“I didn’t want my mother to hire you,” Jeff Baldwin said to Georgia the next morning. They were seated across his desk at the foundation.
“And that’s because . . .” Georgia thought she knew what he was going to say and wished he’d get on with it. She’d done a background check on him last night and found out about the heroin, the dealing, the prison in California.
Jeffrey was wearing a black turtleneck and denims, the Jobsian uniform of the successful modern executive, but his dark eyes spoke worry. He didn’t look as confident as he had the first time she met him. He also had a habit of dipping his head and pulling on his earlobe. Did he pick that up in prison? An effort to literally keep his head down?
“I thought we could handle everything. There wasn’t much to handle, actually. Just grieve and get over it.”
Harsh words for his only sister, Georgia thought as she glanced out the window. Freezing rain had washed away some of the snow, exposing the weary dregs of winter in Chicago.
“What about the beef jerky email? Don’t you want to know who’s behind it?”
“Of course. But it seemed far-fetched to me that a PI could discover what the police and FBI couldn’t.” The undercurrent in his tone implied Georgia wasn’t up to his standards.
He went on. “We did upgrade our security systems. That’s why I needed to make the flash drive for you, as it happens.”
“Okay,” she said. “So, you didn’t want me around. What changed?”
“The thirty grand that’s missing.”
“Tell me about it.”
“We had a bookkeeper at the foundation. Iris. She’d been with us since the beginning. Dena hired her. Then about six months ago she told us the books weren’t adding up.”
“What was her explanation?”
“At first she said she didn’t know and put it down to petty cash. It was only a couple hundred. Someone forgot to submit an invoice or something. Then I took a closer look. Of course, I suspected her.”
“Why?”
“Because accountants and bookkeepers know all the tricks to hide embezzlement.”
“And you would know.”
Jeff’s face turned crimson, and his lips parted. He dipped his head and tugged on his ear. “When did you find out?”
“It doesn’t matter.” She was stretching the truth a bit, but he didn’t have to know.
He looked up at her. “I didn’t take the money.”
“And I should believe you because . . .”
“Think about it. Under the circumstances, I would be the first suspect, right?”
“Yep.”
He sat up. “My mother was the person who pulled me through prison. She never gave up. She sacrificed her time and money—and love—to get me straightened out. Visiting every few weeks; bringing me books; urging me to take online courses. I owe her everything. And with Dena gone, there’s no way I would do this to her.”
Georgia almost believed him. If he was innocent, he’d bend over backward to prove it.
“That’s why I’ve been scrupulous in going over the books.”
“And?”
Jeff settled back in his chair, swiveled toward the window, then back toward her. “Apparently Iris and Dena had an argument about six months ago. I was on vacation that week. Actually I was in Vallejo seeing my parole officer. When I got back, Iris was gone.”
Georgia tilted her head. “Did she quit or was she fired?”
“Dena said she fired her because of the financial discrepancies. At the time I’d just come on board and had no reason to doubt her. Dena knew I’d been doing inventory for the warden and asked me to take over. I said sure.” He gave Georgia a one-sided smile. “Yeah. Shawshank Redemption. That was me.”
“Anyway, it seemed like the perfect solution, and a good way for me to learn the foundation’s business.
“That’s when the discrepancies became more obvious. We’re not a big organization. Only about four or five on staff. Except for the scholarships and stipends we award, our budget is fairly consistent. But gradually our expenses went up. A thousand here, two grand there.” He shifted. “When I started reviewing the actual invoices, I found it.”
“Found what?”
“Dena was cooking the books. She submitted invoices from fake consultants and service providers, then pocketed the money.” He rolled back his chair, opened a drawer, and pulled out a manila folder. “It’s all in here.”
“Did you confront her?”
Again he nodded.
“And?”
“At first she denied it, but when I showed her the invoices, she said she needed the money for her activist group. She said bringing down a president was more important than balancing a P&L.”
Georgia had been wondering where Dena got the money to plan demonstrations, buy signage and supplies, promote the event, and all the other tasks that an emerging political movement required. “So it wasn’t for her personal use.”
Jeff shot her a glance that was just short of indignant. “My sister was nothing if not committed. She didn’t need any money for herself. She had access to her trust fund. Our grandfather set them up for us both. I’m sure she dipped into hers, too.”
“May I see the files?”
Jeff handed them over. Georgia scanned through them. About two dozen invoices, some from Curtis Dixon, the boyfriend Georgia had interviewed yesterday, for political consultation. There were also two in the name of Ruth Marriotti, for services provided. Georgia’s eyebrows rose. “What happened when you showed these to your mother?”
He slacked in his chair. “I haven’t. Yet.”
“Why not?”
“In her eyes Dena could do no wrong. I’m the official black sheep of the family.”
“You think she’d blame you? After all she did for you while you were in prison?”
“I guess I hadn’t thought that far ahead.”
“But you’d take the fall for your sister? And risk that you’d be blamed for embezzling money? Maybe even thrown back into prison?”
“That’s why I decided we didn’t need you.”
“Because you thought I’d persuade your mother you were the criminal.”
“My mother’s been through enough.”
“If you ended up back inside, your mother would be left with no one.”
“I know. That’s why I changed my mind. I trust my mother. And she seems to trust you.”
“So you want me to tell your mother Dena stole the money?”
Jeffrey swiveled nervously in the chair, but his tormented expression told Georgia she was right. She was flummoxed. She didn’t know whether Jeffrey was a masochist, an expert manipulator, or the prodigal son. In other words, did he take after his father or his mother?
“Are you still in contact with your father?” she asked.
“No one is. Anymore.”
“What about Jarvis? Did you know him?”
“Of course not. I never heard his name until Dena was killed.”
Georgia sat back in her chair. “You know I’m going to check this out with Iris.”
“I’ll give you her number. I’d like her to come back anyway.”
“You’ll have to do that yourself.” Georgia stood up. “But I’ll report to your mom and tell her about these.” She handed the files back to Jeffrey and looked around his office. “Could I have a quick tour of the place? I was in a hurry the other day, but I have a little more time today.”
“Sure.” It wasn’t a smile, but he seemed pleased that she’d asked.
There were only four offices, each off the same hall. Two were unoccupied and empty. Georgia ducked her head into the third office, which Jeffrey said had been Iris’s. She did the same with the fourth, now occupied by a researcher who checked out potential grant recipients. Then she went into Dena’s office. The furnishings were what she expected. A clean black lacquer desk, executive chair, black lacquer table in the corner, and empty bookshelves, except for one photograph. It was a shot of Dena with her father. They were on a sailboat, and she was hoisting the sail up the mast. The shot managed to capture a bright sun, a blue Lake Michigan, and an even bluer sky. Her father stood in the background, hands on hips, a broad smile on his face.
Jeff, who had come in behind her, followed her gaze to the photo. “You know the story about the prodigal son, right?”
Georgia turned around. “Of course.”
“You know who probably convinced the father to forgive his son?”
“Tell me.”
“A grateful mother.”