Project Northwest (8 page)

He put on his game face. What choice did he
have? “Great, should we get started then, Mrs. Spenser?” he asked
across the table to Shelly.

Shelly recognized the ruse, knew he was
scared to death, and in some small way felt sorry for him, but she
had a job to do and was under pressures of her own.

“Please, James, it’s Miss, and call me Shelly
or Shell. Absolutely, let’s grab one of the offices and get to
work.”

James, thinking quickly, looked to Mr. Stone
then back to Shelly. “I don’t have an office,” he broadcasted,
hoping Mr. Stone would pick up the hint and pair her with someone
else.

Mr. Stone countered, “Oh, thanks for
reminding me, James. One final thing, ladies, and gentlemen, before
we adjourn. Please join me in congratulating Mr. James Spain on the
tentative promotion to Examiner, Tier Two. James, follow me and
I’ll show you your new office.”

James could only think,
man, criminals get
promoted quickly.

Mr. Stone and Miss Spenser engaged in
chitchat as James followed them to his new office. His co-workers
were all giving him the thumbs-up, symbolizing congratulations. The
news of his promotion traveled faster in the data room than the
bank’s numbers.

Mr. Stone, preparing to unlock the door,
pulled a key from his pocket, but didn’t need it—a phone-data
technician was exiting the room with a completed work order in
hand. The tech held the door open for the party and gave Miss
Spenser a once over. James noted the look, but couldn’t tell if the
tech was just admiring her beauty or subtly giving her a sign.

“Mr. Spain, I’ve programmed your original
office number on the phone,” said the tech as he held out the
paperwork to be signed.

His new office was the standard package. Bush
Fairview furniture, networked brick with 17 inch monitor, a
networked laser printer, VoIP phone, and two nice chairs centered
on the desk. James settled behind his new desk. He had waited for
this moment for two years and now it was soured and ruined by the
person pulling the empty seat up next to him.

Mr. Stone placed the office key on the desk.
“Well, Miss Spenser, it was a pleasure meeting you,” he said
flirting with her, his advance completely missed the mark and just
sat in the air, unreturned, “and, James, congratulations. Well,
I’ll let you two get to it.”

Shelly waited a moment and shut the door.
James leaned back in his chair and asked, “So I guess the room is
bugged?”

“Presumably,” she replied, taking her seat
and pulling out a vanilla folder file, labeled ‘Project NW’.

“We don’t have to do this, we could stop
right now, and no one would ever know,” James said as he pointed in
the general direction of the computer screen.

“The choice isn’t mine or yours. I suggest we
get started.”

At 10:49 AM, on Monday April 21st, 2008,
James entered his ID and password into the login dialog box, took a
deep breath, slowly exhaled, pressed enter, and said, “Let the
criminal enterprise begin.” He smugly looked at Shelly, waiting for
a response, waiting for her to direct him. The tension was more
than just an illusion. It was a lethargic, grating pendulum moving
back and forth, reminding them of each second that passed.

When she did respond, it was well calculated.
“We’re going to be working together for a while, weeks, or maybe
months, so we need to clear the air now. As long as you do what is
asked of you, you are in no danger of being outed here. In fact,
you’re not really doing anything illegal—sure some protocols are
being bent, but that’s the extent of it.”

She paused, waiting for James to process and
continued, “Each day, I’m going to read off these questions,” she
continued, tapping the file with her pen. “The questions are all
straight forward enough and you will simply give me the answer out
loud.”

“So, you’re going to ask questions and I’m
going to give you the numbers by saying them? By saying them out
loud?” James restated.

“Exactly, how else would you communicate the
numbers? There’s far too much information to cart out of here
without drawing suspicion, right? Only the summary report will be
taken each day and that’s just not enough data, there are over two
hundred questions and queries we will run through each day. Think
of me as a superior asking a question about this line item or that
line item, except I will be asking for a lot of line items.”

“Oh, I see, so Mr. Wright has a clone of you
somewhere writing down the answers as I say them.”

“I assure you, James, there is no clone of
me,” she playfully answered, trying her best to bring him on board
and ease the tension.

“What about the confidentiality agreement?
Certainly this would be considered inside information.”

