Chapter 87
“I’VE GOT YOUR back, but you’re going to have to take the lead on this,” I told Mo-bot as we exited City Hall, heading for our cars around nine thirty that morning. “How soon can the Cal Poly boys be here?”
“They’re all women,” she shot back. “And they’re on their way already, working in their car, if I know them. The key, of course, is where the money is coming from, and the nature of the files and security codes that surround transfers from whatever fund they end up tapping.”
I said, “I just want to know it will work.”
“It’ll work,” Sci said. “Think of it like a tick.”
“You mean as in dog tick?”
“Or deer tick, or in this case, digital file tick,” he replied. “The program they’ll devise will be tiny and will attach itself deep in the metadata of the transfer file. To any but the most sophisticated of coders, it will look simply like a string of numbers, an afterthought.”
Mo-bot nodded. “The tick will also have the ability to replicate itself so one of its offspring will travel in the metadata of each subsequent transfer, on and on, kind of like a computer virus, but not.”
“So how do we get the money back?”
“The tick will be programmed to transmit a location back at each stop, each account,” Sci said.
“No matter how many times the money’s transferred?”
“That’s the idea,” Mo-bot said.
“Okay,” I said. “I’m impressed. I didn’t know we could do that sort of thing.”
“Learn something new about your company every day, Jack,” Sci said.
We’d reached the parking garage by then, and I told them I’d meet them back at the offices. I wanted to swing by Justine’s. She’d called in sick and I wanted to see how bad her hangover had turned out.
As I climbed into the Touareg, my cell rang. I fired the ignition so the Bluetooth function on the stereo connected before answering. “Morgan.”
“Is that you, Jack, my California friend?” came a male voice soaked in the Caribbean.
It had been a while, but I recognized it. I backed out of the parking space, heading for the exit. “I believe I’m speaking with Carlos San Cielo?”
“Long time, Jack,” San Cielo replied. “I’m calling from the Caymans.”
“Lucky you.”
“Beautiful day here,” he said. “Thanks for the assignment.”
“Thought of you first. Hope you found something?”
The detective hesitated. “I did. But it cost you a bit more than my ordinary retainer and daily fee.”
“How’s that?” I asked.
“This shithead attorney down here, the filing agent,” San Cielo replied. “He tells me he can’t divulge the names of the owners of this ESH Ltd, even after I lie and tell him I represent Mr. Deep Pockets, who wants to make many of these phony corporations.”
“Okay?” I said, driving out of the parking garage and heading toward the Harbor Freeway, Santa Monica, and Justine’s house.
Another pause. “I had to pay him five grand to get him to cough up what you wanted to know.”
“I’ll pay it,” I said, weaving through traffic. “Who’s behind ESH?”
San Cielo whistled, said, “I cannot believe it when he said it, so I asked to see the articles of incorporation for my own eyes.”
“Out with it, Carlos, I’m a busy man,” I said.
“Oh, yes, of course, Jack. It is just that I am not so used to … Thom and Jennifer Harlow and a David Sanders and a Terry Graves. They own this LTD called ESH.”
I left the freeway really confused. The Harlows and their attorney and head of production had moved money through an offshore corporation to their own company? Why? I supposed there had to be certain tax benefits. But then why had Sanders claimed that the Harlows were almost bankrupt, when they had access to millions offshore? And why had Sanders lied about it in the first place?
He’d told us that Thom Harlow claimed to have a new secret investor who was willing to front him enough money to finish Saigon Falls. And yet the financial records clearly showed that the twenty-seven million transferred to Harlow-Quinn Productions came from another Harlow-owned concern. Why? Was that how the investor wanted it? Was he or she offshore to begin with?
“Jack?”
“I’m here,” I said finally. “Did you ask the attorney how much money the company had?”
“Of course,” San Cielo replied. “The answer cost you another five grand.”
“Another?” I replied, turning a corner. “How much did this conversation cost me altogether?”
A hesitation. “Uh, twenty in all.”
“Twenty?” I said, my eyebrows rising. “This had better be good information, Carlos, or I’ll have to seriously reconsider our business relationship.”
“No, no, Jack, it is the best information money can buy about this ESH Ltd,” San Cielo assured me. “The agent was very happy after all to show me and to make copies of records. Much money in ESH. More all the time.”
“From where? From who?
“Many places and companies and peoples from all over the world,” he replied. “There is currently another twenty-three million in account of ESH Ltd in Panama.”
Twenty-three million. “That it?”
“Well, I scan and send all records to your office. You can see for yourself where money comes from.”
“Do that,” I replied, turning onto Justine’s street. “Send them to Maureen Roth.”
“The Mo-bot. Yes, of course, within two hours tops.”
“Carlos?”
“Yes, Jack?” he replied, sounding a tad defensive.
“Good job. Glad to do business with you.”
I could almost hear him smile from four thousand miles away. “I look forward to representing Private’s interests in the future.”
“I’ll let you know,” I said, pulling into Justine’s steep driveway.
I hung up, parked, set the brake, and sat there a moment, car still running, thinking that there could be another explanation for the money in ESH Ltd’s accounts, and for its sources. The Harlows were international superstars. They made movies all over the world. Their movies were shown all over the world, generated income from all over the world. It probably made sense in a lot of ways to have a company with an account off-shore, someplace tax neutral, or something like that.
I was still dwelling on that scenario as I started to climb out of the SUV, figuring I’d check on Justine at the door, be on my way, no need to even shut the motor off. So I was barely aware that another vehicle had stopped in the street behind me, and that a man in dark denim clothing was climbing from the car. But as I took that first step, turning to close the door, I caught a glimpse of something in the man’s hand, and felt panic explode when he swung a suppressed pistol at me.