The Crisp Poleward Sky Page 8

  “Welcome to the Hotel Marlowe,” the girl behind the front desk said as she looked up at Zeke. Then she smiled a big smile. “Do you have a reservation?”

  “I do. It’s for an early check-in,” said Zeke, thinking, It’s the eyes again. He gave her the details.

  “Yes, sir. You’ll be staying…three nights?” she asked.

  “Possibly longer, but I’ll let you know.”

  “Certainly.” She smiled a confident smile and handed him the key.

  The room was a corner suite on an upper floor with a view of the Charles River and downtown Boston. Two of its walls were composed of floor to ceiling windows. The decor was traditional, with heavy drapes and lushly upholstered furniture. A king-size bed occupied one section of the large room. Zeke set his suitcase on the bed and dialed a number on his smartphone.

  “7423,” said a voice on the other end of the line. She’d transposed the last two digits, as always.

  “Hello, Tanya,” Zeke said. It was a simple word code, using a name that started with the weekday name. Today was Thursday, and the code was enough to confirm his authorization to use this phone line. “I’m in Boston, safe and sound.”

  “Kimmy’s on her way up to meet you. How was your flight?” she asked.

  “Uneventful,” said Zeke. “I’m staying in the Marlowe.”

  “Like Phillip Marlowe?” asked Sally in a hard-boiled ‘Private Eye’ voice.

  “Exactly,” laughed Zeke. “I see that I’m scheduled to meet with the Finance guy at Raleigh University this morning. What do we know about him?”

  “Check your e-mail. I’ve sent you the details,” Sally said. “But the short version is, Dr. Paul Richardson is the VP of Finance for Raleigh U. He’s expecting you at ten thirty this morning.”

  “And I’m an auditor from the Department of Education, Cy Stiles’ operation. I’ll be interested in looking at the last two years’ data on student loans for undergraduates.”

  “Right,” said Sally. “You’ll be ‘auditing’ about a thousand records of student loans. The college has 2,100 students, and two-thirds of them have student loans. When you factor in the number of students that are included in both years, overlapping, you end up at about a thousand files. We actually have copies of them here already and are combing through them as we speak.”

  “Got it,” said Zeke.

  “Do we have any leverage on this guy?” asked Zeke.

  “Actually, I think we do. He appears to be cheating on his wife. That’s from a quick look at his credit card statements, but it’s pretty likely. Over the past two months he’s booked a hotel room in Cambridge in the middle of a work week. Seven times.”

  “What hotel?” Zeke asked.

  “The Pavilion Hotel, near the University.”

  “That’s good info,” said Zeke.

  “Seems he goes in for expensive lunches, too,” said Sally. “He likes a place called ’Tuscano,’ which is Italian and pricey. It looks like he eats there just before he visits the hotel each time.”

  Zeke smiled. “I’ll interview the Vice President and see what shakes out. You’re setting up some other interviews while I’m here?”

  “I am,” said Sally. “So far we've arranged two more.”

  * * *

  “I like Boston,” said Kimmy. “As far as big cities go, it has a good feel to it.”

  At Clive’s request, Kimmy had driven up earlier and met Zeke after he’d checked into the Marlowe Hotel.

  She and Zeke were now walking down Chatham Street, alongside Faneuil Hall, between Boston Harbor and the North End. They were on their way to the Boston Police Department’s downtown offices on Sudbury Street, about a quarter mile away.

  Zeke was quiet.

  “It’s got good energy, you know?” Kimmy continued. “For so many people living here.”

  Zeke nodded.

  “It’s not San Diego, but it has a good vibe,” she continued. “So what’s the ‘Cambridge thing’ that Clive was talking about?”

  “Clive was contacted by the head of the U.S. Department of Education,” said Zeke. “The Secretary asked for his help with some major Student Loan fraud. They got a whiff of it in Washington and they’re afraid it’ll become an issue before the next elections.”

  “You mean misappropriation of the loan proceeds?” she asked.