“Rules, guidelines, vision statements,
employee conduct, confidentiality agreements, non–disclosure
agreements—these are items of language for lawyers to dissect and
argue over. Hell, I watched you sign it and you didn’t even read
it. My point, James, is this will never come back to haunt you
professionally. It’s just a job and will be over before you know
it. Think of me as another auditor and we will get along
smashingly.”

James wasn’t buying it. It felt wrong and he
knew that even though much of what she said danced on the edge of
truth, he was being asked to knowingly break the law. His only hope
was they would slip up somehow and Mark would be relaying valuable,
ass-saving, information in a couple of days. How much damage could
he do in a couple of days?

“Fair enough, let’s get started,” James
remarked.

“Oh, and before we do get started, Mr. Wright
asked me to tell you that you’re a lucky, lucky man. I’ve heard of
the infamous Green Lake recording. They offered to play it for me,
but I suggested I might like to find out for myself.”

James now realized they had followed him and
Bridget to the lake and were now gossiping about their love making.
“Now that would be criminal,” rebuked James. “Which book are we
looking at first?”

Shelly wasn’t used to having her flirtations
shot down so effortlessly. In fact, her flirtations were never
rebuffed. “Let’s pull up this morning’s outflow, filtered on the
top one hundred business accounts in real-time,” she commanded as
she removed her jacket and opened her file.

“What’s the name of the largest institution?”
she coldly asked.

“Goldman.”

“We’ll start there.”

Chapter Six

~ Life, Death and a Mustang
~

Five P.M. couldn’t
come fast enough for James. The physical act of announcing every
number that was the result of a query was exhausting and quickly
became mind numbing. James, like many paper-pushers, hated dealing
with reports. It seemed his whole life was for the purpose of
producing one report or another for someone up the chain. In fact,
many of the cartoons on the wall in his old cubicle and on the
walls of his co-workers cubicles delivered ‘the report’ as the
punch line. Everyone immediately understood the jokes and could
relate. Their lives revolved around reports. He would joke with
co-workers, in his best Mr. Stone impression, “I want a report on
the status of all reports.” His co-workers laughed at the irony,
but its true comic value was the fact that it wasn’t too far from
the truth. Today had him blessing those damn reports. He couldn’t
imagine doing this volume of work without them.

Shelly was still miffed and the lack of
friendly banter made the day even longer and more unbearable. To
everyone walking by, he and Shelly were just two professionals
working on a project.

At five on the dot, James logged out of the
system and turned off the monitor. “Well, I’ll never bad-mouth a
report again, I will say that.”

Shelly rubbed the back of her neck. “I know
what you mean.”

“Can I leave now?”

“Yes, I’m going to write up the summary and
will be leaving shortly.”

James left the office without saying goodbye.
He had to do this, but he didn’t have to make it a pleasurable
experience. Maybe, just maybe, he could wear her down. He doubted
it, though, as she quickly established control and set the pace of
the questions. She was driven and that much was obvious. James
exited the data room knowing she was running the show. As far as
being discourteous for the purpose of manipulating control—he’d met
his match. James knew she would eventually win. She was far tougher
than he was and being disengaged didn’t fit in with his
personality.

Bridget had called around three and said
she’d found the car. If they could get to the tow lot before seven,
they could gather the personal items and the insurance adjuster was
ready to meet them there at six.

As he collected his items from his locker, he
recalled the only conversation between him and Shelly that wasn’t
about numbers, it was short and curt.

“Was that her?” Shelly pryingly asked.

“It was.”

“She called late. I mean, I assumed she would
call earlier, several times throughout the day. You didn’t mention
your promotion.”

“She used to call all the time, but I
explained personal calls were frowned upon. At any rate, leave her
out of this. That was the deal. Plus, I don’t hear the phone
ringing off the hook for you.”

Shelly frowned. James found it difficult to
be mean and decided it best to not make it personal. “Yes, you’re
right. We should just stick to the job at hand,” she said and James
agreed. And they were back to the numbers. She only left the office
twice and announced to James and those listening that they were
both going to the restroom. James found the entire ordeal
oppressive and dreadful. They didn’t even take a lunch break.

