Long time gone, p.16
Long Time Gone, page 16
After fifteen minutes they were both breathing heavily and unable to talk. Eric pointed to the battle ropes—two thick cords, each twenty feet long and secured to eyelets screwed into the ground. Sloan grabbed the free end of each rope and began swinging in an up-and-down motion—right arm up, left arm down, zigzagging the ropes for two straight minutes until her shoulders burned and her chest heaved. Eric took over as Sloan recovered. They took turns, back and forth on the battle ropes in two-minute rounds until they completed ten reps and collapsed onto the ground.
They gulped from water bottles before heading to the kettlebells to complete a killer circuit of snatches and cleans. When they finished, they walked around the yard with hands on their heads and heaving for breath.
“I see you handle stress about as well as I do,” Sloan said.
“It’s either this or the bottle,” Eric said. “And this is a lot healthier.”
Eric had sweated through his shirt so that the fabric stuck to his skin, revealing the sculptured physique of his shoulders and chest.
“I take it you’re not a drinker either?” Eric asked.
“Only Diet Dr. Pepper and the occasional glass of wine. Otherwise, I burn off my anxiety at the gym. Thanks for letting me crash what I assume is usually a one-man show.”
“Are you kidding? This was great. You pushed me harder than I would have pushed myself. And it got my mind off of what your boss told me about my dad.”
Sloan took a sip of water.
“So if the same coroner who performed Baker Jauncey’s autopsy also did your father’s, and both reports were blatantly inaccurate, the guy was either a hack or . . .”
“Or someone was in his ear telling him what they needed the reports to say.”
Sloan took another swig from her water bottle. Sweat poured from her body, causing her shoulders and arms to glisten in the sun.
“So we have confirmation that someone killed Baker Jauncey and then tried to make it look like a hit-and-run. The fact that Annabelle’s car was planted at the scene indicates that whoever killed Baker wanted Annabelle to take the fall. The discovery of Annabelle’s blood at her home, and the attempted clean up, proves foul play was involved.”
“And,” Eric continued, “someone injected my father—the man investigating both crimes—with enough heroin to place him in a coma, or close to it. A second dose killed him. Then, if I’m figuring things correctly, they pushed his car into Cedar Creek so that it would look like an accident.”
“Which it did to everyone except your grandfather.”
“And your boss.”
Sloan nodded. “So we’ve got three murders—Baker Jauncey, Annabelle Margolis, and your father. Someone wanted Baker Jauncey’s death to look like a hit-and-run, and your father’s to look like an overdose. And since your father was investigating the disappearance of my birth parents and me at the time, it’s logical to conclude that all three crimes are linked. The question is how.”
A bird crooned loudly and both Eric and Sloan looked up to see a black-tailed Cooper’s hawk perched on the roof of the cabin. As soon as they spotted it, the hawk took flight, soaring overhead before diving down into the gorge behind the cabin.
After the workout they each showered and got back to work at the long oak table. For hours they pored through the case files looking for any hints the pages might hold to help them piece together the mystery. They worked until midnight without a break, reading page after page of detective’s notes, reviewing interview transcripts, and combing through the list of evidence collected from Annabelle and Preston’s home. They looked through crime scene photos of the house, images of Sandy Stamos’s squad car dripping water after being freshly pulled from Cedar Creek, and snapshots of Annabelle’s car and Baker Jauncey’s body taken by accident investigators with the Nevada State Highway Patrol. Despite their efforts, when midnight came they were no closer to finding answers than when they had started.
Sloan looked up from the report she was reading.
“Anything?”
Eric shook his head. “No. And I think I’ve hit a wall. I’m not even sure what I’m reading is making it into my brain at this point.”
“Yeah, I’m pretty spent myself.”
Sloan looked at her phone.
“Oh my God, is it midnight already?”
Eric checked his watch. “Damn. Time flies when you’re trying to solve three thirty-year-old crimes.”
