The Firm

It was her third night on the job, and she was learning her way around. She’d found the Tolar office on the fourth floor the first night, and smiled to herself.

She wore dirty jeans and ragged tennis shoes. The blue Dustbusters shirt was extra large, to hide the figure and make her appear plump, like the other technicians. The patch above the pocket read Doris. Doris, the cleaning technician.

When the crew was half finished with the second floor, a guard told Doris and two others, Susie and Charlotte, to follow him. He inserted a key in the elevator panel, and it stopped in the basement. He unlocked a heavy metal door, and they walked into a large room divided into a dozen cubicles. Each small desk was cluttered, and dominated by a large computer. There were terminals everywhere. Black file cabinets lined the walls. No windows.

"The supplies are in there," the guard said, pointing to a closet. They pulled out a vacuum cleaner and spray bottles and went to work.

"Don’t touch the desks," he said.

Chapter 30

Mitch tied the laces of his Nike Air Cushion jogging shoes and sat on the sofa waiting by the phone. Hearsay, depressed after two weeks without the woman around, sat next to him and tried to doze. At exactly ten-thirty, it rang. It was Abby.

There was no mushy "sweethearts" and "babes" and "honeys." The dialogue was cool and forced.

"How’s your mother?" he asked.

"Doing much better. She’s up and around, but very sore. Her spirits are good."

"That’s good to hear. And your dad?"

"The same. Always busy. How’s my dog?"

"Lonesome and depressed. I think he’s cracking up."

"I miss him. How’s work?"

"We survived April 15 without disaster. Everyone’s in a better mood. Half the partners left for vacation on the sixteenth, so the place is a lot quieter."

"I guess you’ve cut back to sixteen hours a day?"

He hesitated, and let it sink in. No sense starting a fight. "When are you coming home?"

"I don’t know. Mom will need me for a couple more weeks. I’m afraid Dad’s not much help. They’ve got a maid and all, but Mom needs me now." She paused, as if something heavy was coming. "I called St. Andrew’s today and told them I wouldn’t be back this semester."

He took it in stride. "There are two months left in this semester. You’re not coming back for two months?"

"At least two months, Mitch. I just need some time, that’s all."

"Time for what?"

"Let’s not start it again, okay? I’m not in the mood to argue."

"Fine. Fine. Fine. What are you in the mood for?"

She ignored this, and there was a long pause. "How many miles are you jogging?"

"A couple. I’ve been walking to the track, then running about eight laps."

"Be careful at the track. It’s awfully dark."

"Thanks."

Another long pause. "I need to go," she said. "Mom’s ready for bed."

"Will you call tomorrow night?"

"Yes. Same time."

She hung up without a "goodbye" or "I love you" or anything. Just hung up.

Mitch pulled on his white athletic socks and tucked in his white long-sleeved T-shirt. He locked the kitchen door and trotted down the dark street. West Junior High School was six blocks to the east of East Meadowbrook. Behind the redbrick classrooms and gymnasium was the baseball field, and farther away at the end of a dark driveway was the football field. A cinder track circled the field, and was a favorite of local joggers.

But not at 11 P.M., especially with no moon. The track was deserted, and that was fine with Mitch. The spring air was light and cool, and he finished the first mile in eight minutes. He began walking a lap. As he passed the aluminum bleachers on the home side, he saw someone from the corner of his eye. He kept walking.

"Pssssssst."

Mitch stopped. "Yeah. Who is it?"

A hoarse, scratchy voice replied, "Joey Morolto."

Mitch started for the bleachers. "Very funny, Tarrance. Am I clean?"

"Sure, you’re clean. Laney’s sitting up there in a school bus with a flashlight. He flashed green when you passed, and if you see something red flash, get back to the track and make like Carl Lewis."

They walked to the top of the bleachers and into the unlocked press box. They sat on stools in the dark and watched the school. The buses were parked in perfect order along the driveway.

"Is this private enough for you?" Mitch asked.

"It’ll do. Who’s the girl?"

"I know you prefer to meet in daylight, preferably where a crowd has gathered, say like a fast-food joint or a Korean shoe store. But I like these places better."

"Great. Who’s the girl?"

"Pretty clever, huh?"

"Good idea. Who is she?"

"An employee of mine."

"Where’d you find her?"

"What difference does it make? Why are you always asking questions that are irrelevant?"

"Irrelevant? I get a call today from some woman I’ve never met, tells me she needs to talk to me about a little matter at the Bendini Building, says we gotta change phones, instructs me to go to a certain pay phone outside a certain grocery store and be there at a certain time, and she’ll call exactly at one-thirty. And I go there, and she calls at exactly one-thirty. Keep in mind, I’ve got three men within a hundred feet of the phone watching everybody that moves. And she tells me to be here at exactly ten forty-five tonight, to have the place sealed off, and that you’ll come trotting by."

"Worked, didn’t it?"

"Yeah, so far. But who is she? I mean, now you got someone else involved, and that really worries me, McDeere. Who is she and how much does she know?"

"Trust me, Tarrance. She’s my employee and she knows everything. In fact, if you knew what she knows you’d be serving indictments right now instead of sitting here bitching about her."

Tarrance breathed deeply and thought about it. "Okay, so tell me what she knows."

"She knows that in the last three years the Morolto gang and its accomplices have taken over eight hundred million bucks in cash out of this country and deposited it in various banks in the Caribbean. She knows which banks, which accounts, the dates, a bunch of stuff. She knows that the Moroltos control at least three hundred and fifty companies chartered in the Caymans, and that these companies regularly send clean money back into the country. She knows the dates and amounts of the wire transfers. She knows of at least forty U.S. corporations owned by Cayman corporations owned by the Moroltos. She knows a helluva lot, Tarrance. She’s a very knowledgeable woman, don’t you think?"

Tarrance could not speak. He stared fiercely into the darkness up the driveway.

Mitch found it enjoyable. "She knows how they take their dirty cash, trade it up to one-hundred-dollar bills and sneak it out of the country."

"How?"

"Lear, of course. But they also mule it. They’ve got a small army of mules, usually their minimum-wage thugs and their girlfriends, but also students and other freelancers, and they’ll give them ninety-eight hundred in cash and buy them a ticket to the Caymans or the Bahamas. No declarations are required for amounts under ten thousand, you understand. And the mules will fly down like regular tourists with pockets full of cash and take the money to their banks. Doesn’t sound like much money, but you get three hundred people making twenty trips a year, and that’s some serious cash walking out of the country. It’s also called smurfing, you know."