CHARLIE SCHWAB HAD CHOSEN the Sales warehouse in Syosset as the site for his aud it. It was an unusual move, since audits were typically held in the accountant's office or in the IRS branch office. He'd chosen the Long Island location because the juice he was looking for would not be in Ira Mandel's Manhattan office, and he didn't want to travel into the city every day for an indefinite period in any case. He was also strapped for time. Gayle was ruthless about keeping their cases quick and productive. Move fast and move on, was her motto.
A limited audit to clear up a teeny question about one detail of a transaction that had been recorded some years ago might require a stack of paper several feet deep and take a full day. To examine the books of a business like Sales Importers with a lot of product moving in from many countries and moving out to thousands of highly active monthly accounts in numerous states for even one year could take weeks. Full audits of big holding companies and conglomerates typically took months. It all depended on how much time was being covered, how much paperwork had to be examined, and how compulsive an investigator was. Charlie was very compulsive indeed, but he could also move as fast as the wind.
In the middle of traffic he mused that the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms would definitely want in on this case. It was a big one, and ATF got involved at the drop of a hat. Charlie worried about the risk he personally was taking. He hoped that he wouldn't be making too many enemies by following his boss's instructions to do the grunt work alone. He didn't want to upset himself thinking about office politics, so he contemplated the question of spies instead.
Because the possibility of finding uncollected revenues was ever present for the IRS, no one cared who informers were. The tax force relied on spies for tips. They also relied on newspaper articles about all sorts of events, both criminal and civil. Charlie himself had a large collection of obits of prominent and wealthy people who had died in the region. These obits helped them decide which estates to target with an audit. On the spy front, suffice it to say there were a lot them. Spurned spouses. Fired employees. The discriminated against, for one reason or another. The IRS was an equal opportunity tip taker.
In the Sales organization someone was holding a grudge, a big one, and stood to win a nice bonus if the assertions proved correct. Sooner or later he'd find out who it was, or maybe he wouldn't. Didn't matter to him. Charlie concluded his thoughts and pulled up in the Sales parking lot. The red Jaguar was there, and he felt a little glow with the intuitive feeling that Mona would be useful.
Inside, past the reception area, several banquet tables had been set up in an empty space near the bathrooms. Documents were stacked on the tables along with bottled water, sodas, a coffee urn, and bakery goods. Boxes filled with supporting documents were piled around and under the tables. One table had four folding chairs set up. The first thing Charlie noticed about the setup, aside from its lack of comfort, was that no one could possibly read there. It was dark as a cave.
Ira Mandel was sitting at the food table eating a bagel with cream cheese. Never one of Charlie's favorites, Ira was a short man with an easy smile and forgettable features. He looked a little sleazy this morning in his shiny blue Italian suit and silver tie. As soon as he saw Charlie, he put the bagel down and stood up, licking his fingertips one by one. When he finished licking the hand, he held it out to Charlie, who pretended not to see it.
"Ira," Charlie said neutrally.
Ira did not appear in the least put off by the snub. "Nice to see you, Charles. This is my associate, Ted Sales."
A young lug stepped out of the shadows.
"How do," Charles said pleasantly. The youngster looked like an overly large twelve-year-old, very nervous in a tan suit and red tie. Small eyes and mouth.
"Sir," he said formally, then bit down on his lower lip, losing it altogether.
"Any relationship?" Charlie asked him.
Ted seemed terrified by the question. "Sir?"
"Your name. Sales."
"Oh." Ted glanced at Ira before answering.
"Yes, yes, he's Mitchell Sales's son. Very bright young man, wants to be an accountant."
"Good for him," Charlie applauded. "Let's get going."
"Please. Be my guest. Have some breakfast, will you? I have something I want to go over with you before we start."
Just up the steel staircase a picture window showed where the main offices were. From where he stood, Charlie had a clear view of Mona Whitman leaning over the desk with her backside to him. Ira followed his gaze.
"What can I get you?" he asked.
"What?" Charlie blinked.
"Breakfast," Ira prompted.
"Oh yes. Thank you, I've already eaten." Charlie sat down at the table and took out his equipment. Calculator, laptop, pens. Pads. Altoids.
Over his head, Ira glanced at Ted. "Pull up a chair, Teddy."
Oh, now he was Teddy. Charlie ignored the scraping sound as Teddy pulled up his chair. He was minding his own business, paying no attention to anything but his own notes when quick steps on the cement floor let him know that the decorative Mona had arrived.
"Teddy! I didn't know you were here yet. Isn't this terrible? I tried and tried to call you. How are you holding up, darling?" She rushed over to him and threw herself into his arms.