Sloan smiled. “This is not the most pleasant of topics, but I can think of worse ways to spend the day. It’s been eye-opening.”
“To say the least.”
She stood and stretched.
Eric stood as well. “Thanks again for getting your boss’s help on my dad’s autopsy.”
“Sorry it confirmed what you feared.”
“It’s better to know than to live in doubt.”
Sloan nodded and offered a dejected smile. “I guess that’s true. I better get going.”
“There’s no way I’m letting you drive those mountain roads this late at night. None of them are lighted and it gets dicey in the dark.”
Sloan looked out the window and imagined herself attempting to navigate the steep, winding roads this late at night.
“I can drive you back to town,” Eric said, “but you’d have to leave your car here and grab it tomorrow. Or . . .” he paused. “You can stay the night. The extra bedroom’s all set—sheets are clean, and you already know I’ve got clean towels in the bathroom.”
Sloan looked back from the window. “Are you sure?”
“Of course.”
They cleaned up the table and stacked the boxes full of the notes they had spent all night reading. Eric walked her up the stairs and showed her the guest room. He grabbed two extra pillows from the top shelf in the closet and stuffed them into pillowcases. He fluffed them on the bed.
He pointed at the bathroom. “Bathroom’s there, obviously. There’s water in the fridge downstairs. And I’m across the hall if you need anything.”
Sloan smiled. “Thanks. And thanks for letting me crash.”
“Sure thing.”
“I’m sorry again,” Sloan said, walking over to him. “About your dad. I know it was a long time ago, and you were a kid, but I’m sure it’s not easy to hear those things.”
Eric nodded. “Not easy, but that’s why I’m looking for answers. My grandfather would be proud I got this far.”
“I’m looking with you.”
“I know. And I appreciate it.” Eric leaned in and kissed her cheek. “And I’m going to keep looking until we both have answers about what happened that summer.”
Sloan put her hand on his chest. In a different moment in time, one where they had not spent the night looking through case files that dealt with the death of Eric’s father and the disappearance of Sloan’s birth parents, something more might have happened between them. But on this night, they were partners with a common goal. Nothing more.
“Good night,” she finally said.
“See you in the morning.”
THE PAST
Lake Tahoe, Nevada
Saturday, July 1, 1995 3 Days Prior . . .
SANDY STEERED HIS OLD-MODEL SUBURBAN DOWN THE LONG DRIVE OF the Stamos family’s cabin, turned left, and crossed the bridge that curved over the gorge behind the property. He wound his way through the circuitous mountain roads until he found Highway 67, where he headed south and bypassed the exit for Cedar Creek. He was headed to Lake Tahoe.
The Fourth of July holiday made traffic nightmarish, and it took over two hours for him to reach Incline Village on the north side of Tahoe. He found an offshoot road named Beverdale Trail and slowed at each house he passed. The address he was looking for was scrawled on a scrap of paper and taped to the dashboard. When he spotted the numbers on the mailbox, he pulled into the driveway.
“Sandy Stamos!”
Sandy heard the voice of his old friend just as he was opening the driver’s side door.
“Tom Quinn,” Sandy said with a smile. “It’s good to see you.”
Sandy had grown up with Tom Quinn. Unlike Sandy, Tom had hightailed it out of Cedar Creek and Harrison County as soon as he could. He attended college in Los Angeles and now made his home in the small, East Bay town of Danville. He had a vacation home in Lake Tahoe and had agreed to meet Sandy there for an urgent matter.
The two men embraced in a hug before Tom pushed Sandy away by the shoulders.
“Damn, Cedar Creek must be treating you well. You look good, old friend.” Tom wrapped an arm around Sandy’s bicep. “You’re built like a brick shithouse.”
“Working hard,” Sandy said. “You look good, too. And this house! It’s gorgeous.”
“Thanks. Elaine and I love it out here.”
“Thanks for having me out, and for doing this on a holiday weekend. I’m in a pinch or I wouldn’t have asked.”
“Not a problem. Come on inside. We’ll sit on the back deck. It’s got a great view of the lake.”