  “Partly,” said Zeke. “We’re trying to get a sense of how deep it goes…and how long it’s been going on. Clive got in touch with his contacts at Boston P.D. and they agreed to assist. It’s a jurisdictional thing. They’re convinced that there’s a money scheme going on in Cambridge. In the schools, somehow,” said Zeke.

  “How many schools are there in Cambridge?” she asked.

  “Fourteen colleges and universities, believe it or not. The highest concentration of higher education in the country,” said Zeke.

  They approached the brick building that housed the main offices of BPD and Zeke pulled the glass door open for Kimmy, then followed her inside.

  At the front desk, Zeke asked the receptionist—a uniformed woman with a large Smith & Wesson on her hip—for directions to Deputy Chief O’Malley’s office. She pointed at a bench, indicating that they should wait, called someone on a phone behind the counter and went back to work.

  A few moments later, a burly young officer appeared and escorted Zeke and Kimmy to the Deputy Chief’s offices with no fanfare, no conversation and little interest.

  “Glad you came by,” said Pat O’Malley, shaking Zeke’s hand and nodding at Kimmy. O’Malley’s name was displayed on a plaque on his crowded desk, facing the visitor’s chairs.

  “Clive said high level theft,” Zeke said. “What can you tell us about that?”

  “Yeah, the operation originated here, you know?” said O’Malley. “Our organized crime guys were looking into something else and sort of stumbled across it. We told the FBI, you know, it’s a federal thing, stealing federally-insured money, federal loans, but they haven’t taken any decisive action yet.”

  Zeke smiled. “Can you get at it from the other side?” he asked. “From the schools?”

  “That’s what we want to do. The FBI said that you’d be coming to help, that you’re the man for the job.”

  “We’ve set up meetings with several schools, with their finance people. It seems like a good place to start.”

  “What’s your cover?” asked O’Malley.

  “Federal auditor,” said Zeke. “From the Department of Education.”

  O’Malley nodded. “OK. Our OC guys said they think the Boston Mob is in it up to their eyeballs. And I don’t doubt it.”

  “We’ll be careful,” said Kimmy, sincerely.

  O’Malley nodded. “Good. I appreciate you checking in. I’ll be sure my friends at the Cambridge PD know about you. Let us know if you need any help.”

  * * *

  “Good morning, Mr. Traynor,” said the man. He was noticeably short and immaculately dressed in a navy blazer and gray dress slacks. His solid maroon tie contrasted nicely with the starched white shirt he wore, and his cufflinks and tie clip were a matching sterling silver pattern. He was evenly tanned.

  “Hello, Dr. Richardson,” said Zeke.

  As they shook hands, Zeke noticed that the academic’s hair had been recently cut, and that he smelled of bay rum.

  Richardson ushered Zeke into his small, neat office and waved at a wingback chair. He sat opposite, across a low coffee table from Zeke.

  “I took the liberty of having coffee prepared,” said Richardson, and he smiled an unconvincing smile. “French press.”

  “Great, thanks,” said Zeke, and waited.

  “So… I understand you’re here to audit our student loan records? Is something amiss?” asked Richardson.

  “Not that we know of yet,” said Zeke. “This is fairly routine, ordered by ADD Stiles.”

  “Yes, I heard that,” said Richardson. Then, in a ‘man-to-man’ voice he said, “I’m sure there’s more to it than that…” />
  Zeke looked at him and said nothing.

  “Isn’t there?” asked Richardson, suddenly less sure of himself.

  Zeke paused several seconds before he said, “I wouldn’t know about that.”

  “Oh, well yes, certainly. I understand,” said Richardson in his ‘official’ Vice President’s voice. “Well, ahh, where do we start, then?”

  “Well, first I’ll need to interview you, as the person responsible for Finance for the University,” said Zeke. “I’m sure you understand. It’s all routine.” He opened a folder in his lap and looked at some papers. Then he paged through them as if he were looking for something.

  “Oh. Well, I’m very busy today. I’m not sure I can spare the time,” said Richardson.

