A Knight Of The Word

Andrew Wren spent the remainder of the afternoon following investigative roadways that all turned into dead ends. He was not discouraged, though. Investigative reporting required patience and bulldog determination, and he had an abundance of both. If the research took until Christmas, that was all right with him. What wasn’t all right was the way his instincts were acting. He trusted his instincts, and up until this morning they had been doing just fine. They had told him the anonymous reports of wrongdoing at Fresh Start were worth following up. They had told him the transfer records that had been slipped under his door were the real thing.

But what they were telling him now, barely eighteen hours later, was that something about all this was screwy.

For one thing, even though he had proof of the funds transfers from the corporate accounts of Fresh Start and Pass/Go to the private accounts of Simon Lawrence and John Ross, he couldn’t find a pattern that made any sense. The withdrawals and deposits were regular, but the amounts transferred were too low given the amounts that might have been transferred from the money on hand. Sure, you wouldn’t take too much, because you didn’t want to draw attention. But you wouldn’t take too little either, and in several cases it appeared this was exactly what the Wiz and Mr. Ross had done.

Then there was the matter of identifying the thieves. No one at any of the various banks could remember ever seeing either Mr. Lawrence or Mr. Ross make a deposit. But some of the deposits had been made in person, not by mail. Andrew Wren had been circumspect in making his inquiries, cloaking them in a series of charades designed to deflect the real reason for his interest. But not one teller or officer who had conducted the personal transactions could remember ever seeing either man come in.

But it was in the area of his personal contact with the two men he was investigating that his instincts were really acting up, telling him that the two men didn’t do it. When someone was guilty of something, he could almost always tell. His instincts lit up like a scoreboard after a home run, and he just knew. But even after bracing both Simon and John Ross on the matter, his instincts refused to celebrate. Maybe they just weren’t registering the truth of things this time out, but he didn’t like it that they weren’t flashing even a little.

Well, tomorrow was another day, and tonight was the gala event at the Seattle Art Museum, and he was anxious to see if he might learn something there. It wasn’t an unrealistic expectation, given the circumstances. He would have another shot at both the Wiz and Ross, since both were expected to attend. He would have a good chance to talk with their friends and maybe even one or two of their enemies. One could always hope.

He reached the Westin just after five and rode up to his room in an otherwise empty elevator. He unlocked his door, slipped out of his rumpled jacket, and went into the bathroom to wash his face and hands and brush his teeth. When he came out again, he located his invitation, dropped it on top of his jacket, and poured himself a short glass of scotch from what remained of last night’s bottle.

Then he sat down next to the phone and called Marty at the lab in New York. He let it ring. It was three hours later there, but Marty often worked late when there was no one around to interrupt. Besides, he knew Wren was anxious for a quick report.

On the seventh ring, Marty picked up. “Lab Works.”

“Hello, Marty? It’s Andrew. How are you coming?”

“I’m done.”

Wren straightened. He’d sent Marty the transfer records by fax for signature comparison late that morning, marked “Urgent,” in bold letters, but he hadn’t really expected anything for another day.

“Andrew? You there?” Marty sounded impatient.

“I’m here. What did you find?”

“They don’t match. Good forgeries, very close to the real thing, but phoney. In some cases the signatures were just tracings. Good enough to pass at first glance, but nothing that would stand up in court. These boys are being had.”

Andrew Wren stared into space. “Damn,” he muttered.

Marty chuckled. “I thought you’d like that. But hang on a second, there’s more. I checked the forgeries against all the other signatures you sent — friends, acquaintances, fellow workers; so on and so forth.”

He paused meaningfully. “Yeah, so?” Wren prodded

“So while there isn’t a match there either, there is a singular characteristic in one other persons writing style that suggests you might have a new suspect. Again, not enough to stand up in court, but enough to make me sit up and take notice. It only appears on the signatures copied freehand, not on the ones traced, which is good because it’s their freehand writing we’re interested in.”

Wren took a long drink of his scotch. “Enough with the build up, Marty. Whose signature is it?”





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Chapter Twenty-Three