A few minutes later Sandy was sitting with his childhood friend and staring down at Lake Tahoe over towering pines that lined the mountainside. They each drank cold Sierra Nevada Pale Ale.
“You weren’t kidding,” Sandy said, taking in the view. “I’m impressed.”
“Thanks, buddy.”
Tom Quinn had studied finance and accounting at USC, and spent ten years on the government’s dole running audits for the IRS before entering the private sector to open his own financial planning firm. Tom Quinn had the sharpest financial mind Sandy knew, and Sandy needed his help.
“So what’s going on in Cedar Creek that’s got the sheriff asking for favors from a finance guy?”
Sandy smiled. “People come and go but Cedar Creek never changes.”
Tom nodded. “That means you’re bumping heads with the Margolis clan.”
“Trying not to, but can’t seem to avoid it in this particular case.”
“What’s going on?”
“Earlier this summer, one of the partners at Margolis and Margolis was killed in what appeared to be a hit-and-run accident on Highway Sixty-seven.”
“Appeared to be?”
“This stays between you and me, but it looks like someone actually hit the guy in the back of the head with a baseball bat and killed him first, then put him in the road and ran him over with a car.”
“Damn. What has that hellhole turned into?”
Sandy pulsed his eyebrows. “It gets better. The car that ran the already-dead Margolis and Margolis partner over was registered to Preston Margolis’s new wife.”
Tom Quinn whistled. “You’ve got yourself a shit show.”
“Don’t I know it. But, wait, there’s more.”
“You sound like an infomercial.”
“Yeah, well, this last bit is why I called you. The Margolis and Margolis partner who was killed was named Baker Jauncey. A couple of days ago his legal investigator paid me a visit. A guy named Marvin Mann. He told me Baker had sniffed out financial fraud at the Margolis law firm and recruited Marvin to look into it. The next day, Baker was dead.”
“And his investigator thinks he was killed because he was looking into the Margolis firm?”
Sandy nodded. “And here’s the kicker. The night before he was killed, Baker gave Marvin a thick file of documents he had extracted from Margolis and Margolis, detailing the financial fraud. Jauncey was a partner, so he had all the access he needed if he was looking in the right places. He gave the files to Marvin for safekeeping and was dead the next day. Marvin shared the files with me. I’ve looked through them but I’m not a finance guy. I can’t make heads or tails out of them. I need you to take a look and explain to me what’s going on at Margolis and Margolis.”
“I sniffed out a lot of scams during my years at the IRS. Let me have a look.”
“I’ve got the full file stashed in a safe deposit box because I’m not taking any chances with it. But I made photocopies of what I believe are the relevant parts. I’ve got everything in my car.”
Lake Tahoe, Nevada
Saturday, July 1, 1995 3 Days Prior . . .
SANDY SAT ON HIS FRIEND’S DECK AND SIPPED BEER WHILE HE STARED down at Lake Tahoe. Tom Quinn had moved into the den as he pored over the documents Sandy brought him. Sandy was admiring two sailboats cutting through the center of the lake when Tom reappeared through the sliding doors that led from the kitchen. He had two fresh beers gripped between the fingers of his left hand, the files in his right, and his laptop tucked under his arm.
“Here,” he said, handing Sandy the beers.
“Figure any of it out?”
Tom nodded. “Most of it. And it’s on a huge scale, Sandy. Lots of money and lots of laws being broken. It’s no wonder these files got that guy killed.”
Tom placed the files on the patio table. A yellow legal pad that contained his notes rested on top. He set his laptop computer next to the files and went back inside, emerging a moment later with a long cable and extension cord for power. He sat down and fired up the laptop.
“So here’s what’s going on,” Tom said, tapping on the keyboard. “They’re stealing client money, in a nutshell, but they’re very clever about it. They’re taking settlement checks from cases the firm has either won or successfully negotiated, depositing the full amount into a dummy account—essentially a shell company attached to the Margolis law group—and then issuing a formal settlement check to Margolis and Margolis, which gets deposited into an escrow account. The key is that this formal payment into the escrow is less than the actual settlement.