  “Actually, I could interview your boss, the Dean, if you think that would be better.” Zeke looked up at him, a question on his face.

  “Oh. Well, no, actually, it should be me, I suppose. Very well. But can we make it quick?”

  Zeke ignored the question and said, “Is there a more comfortable space? Somewhere we can spread out, if we need to?”

  “Yes,” said Richardson, regaining his composure. The requested task was obviously within his comfort zone. “I’ll ask someone to arrange that for us.”

  * * *

  They had been talking for just over an hour, and Vice President Richardson was anxious. “Do we have much more to cover, Mr. Traynor?” he asked. “I have a lunch meeting.”

  “Just a little bit more,” said Zeke. He smiled absently at the man.

  “Well, all right,” said Richardson, as if he were giving permission.

  “Let’s circle back,” said Zeke, looking at the papers in front of him. “Tell me again the reason for the high default rate on student loans here at Raleigh.”

  “Well, I believe we’ve covered that…” Richardson started.

  “Actually, no,” interrupted Zeke. “I asked the question, but you skirted the issue and explained the loan application process to me, instead of answering the question.”

  “Well, I’m sure I don’t know why we would have a high default rate. Are you certain that’s accurate?”

  “Yes. Does it have to do with the type of students you attract?” asked Zeke.

  “What? No, I can’t see how it could. We’re a very diverse university, but we’re also a boutique among the giants here in Cambridge.”

  “About two-thirds of your students carry student loan debt?” asked Zeke.

  “Yes, that’s right,” said the Vice President.

  “And Raleigh seems to have a higher than normal dropout rate,” said Zeke, still referring to his notes.

  “Not really. I mean, we have students who leave the school, but all institutions like ours do,” said Richardson. He shot his cuffs nervously, first the left one, and then the right one.

  “Are any efforts made to collect the debt? After a student defaults, I mean.”

  “No, that’s the responsibility of the loan servicer. The University doesn’t get involved in that part of it,” he said.

  “So you lose track of the money flow once a student’s tuition is paid? And his room and board?” asked Zeke.

  “We don’t watch that part,” said Richardson, touching his nose. He coughed into his hand.

  “All right,” said Zeke. “Can you get me these files to start with?” He handed Richardson a list of student names and social security numbers. “And I’ll need a room to set up in. This is a sample audit. It won’t take more than three days.”

  Richardson stood up awkwardly, and then walked to the door. “Come with me,” he said.

  They walked a short distance to a secretarial pool area, which held four desks, presently occupied by three people, each working on their computer.

  Richardson walked to the furthest desk. A girl who looked like an undergraduate student looked up as he approached.

  “Cheryl, I need you to pull these files for Mr. Traynor to review. He can use the faculty conference room if it’s not booked.”

  “OK,” she said and took the paper, apparently not impressed by Richardson’s authoritative attitude.

  “May I bother you for the Internet password?” asked Zeke.

  Richardson said, “Oh, sure. Our network is named ‘Netlink’ and the password is ‘RaleighU’, with a capital R and a capital U.”

  “OK, thanks,” said Zeke.

  “I have a lunch meeting, and then an appointment off-site this afternoon,” said Richardson. “I’ll be back tomorrow.”

  Tuscano’s and then the Pavilion Hotel, thought Zeke. Wonder who the woman is.

  * * *

  “He’s going through the records, snooping,” said Paul Richardson to the man. “He seems to know what he’s looking for…”

  They were standing on the sidewalk between two of Raleigh University’s classroom buildings, the bright sun shaded by the tall maple trees. The man said, “He’s an auditor. Of course he’s snooping.”

  The man was tall and almost effeminate in his mannerisms. He wore his gray hair long, pulled back in a small ponytail at the base of his neck. He had a bulbous nose that dominated his face. His glasses had tortoise shell frames and his face was mottled. He wore a nondescript gray suit with bright yellow suspenders. His name was Jobare Worthington and he was the Dean of the Liberal Arts College at Raleigh University.