Since Teddy didn't have the manners to rise for her, she ended up almost in his lap.
"Hi, Mona." Teddy's reaction was a mixture of confusion and alarm.
Ira lifted his eyes heavenward. Charlie wondered what the story there was. Mona regained her balance and stepped back to examine the young man's face.
"I feel so bad for you. How are you doing, honey?"
"I have a girlfriend," Teddy said with a shy grin.
"No kidding, that's wonderful. Who's the lucky girl?"
"She's a nurse," Teddy said proudly.
"A nurse, she's a nurse?" Mona cried. "What kind of a nurse?"
"Operating room. Isn't that cool?"
Mona's attention wandered over to the accountant.
"Ira, sweetheart. Hello." She clicked her tongue. "Terrible thing, isn't this?" Instead of embracing him, she made a little face. "Oh, don't be mad. I have no intention of butting in, I promise. I was just going to the ladies'. How do you like the little spread I put out? That's whitefish salad, right there. Your favorite, Teddy. Ira, could I have just a word with you?"
"Of course, Mona."
Then she registered Charles Schwab sitting at the table very busily tapping on his laptop, totally ignoring her. "Oh my goodness, Mr. Schwab. I didn't know you were here."
He glanced up at the sound of his name. She gave him a big smile as if they were old friends. No one could say he didn't have manners. Charlie jumped to his feet, wondering what it would take to turn her. "Miss Whitman, how's that ankle of yours?" he said cheerfully.
"Still aching something terrible. What happened to you?" She raised her hand and came closer to touch the bruise on his forehead.
"A little tennis mishap. It's nothing."
"You play tennis, too? You're amazing. Did Ira tell you about our problem?"
Ira frowned furiously at her. "Thank you for the food, Mona. No, we haven't gotten that far yet."
Charlie divided his attention between them. And what was the story there?
"Oh, well, sorry to interrupt. Is there anything else I can do for you?" She smiled brightly.
Charlie held up his hand. "Light," he said.
"What?"
"We need some light."
"Oh." She put a hand to her mouth like a little girl who'd made a big mistake. "Oops. Of course you do. I'll take care of it right away."
But she didn't. Charlie returned to his laptop, and Teddy squirmed in his chair during the short hiatus while Mona had a private conversation with Ira. Finally Ira returned to the banquet table, and Mona went into the ladies'.
"Are you sure you won't have some coffee?" he offered a second time.
In such situations, Charlie was always reminded of a colleague of his who'd gotten very sick from rat poison served in a cappuccino during an audit. "Yes, but thanks anyway," he said.
"Well, then, we can get right to it. Here's our situation. I want to alert you to a personal tragedy. Mitchell Sales had a stroke over the weekend. He's in extremely serious condition in intensive care, and we're concerned that he won't make it."
Charlie was digesting this information when the distracting sound of a flushing toilet came from behind the door markedLADIES. "That's a real shame," he replied. They were back on the stroke. He lifted one shoulder in what he thought was a sympathetic shrug.
Ira took it the wrong way. "Now don't get me wrong," he said belligerently. "We're perfectly prepared to go through with the audit right now. This is for your convenience only."
"I don't see how it changes the situation," Charlie replied blandly.
"Of course, you know perfectly well in a private company it would make all the difference," Ira argued.
Charlie shrugged with both shoulders. "I don't see how. Any adjustment that we might ask for would have to be complied with in any case."
"Oh for God's sake, Charlie, my man, the company CEO is dangerously ill."
"You weren't expecting him to participate at this point, were you?" Charlie stuck to his guns. He wasn't anybody's man.
"Well, no, but his illness-"
"You told me Mr. Sales had no intention of being present."
"True, but-"
Mona emerged from the bathroom and made a cute little face of contrition for interrupting again. "I'll just see about those lights for you." Now her jacket was unbuttoned. The little white thing underneath revealed her tiny waist. Charlie's eyes followed her as she walked away. He knew designer dresses when he saw them and wondered what the story was here.
"Look," Ira said. "I'd like a postponement for a few weeks. Is that an unreasonable request?"
Charlie sat back in his metal folding chair and pulled on his ear. From the moment the stroke had returned to the table, he had decided that an official delay was an excellent idea. It would give him time to do some background checking on the wine distribution business in general, and Sales's operations in particular. He wanted to check out the Sales house, talk some more with the wife, find out what the story was there. But he let Ira pompously argue his position. He always enjoyed hearing the arguments of the clearly guilty before giving them something that might lead them to think they had him in their pocket; they'd won the first battle.