There was a light rain, almost a mist, as he
pulled into the condo parking lot and picked up Bridget. She
greeted him with a loving kiss and rubbed his neck.

“You look exhausted. Did that investigator
give you a hard time?”

“Who, Mr. Wright? No. I suspect he’ll contact
me in a week or two when he’s completed the investigation and
reported it to my superiors. It usually takes some time.”

James thought,
that’s why I didn’t tell
her about the promotion, Shelly
. He wanted to scream it to all
those listening, but knew he couldn’t.

“Wow, they’re serious over there at the bank.
Do you think he’s still spying on us?”

“Probably, but I’m sure it’s dying down now.
Hopefully, he’s moved on to bigger fish.”

Bridget was happy to hear it and couldn’t
hide her emotions as the smile beamed on her face and lit up the
entire car. Then her face soured. “What about the green?”

“Oh, yeah. It wasn’t mine, and I’m sure they
will request a urinalysis. When it comes back clean I will be
fine.”

She nodded her head in agreement. “Last night
was exciting, the whole cloak and dagger thing, but it was also
creepy,” she decreed as she settled into the passenger seat,
letting her thoughts reminisce of another great night at Green
Lake. “We’re going to Forty-Sixth Street. We should take
Aurora.”

James felt Westlake would have less traffic,
but didn’t want to get into a discussion about the map she had hand
drawn and held in her hand. She loved navigating, but she didn’t
respond well to criticism. Her natural reaction was to get her way
and she was wearing her favorite slogan shirt: ‘I’m not bipolar,
I’m me-polar.’ James made his way onto Aurora Avenue and they soon
found the car lot of EZ Towing Company.

EZ Towing Co. was surrounded by a formidable
fence. Much of the fence was little more than a trellis for
Creeping Fig, the vine snaked its way through the chain links, only
sparing the main gate and a few parking spots. If anything stayed
still long enough, the vine would eventually engulf it.

They arrived at a little past six and the sun
was about an hour from setting. Long shadows were cast over the
area, making the Creeping Fig even more ominous. It was a graveyard
for cars, but felt like it was full of bones. They parked behind
the progressive insurance vehicle.

“Good, we didn’t miss him,” said Bridget,
pointing to the rather older gentleman sitting in the driver’s
seat.

They knocked on the window and after some
polite introductions—all three buzzed the gate and were met by a
man with a large belly, axel grease caked under his fingernails,
greasy handprints, and streaks on his white shirt along with what
appeared to be a trail of barbeque sauce. He was a mess and did not
care one bit.

“We’re here about a '69 Boss 429 Mustang
towed on Friday,” James said.

“Yep, I got one, damn shame too. ID,” snorted
the man.

“Who’s ID?” James asked.

“Well, unless you’re a boxer,” noting James’s
injuries, “I suspect your name is on the paperwork somewhere.” He
eyed James and looked at Bridget, “Ya could do better than him, he
ain’t that pretty or bright. Nice taste in cars, though.” He let
out a hearty infectious laugh as he rubbed his belly. Everyone
joined in except James.

James took out his wallet and showed the man
his driver’s license.

“You got to give it to me, gotta make a
copy.”

James took the ID out and gave it to him,
“Let’s see...” he said as he started flipping through the paperwork
on the clipboard.” How ya doin’ this evening, Manny?” he asked the
progressive insurance man.

“Doing fine, Harry, how’s your boy in
Yale?”

“Same as yesterday. Partying on my dime.”

Having matched the ID to the paperwork, he
continued, “Okay, James Spain, young lady, and Manny, let’s go take
a look, shall we. Ya know, James, I was just messin’ with ya back
there. You actually look better than I expected—the car is a
mess.”

James’s stomach turned.

Behind them, an EZ flatbed tow truck honked
its beefy horn, pulled through the gate with its latest prize, a
blue police cruiser with white trim. Two large men with Cheshire
cat grins waved at Harry while pointing at their new-found
treasure. It was obvious to everyone that they were extremely
pleased. It was an odd celebration of sorts, but James had to admit
he found some guilty pleasure in seeing the cop car on the
truck.