  “I know, but he seems to be zeroing in on the student loan defaults. Almost like he knows something,” said Richardson.

  “I’ll talk with my contacts,” said Dr. Worthington. “There’s a lot of money involved. They may want to do something about this. Politically, I mean.”

  “Like call off the audit?” asked Richardson, suddenly hopeful.

  “Possibly,” said Worthington. “They may think you’ve tipped our hand, though.”

  “What, me? No,” he said.

  “So how would he know where to look?” asked Worthington.

  “I’m not sure. But I feel that he needs to be stopped.”

  “Will he find anything in the files he’s auditing?” Worthington asked, snapping his suspenders in thought.

  “Only trends, I think, if he’s looking for them. It’s been going on for years, though,” said Richardson. “He’s already talking about the loan default rates being higher than average, as well as the student dropout rates.”

  “Sounds like he’s getting too close,” said Worthington. “I’ll mention that, also.”

  * * *

  “I’m done,” said Susan as she slid into the passenger seat of the black Cadillac and pulled the door shut behind her.

  The driver, a tan man in his thirties, with the top three buttons of his white dress shirt unbuttoned, grunted and put the car in gear. He eased it away from the curb and headed south to the highway east. Then he shook his head and said, “Geez, I don’t know how you stomach that stuff.”

  Susan changed the subject. “Did you drive up from Phoenix?”

  “Yeah, pretty boring drive, Phoenix to Leavenworth.”

  “What’s that, about twenty hours?” she asked.

  “The longest twenty hours of my life,” he said. “Deserts and mountains, and then the Great Plains.”

  “What’s your name?” asked Susan.

  “I’m Luis,” said the man. He had black hair cut short and a subtle, indistinguishable accent with certain words.

  “Well, thanks for coming, Luis. You’re my escape route. Next stop, Dallas.”

  Luis nodded. “We’ll be crossing into Missouri in a few minutes. Then Oklahoma and Texas. Should be about eight hours, and I’ll drop you at the airport.”

  Susan nodded and said, “Thank you. I think I’ll catch a quick nap.” She turned her face toward the window and leaned into the soft leather seat.

  “Where are you heading from there?” asked Luis.

  “San Francisco,” lied Susan.

  Luis nodded to himself.

  * * *

  It’s easy, she thought, when they don’t expect it. She
had spotted Eduardo Diaz returning to his room. She was sitting at a window table at the McDonald’s restaurant next door to the motel and sipping her coffee, waiting for Diaz to return. He’d never seen her, didn’t know her, so she felt almost invisible.

  Susan recognized Diaz from his online mug shot and prison picture, a forty-eight-year-old man of slight stature, who walked back into the motor court and went directly to unit 11. Each room was separated by a carport on each side providing covered parking and privacy to every tenant. There were vehicles in six of the carports, and five other cars in the parking lot, but no one was in sight. The streetlights lit up the parking area.

  Susan walked up the side street past the motel and then left the pavement to take a position behind the motel units. The area was dark and scrubby and uncleared, with trash and empty beer cans strewn about, and she was able to see into the units through the small bathroom windows. She looked into unit 11, but the bathroom light was off and the door was closed.

  The traffic was light on the side street, Fourth Street. With no trouble Susan stepped through the open carport and knocked on the front door of unit 11. She heard muffled footsteps, and then through the door someone said, “Who’s there?”

  “Housekeeping,” said Susan. “I have fresh towels.” The door opened and Susan quickly walked in.

  Diaz looked confused. “Yes?”

  Susan had raised her right hand, which was holding a .22 pistol, and shot Eduardo Diaz in the face.

  * * *

  Traffic around the DFW airport was heavy when the Cadillac arrived, and Luis stayed in the “departures” line, slowly inching along. Finally, he pulled over to an open area at the curb and got out. Susan opened the door and stepped to the curb while Luis retrieved a carryon bag from the trunk, set it on the sidewalk and extended the handle with a click and a flourish. The carryon bag contained old clothes and a small toilet kit procured from a thrift store, and Susan used it as a prop.