico. The waiter smiled his approval and returned to the kitchen.

“This restaurant has the most authentic Borinquen food you’ll find in Boston. I’ve never been disappointed,” said Marta.

“Borinquen?” asked Denise.

“The Taíno word for Puerto Rican,” Marta explained.

“Taíno?”

“Ah. The indigenous people of Puerto Rico were the Taíno Indians.”

“Well, this will be something new for me. It’s hard to find any cuisine in Boston other than Italian. Or seafood—but it’ll probably be in marinara sauce,” said Denise. The family facing her chuckled.

A tureen of black bean soup appeared, following the appetizers. Marta smiled. “Some people say that the black bean soup is Cuban in origin, but I do not accept that. One hundred percent Puerto Rican
puro.”

They finished their soup and awarded plaudits to Marta for her choices. Then the table grew quiet.

“Suppose you tell me what’s troubling you,” Marta said to Denise. “Relax, take your time.”

Denise Warren drew in a deep breath and exhaled. She lost her hesitant manner. “Okay, here goes. NMech’s bookkeeping for accounts receivable—the money that customers owe us—is easy to automate. Same transactions, over and over. Every month the same prescription or the same lease payment for an environmental project. That’s the key. The transactions are repetitive, and no one really has to look at them.”

Denise continued, a professional in her element. She had the table’s full attention. Waitstaff cleared plates, poured wine and water, and left, unnoticed.

“If the accounting system is up to snuff, then you can trust the results, as long as people use the system.” She looked around to make sure the family was following her explanation.

“Okay. One more technical bit, then it’ll be clear. There are millions of transactions. Accountants, auditors, regulators—they can’t check each one. So the auditors pick a sample and test. If there are any discrepancies in the sample, then there’s a problem.”

Heads nodded around the table.

“Well, I’m new at NMech. I wanted to learn more about my job, so I spent some time looking into the operations. And that’s when I found it.” The forlorn look returned to her face.

“And
it
is...?” Marta prompted.

“There’s, um, too much money. I know that sounds crazy. But revenue exceeds what we were owed. The amount of money that people pay us should equal the amount of money that they owe us, right? I mean, nobody pays extra. The difference was barely enough to notice. A few dollars. Even auditors disregard this small of a discrepancy. But I was curious.”

“What I found was that there were some customers paying us even though the accounts were closed.”

“I don’t get it. What’s the problem?” asked Marta.

“The accounts were closed for nonpayment. But those customer accounts were current.”

“Okay, so we owe them a refund. I still don’t see the problem.”

“Most problems were minor. When customers complained, we apologized and gave them a free month or two. They were happy and life went on. But here’s the scary part. I don’t know how to say this.”

“‘Start at the beginning, continue to the middle, and stop at the end,’” said Jim.

“Alice in Wonderland,” Denise smiled.

Jim started to speak again but Marta stopped him. “Tell us the rest, dear,” she said.

“Some customers didn’t complain. And the reason those customers didn’t complain—” Denise hesitated.

“Go ahead, Denise,” Marta prompted gently.

“—is...they’re dead. They died. Their meds were cut off and they died. And I think it was done deliberately.”

“You’re kidding,” said Marta.

“No.” Denise picked up her glass and sipped her wine. She looked around. The shadows outside had grown longer as the day ran out. People hurried by on the street. They were like streaks of color flashing across the restaurant’s window. Denise studied her wine glass as if there were an answer there to the riddle she’d found.

She shook her head slightly and refocused on her story. “I dug a bit and looked into the patient backgrounds to see if there was something they had in common. Maybe that would identify an error in the accounting system. And I found it.”

She picked up her glass again and drained it. “Not one of them had any family to speak of. No husbands, no wives, no kids or parents. I couldn’t even find any friends. Nobody to miss them. Dr. Cruz, Marta, I’d swear that these customers were selected because nobody would ask questions. It’s just too much of a coincidence.”

“Holy crap,” said Marta, who never swore. “How long?” she asked in a clipped voice.

