Like Jazz (16 page)

I ran a Statement of Financial Position (balance sheet). The Foundation had a combination of cash and investments exceeding forty-four million dollars. I couldn’t believe how much money this place brought in and spent, and how much more it had on hand to continue executing its mission. Luke Perkins had built an impressive charity.

While Morrison was at lunch, I searched the file cabinets for the audited financial statements. When I found them, I sent the latest report through the multi-function copier/scanner and typed my personal e-mail address into the menu so I’d have a PDF version waiting for me to review from home tonight. Once the scan had been sent, I scrolled through the options on the copier until I found the screen that logs all activity. I cleared the cache to wipe out the log.

Having returned the report to the file cabinet, I switched windows to display the P&L again and clicked into the general and administrative expenses to see what cost three million last year. The small staff and building lease couldn’t account for much in the way of salaries or rent—unless it was very generous with its salaries, which was possible given how much the Foundation brought in with so few personnel. The Foundation must be utilizing an outside payroll-processing service since the records were synced by pay date but excluded information by payee. The information came through lump sum, so I could see how much cash went to the IRS, California Franchise Tax Board, and the employees in total, but couldn’t determine how much was paid to each employee individually.

The annual bite with employer taxes was about one point five million, which meant that the twelve staffers averaged about a hundred fifteen thousand annually. These were historical and thus would include Luke Perkins, who clearly would have earned sizably more. The Carols of the office would make far less. Didn’t matter. These numbers told me nothing strange was going on with payroll.

The employee benefit plans must be of the premium variety with the numbers I was seeing, but generous did not mean untoward, and they meshed with the hefty club and membership expenses I found. Given the irregular hours Sarah—and I imagined Luke—kept in order to take donors to fancy clubs like I’d been to this morning, as well as dinners and weekend events, a little extra something for the employees in the benefits department appeared reasonable. Rent for this floor was pricey, but not extraordinary. All the other usual expenses seemed, well, usual.

The big unknown was in the form of consulting expenses, which tallied a whopping six hundred thousand. I clicked into the account to view the detail. Aside from some miscellaneous one-off projects, the Foundation was paying on the order of forty-five thousand a month to a firm called Mastick Consulting Inc. Since the investment income was already reported net of investment management fees, I couldn’t fathom what services this Mastick company must be rendering. I clicked into a few of the bills and further into the bill payments that tied to the check register of the main bank account. The payments were made electronically by wire. Usually a recurring payment of this nature to a US company would be sent via ACH (automated clearing house) to avoid unnecessary wire-transfer fees.

I walked over to the filing cabinet that held accounts payable and searched for the M folder. The first Mastick invoice read like this: Consulting Services—August. And unlike all invoices on the planet, there was no remittance address to which to send payment. Not helpful. I scanned more of the invoices and found the same generic description and same absence of address. I needed to track down the governing consulting agreement to find out what services Mastick provided to the Foundation. By the time Morrison returned from lunch, I’d finished my tasks for the day and asked for more to do.

When I got home that night, I dropped my purse and Chinese takeout onto the kitchen counter before changing into my favorite tattered blue Columbia sweats and a T-shirt. Veggie chow mein in hand, I booted up my laptop, intent on reviewing the audited financials I’d e-mailed to myself. After entering my login credentials, I settled into my faux leather recliner and savored a bite of broccoli.

It had been a good day. I closed my eyes, relaxed further into the chair, and smiled.
Of course it was a good day. It started with Sarah.
Images of her played through my head: looking sharp in her black pantsuit on Monday and sporty in her workout clothes this morning, mesmerizing me when she treated herself to my hair claw and asked me to dinner, the grief and vulnerability in her eyes in the wake of telling me of her father’s passing.

My cell phone rang, startling me out of my reverie. I placed the take-out container on the coffee table, headed to the kitchen, and fumbled for the phone in my purse. I didn’t recognize the number, but since this was one of those prepaid smartphones issued to me before every job, I never updated the contacts with names or numbers. I knew by heart the numbers I needed, and that was enough.

