“Jesus, Crang,” Harry said, “I gotta lead you through this by the hand? The guy at Ace would tell him Metro had raised the prices at the dumps.”
“Oldest dodge in the books,” I said. “Blame the third party.”
“No customers’d pick it up anyway,” Harry said. “Not likely at all.”
Harry’s zeal was on the wane. Now that he’d revealed his computer’s findings, he wanted me out of the office. He’d enjoyed his performance, but it was time to put the world of fraud behind him. He gathered up the copies of the invoices spread across his desk and added them to the pile of computer printouts.
I said, “It isn’t hard to come up with the answer to the ultimate question.”
“What’s the ultimate question?”
“Who makes the copies of the invoices that go out to the customers?” Harry was standing behind his desk with the printouts and invoices and the rest of the documents stacked in front of him. It reached a foot high.
“Crang, let me put it this way,” Harry said. His voice had become weary. Or was it caution I heard? “There must be a dozen people in Ace’s accounting department. From the size of the operation, I’d estimate there’s three, four people in accounts receivable, same in accounts payable, couple in the computer area, plus the chief accountant and the comptroller. From out of that crew, you’re speculating exactly who knew what.”
“Go on.”
“There’s a bunch of possibilities,” Harry said. “You really want to hear it all?”
“Please.”
“It could happen,” Harry said, “somebody in the accounting department or maybe a couple of them in there working in partnership could be the ones doing the photocopying of the invoices. But I don’t think that’s the route this scam goes.”
“Why not?”
“Gotta originate from higher up.”
“Yeah,” I agreed, “but wouldn’t it at least come to the notice of some of the accounting people that weird things are going on in the billing process?”
Harry shrugged his shoulders.
“Well, it’s possible one or two employees could be in on it,” he said. “I mean, somebody down the rungs might notice, what the hell, these customers are getting billed the same amount and the invoice numbers are the same for all of them.”
“But not necessarily?”
“That’s what I’m saying,” Harry said. “See, in accounting, people get used to a system and never ask any questions. The system at Ace, I’m speculating the way it went, one guy pulled out the invoice he wanted, one invoice every day, and he photocopied it a hundred and fifty times, however many copies he wanted. He took all the copies to the billing department, and they got mailed to the customers. No questions asked.”
“People are used to dealing in Xeroxes.”
“Sure,” Harry said.
He was still standing behind his desk, shifting from one foot to the other. Harry was growing anxious to be rid of me. He picked up the stack of documents and held them out. “Come on, Crang,” Harry said. “Take these.”
I tucked the papers under my arm. They weighed four or five uncomfortable pounds.
“The mastermind who does the photocopying,” I said, “that’s the one person for sure who knows what’s afoot.”
“Afoot?” Harry repeated. “Sure as hell he does.”
“Want me to say it?”
“This is your party, Crang.”
“There’s a photocopy machine at Ace in the president’s office.”
“Yeah,” Harry said, “but there’s a couple other copy machines in the building.”
“You agreed,” I said, “it was out of the ordinary for the president to have a machine in his own office. Now I think we know what he’s using it for.”
Harry was making shooing motions with his hands.
He said, “Far as my involvement goes, this is the end of the line.”
“You were right, Harry,” I said. “We got the smoking gun and it’s in Charles Grimaldi’s hand.”
“Smoking you’re saying?” Harry said. “The damn thing’s still firing.”
He came from his side of the desk and opened the door to let me out.
“Thanks for all this, Harry,” I said.
“Don’t mention it.”
“Never again.”
“That’s what I mean,” Harry said.
He shut the door behind me.
27
DRIVING THE VOLKS down from the sixth level of the car park made me feel like Mario Andretti at the Monaco Grand Prix. All loops and turns and not much straightaway. I jiggered the car through the traffic on Yorkville, past the outdoor cafés where morning tourists were taking their espressos, and turned south at Avenue Road. The documents from Harry Hein’s office were locked out of sight in the trunk of the car, and my destination was Charles Grimaldi’s office at Ace Disposal. Strike while the iron is hot.
I had the weapons to deal with Grimaldi. I’d offer him my data on Ace’s double fraud in exchange for a refund of Matthew Wansborough’s investment in the company plus interest, dividends, and other business charges. It was an offer Grimaldi couldn’t turn down. Or so my immaculate reasoning went. Getting Wansborough’s money in hand was priority number one. Next I’d tend to the other chores. Ferreting out Alice Brackley’s killer, blowing the whistle on Grimaldi, covering my own hide.
The truck gate leading into Ace’s property was open and I drove through, raising a jaunty arm to the man in the guard’s booth. It was Wally, the rotund gent who’d lost track of James and me in the dust of Saturday morning. Wally didn’t wave back. I parked the car beside the Ace office building and stepped out.
“Can’t leave your car there, mister,” Wally called from his booth. “And you gotta check in with me.”
Wally didn’t recognize me from our first encounter.
“Back in a flash,” I shouted.
My voice must have triggered Wally’s memory.
“I know you,” he called.
His voice had a quiver, the sound of a man done an injustice, and he came striding out of his booth.
“You’re the guy mighta got me in deep shit,” he said.
“Hold that thought, Wally,” I said.
I sprinted around the corner of the building, through the door, and down the centre hall toward Grimaldi’s office. Secretaries, accounting people, and other workers at their tasks gave me funny looks, but nobody made a move to halt my sprint. I reached Grimaldi’s door. It was open. I braced myself for the grand confrontation and stepped into the office.
It was empty. The desk was clear except for an organized pile of unopened mail in the centre, letters on top, fat envelopes, circulars, and magazines underneath. No indication of Charles Grimaldi’s presence on the premises. Quel anticlimax.
“May I help you, sir?” a soft voice asked behind me.
The voice belonged to a tall young woman with black hair to her shoulders and a clingy mauve dress that accentuated lots of breast and thigh.
“I’m Mr. Grimaldi’s secretary,” she said.
Lucky