“Let’s say a five-million-dollar settlement comes in. This guy deposits the five million into the dummy account, then transfers four point nine million into the firm’s escrow account. It’s easy to miss a hundred grand when you’re dealing with these huge sums, and from what I can tell Margolis and Margolis frequently does. The client then gets paid from the escrow account. The math gets complicated because the firm keeps thirty-three percent, plus expenses. The client gets the balance. And it’s in the expenses where the firm is burying the skimming. In this example of a five-million-dollar settlement, the hundred grand skimmed off the top was explained away through a long list of bogus expenses and no client ever picked up on it. Until this guy, Baker Jauncey, sniffed out the fraud. Only once, according to what’s in these files, had a client argued about the amount they received. And in that case, the inconsistency was blamed on an accounting error and was corrected. No other clients said a word. The scam’s been going on for years according to the dates listed on the files.”
Tom pulled one of the documents over so that Sandy could see.
“Here’s an obvious one. The Margolis law group filed a suit on behalf of Janet Romo in 1993 against a grocery store chain where she slipped and fell, injuring her hip and back. The case was settled out of court for a hundred fifty grand.”
Tom pointed at the page.
“See? It clearly states the settlement amount of one fifty right here, and that matches the amount deposited into the dummy account here.”
Sandy followed Tom’s index finger as it slid between the two matching numbers.
“But here”—Tom turned the page and pointed at a new number—“it shows that a settlement check was issued to Margolis and Margolis in the amount of one hundred twenty-five thousand.”
“Twenty-five K off the top?”
“Exactly. The one twenty-five goes into the escrow account, the twenty-five grand is written off in expenses, and a check is issued to the client. And that’s just the beginning. There are dozens of other examples in the files, and the amounts range from ten grand to a hundred.”
“All stolen funds?”
Tom nodded. “Yeah. I haven’t made it through all the files, but the total is just over five million dollars so far. Enough to kill for, had someone discovered this and threatened to expose those involved.”
Sandy slowly nodded his head. “Who were the attorneys involved?”
“That’s the problem. In order to pull off this level of fraud, shell companies and numbered accounts were created. One main company where the original settlement checks were deposited, and several others that the stolen funds were laundered through. I put a list together of every LLC, S corporation, and sole proprietorship listed. Other than those companies, there are only two other entities referenced in these files. The first is the Margolis firm. The second is the guy signing the checks that were eventually issued to the firm after a percentage was skimmed off the top.”
“Who was it?” Sandy asked.
“He’s listed in all the documents as Guy Menendez.”
“Guy Menendez?”
“Doesn’t ring a bell?”
“No.”
“I’m not surprised.” Tom opened his laptop. “Are you familiar with the Internet?”
“A little. The sheriff’s office has a website but it was all set up by IT guys from the county.”
“Margolis and Margolis has a site,” Tom said, tapping his keyboard. “And on their website is a list of every attorney at the firm. One hundred sixteen in all.” Tom turned the laptop to Sandy. “Not one of them is named Guy Menendez.”
“So who the hell is he?” Sandy asked.
“An alias, I’m guessing. But if you figure out who this guy is, I’m pretty sure you’ll know who killed Baker Jauncey.”
PART IV
From the Shadows
CHAPTER 37
Reno, Nevada Thursday, August 1, 2024
MARGOT GRAY GRABBED TWO BREAKFAST ENTREES OFF THE BAR AND hurried them over to table number eight. It was eleven o’clock in the morning and as soon as the two truckers finished their meal, her shift would mercifully end. She’d pulled a double and was going on fourteen hours straight—minus bathroom and cigarette breaks, and a half hour sometime in the middle of the night to eat a bagel with cream cheese and slurp down an energy drink to keep her going. Her knees ached and her ankles were swollen from so many hours on her feet.