“Hello?”

“Do you want a rematch, or have you given up already?” Sarah asked cheekily.

“How did you get my number?”

“Am I not allowed to call you?”

“No, it’s not that. I’m just kind of anal about who I give my number to.” I winced at how ridiculous I sounded.

“It’s on your résumé,” she said coolly.

“Oh. Right.” I hadn’t created my fake résumé so I’d forgotten the personal details Ashby’s team would have certainly included. I’d memorized my entire career according to that document, and even made up some stories about what it was like to work at those phony establishments in case someone questioned me, but I’d overlooked something as simple as my phone number. My professional aplomb seemed to fade around Sarah.

“Sorry,” I said. Silence. I managed to recognize I was annoyed with myself, not Sarah, and appreciated that she’d called. Before I could think about what it might sound like, I said, “I was just thinking about you.” It was true, but I don’t know if I would have said it had I not been trying to dig myself out of a hole.

“Mm-hmm.” She didn’t believe me.

“I was thinking I’ve never had such an enjoyable time getting walloped before. Though, as pleasurable as it was, I don’t intend to repeat my performance.”

“Meaning you are giving up?”

“Meaning, watch out. I don’t like to lose.”

“I remember that about you. Six thirty again?”

“Sure, but Friday’s better. I don’t do the early morning thing as well as you. I’m good for three a week, tops. I’m sleeping in tomorrow.”

“Well, it does work for you.”

“What does?” I’d somehow lost a thread of the conversation.

“Getting your beauty rest. It obviously pays off. Friday it is.” She hung up.

I clicked the button to end the call, picked up my dinner, and dropped lazily into my recliner. Grinning into my chow mein, I savored the feeling of hearing Sarah’s voice in my ear and knowing I was on her mind. It had gone from a good day to a great one, starting and ending with Sarah.

*

The next couple days rounded out a busy first week at the Foundation. The audit report was interesting in two ways, but lacked details I’d have to track down by other means. The first thing I noticed was the Investments footnote that said the Foundation owned land as well as the more typical publicly traded equities, fixed-income securities, and mutual funds I’d expected. In fact, the Foundation owned nearly four-and-a-half million in land as part of its investments. Where was this land it owned, and why? It made up about ten percent of total investment holdings excluding cash equivalents, which seemed like a lot of property. Especially since it was clearly not tied to the ownership of the office building where it leased its floor, which would have been included in the Property and Equipment footnote had it been used in operations.

Also, the accounting firm of Broderick LLC that had performed the audit and provided the report didn’t have a website. Not only was it lacking a basic landing page, but I also couldn’t find any reference to the firm. Where were their offices? Furthermore, the company wasn’t listed as a CPA licensee with the California State Board of Accountancy. That didn’t seem possible, but there might be a perfectly reasonable explanation. Worse, I came up empty when I performed a business search of Broderick in the California Secretary of State’s website. Since the SOS records included out-of-state businesses operating within the state, such as corporations owned by California shareholders but incorporated in Delaware because of various benefits of doing so, it appeared Broderick was operating in California without having properly registered to do business here.

I searched for the remittance address from one of Broderick’s invoices in our Accounts Payable files and was stumped as to why, as with Mastick, there wasn’t one. Unlike Mastick, however, payments to Broderick were made by check. If I could locate a cleared check, I should be able to trace the general vicinity of the firm by noting the processing bank’s city and state.

*

Friday morning, Sarah beat me during our first racquetball game, but not by a mile as she’d done on Wednesday. During the second game, I even held a small lead for most of the game, though she ended up winning fifteen to thirteen. I was a much more formidable opponent and made her strive for her victories. We were both catching our breath when we stepped out of the court through the door that seemed only slightly bigger than a mini fridge. After sipping from the drinking fountain, I leaned against the wall and slid down until I sat with my legs stretched out in front of me. I wiped my face with a towel and hung it around my neck.

“Third time’s the charm.” I exhaled deeply. “Next game, I’ll be able to take you.”