“The first case I found was a SNAP user named Emery Miller in Venice, California, about a year ago. Since then, I’ve found eleven other customers who had their nanoagents terminated for nonpayment. Each one was from a different division of NMech. None of the deaths looked suspicious, so there was no investigation. But we’re still getting paid. So the problem is not with the accounting programs, but with someone tinkering with the program, someone who’s smart, but not an accountant.”

They stopped eating while to absorb the news. Jim waved off a waiter who hurried to the table to ask if there were a problem. Marta picked up a wine bottle. “I think I need another glass. Anybody else?” There were nods around the table and Marta poured.

“That was about a year ago, you say?” asked Jim.

Denise nodded.

Marta and Jim looked at each other. Marta said one word, “Eva.” Jim nodded slowly and said, “That would have been about when Eva was getting the bid ready for Rockford. Do you think that there’s a connection?”

Movement stopped around the table. Denise looked puzzled, but realized that Marta and Jim, even Dana, knew something that she was about to learn.

The waiter served the main course family-style. Beef stew served in a heavy kettle, accompanied by a delicate chayote squash and fried plantain slices. They pondered Denise’s revelation while they ate. Dana only pushed his food around his plate.

Marta turned to Denise. “Can you make a list of the customers who were affected? We have to deal with this.”

Denise looked miserable. “No. I can’t. I was locked out of the system two days ago. I thought I’d been fired but I’m still on the payroll. Just all of my company access is gone.”

“What the hell is Eva up to?” Jim asked. There was no reply.

The NMech jet circled Boston’s Logan airport until the air traffic controller indicated a break in the commercial traffic and provided landing instructions. The pilot taxied to a private hanger and rolled to a stop. Rafael Cruz and his escorts were met by two more NMech security agents. He was frisked and warned again.

A woman’s voice said, “You’re coming with me.”

Rafael turned and saw a small woman. She directed the security men to flank Rafael Cruz, and then waved her sleeve at the ex-prisoner.

“Recording. Say hello to your daughter. She’ll get the datafeed soon.”

Eva Rozen’s Boston home resembled her office—functional and unadorned. The dwelling’s front door led to a stairway. At the third floor there was a narrow hallway that ran the length of the unit’s spine. The lighting was dim and consisted of old-fashioned light bulbs. There were no brightwalls here. She’d even removed all of the windows in the apartment and replaced the self-cleaning, insulated nanocoated glass with old-fashioned window panes. It had been difficult to find a glazier with ordinary panes, but Rozen had the resources to pay for the out-of-style glass.

The apartment had the same configuration as her childhood home. The first room off the narrow hallway was a small bedroom, unused. This would have been Gergana’s room. Next was the bathroom—cramped by the standards of Eva’s current wealth, but one that matched the dimensions of her childhood apartment. Then a small bedroom, just large enough for a standard-sized box spring and mattress with ordinary sheets, a thin blanket, and a pillow. Next came the master suite and, finally, the kitchen. That was reduced to a small cupboard and refrigerator, stocked with an assortment of the humble foods from her childhood: blood sausage, spicy salami, vinegar-dressed potato salad and mish mash—an olio of vegetables, eggs, cheese, and spices.

The master suite housed the sole concession to luxury, a smart-bed. It was king-sized, ironic given Eva’s stature, and appointed with nanofiber sheets that were as frictionless as graphite and touched her skin as lightly as a whisper. The smartbed adjusted to her fidgety slumber and matched her body temperature, degree for degree. Despite the luxury, she slept no more than three or four hours at a time.

The black-clad NMech security agents who escorted Rafael to Eva’s apartment spent little time observing their CEO’s odd decorating sense. She had used them often as bodyguards, and, on occasion, for special services of a more intimate nature. They delivered Cruz to the guest room. One of the agents subvocalized a quick command to the apartment datapillar and explained to Rafael that he was to remain in the guestroom. He was not to wander anywhere else in the apartment, save the bathroom, nor was he to attempt to remove the security collar unless he enjoyed considerable pain.

“How long am I going to be here?” he asked.

“Don’t know.”

“What about my daughter? Can I see her?”

“Don’t know. Stay put.” They guards rechecked Cruz’s security collar and then left.

Rafael sat down on his bed. It was even more uncomfortable than it appeared. He paced along the room’s length and looked at the bare walls. He’d had more freedom in prison.