“It’s good to hold out hope, no matter how remote the chances.” She gave me a teasing smile as she sat down next to me, both our upper backs against the cool wall. I tried not to be riveted by the tantalizing stretch of toned, tan leg suddenly at my side.

“What’s the plan for tomorrow night?” I asked.

“I’ll make dinner. You’ll bring wine. That work?”

“You cook?”

“Not often, but I have a couple favorites.”

“White or red?”

“Whatever you prefer.”

“What time?” I got to my feet and stood in front of her.

“Seven?” She looked up at me.

I extended my hand. “Sounds good.” She placed one hand in mine, moving her legs back to make it easier for me to pull her up. “One thing though,” I said as she popped up and stood before me. I removed my hand from hers and grimaced slightly, never having gotten comfortable telling people of my dietary restrictions when they’ve offered to prepare a meal for me.

Sarah raised a quizzical brow.

“I’m vegetarian,” I said.

“What was it you used to say? No worries.” She winked and returned to the court.

The potentially awkward moment instantly vanished, reminding me of the grace with which Sarah had been maneuvering through all manner of social situations since her youth. Moreover, she infused me with joyful amazement that she’d remembered such an old saying of mine—one I’d long since forgotten. I didn’t want to read too much into it, but it felt good all the same.

As easy as she’d made that for me, however, her charity didn’t extend to racquetball, and I followed her inside to get schooled on another of her many skills.

Saturday night, I pulled into Sarah’s driveway at five after seven feeling uncharacteristically giddy, as if I were a preteen girl getting to meet the lead singer of her favorite boy band. It wasn’t a date—logically, I knew that—but I was having difficulty containing my enthusiasm for this simple evening out with a friend. Rather, a former friend. Aside from the stark emotion we’d shared the night of our reunion at the bar, we hadn’t engaged in much conversation of a personal nature in the ensuing days. With Sarah’s frequent excursions to visit current and prospective donors, I rarely glimpsed her at the office, and our early morning racquetball battles didn’t leave much room for talk.

Yet while Sarah had been back in my life barely a week, considering the amount of time I’d already spent thinking of her, it felt longer. Something about her besides her physical beauty drew me to her, something that seemed almost as if it had always been there. I hoped tonight would give me better insight into what that was and who Sarah had become. And as much as I wanted to believe I could calmly and coolly conduct myself in her presence tonight, I was almost euphoric as I ascended the steps to her front door, wine bottle in hand. It would take considerable effort to rein in the exhilaration I was feeling.

As soon as she opened the door, Sarah beamed at me, making me feel inordinately welcome even before saying as much with her voice.

“I’m so glad you’re here.”

It was difficult to look away from that smile, but when I did, I found her outfit wasn’t helping my composure. She was wearing safari capris and a pale-yellow cami tank top that, combined with the loose French braid that gathered her hair off her shoulders, left miles of her flawless tanned skin on display. It was a simple outfit and, complemented by her smile, made for a delightful package. Even her feet were delectable with their cotton-candy-tone toenails.

I swallowed audibly. “Thanks for inviting me.” Having barely managed to utter the words, I handed her the bottle to distract myself from staring.

“Come in.” She stepped aside to allow me to enter. “My uncle owns this house, but I’m lucky enough to live here.”

I stopped inside the entryway and added my shoes to the small pile of hers. Ahead of me were floor-to-ceiling windows that put a substantial portion of the L.A. basin in view.

The city lights transfixed me. “Wow.” My eloquence this evening was astounding. I stepped forward and stood close to the glass, admiring the twinkling city below. “I’d never leave, if this were mine.”

“You get used to it, sad to say.”

I turned to her and wondered, as I took in her undeniable beauty, whether the same could ever be said by whoever is, was, or would be lucky enough to awaken to Sarah each morning. The L.A. panorama was remarkable, but could anyone ever get used to seeing such a lovely sight beside them in bed?
Whoa. Down, Cazz.
I shook my head out of my reverie and tried to focus on the conversation.