excuses.
She liked that. Besides, he was cute when he was contrite.
“I’m undercover,” Phil said. “I can’t tell you the name of the government agency I’m working for, but I’m not a police officer or a federal agent. I’m an outsourced contractor.”
“What’s that?” Helen said.
“I’m a private eye. The government hired my firm to do undercover work.”
“I thought the federal government couldn’t hire detective agencies,” Helen said. “I remember reading that somewhere.”
“They can’t,” Phil said. “That’s why Pinkerton dropped the word ‘detective’ from its name years ago, so the Department of Defense could hire their agents as independent contractors. My company did the same thing. I investigate defense-contractor fraud.”
“For the DoD?” Margery asked.
“I didn’t say that,” Phil said.
He didn’t deny it, either, Helen thought.
“You’re an investigator?” The last thing Helen wanted was an investigator poking around, especially with her past.
Phil misinterpreted her interest.
“Yes, but it isn’t as romantic as it sounds,” he said.
Helen wished he didn’t
“All that means is I generally work as a janitor in a small town in the middle of nowhere.”
“Aren’t you kind of noticeable with that hair?” Margery said.
“When I’m on a job, I cut it short and dye it no-color brown. Nobody notices me.”
Helen doubted that.
“My last investigation was in Rowland, Missouri. A company there makes copper components. The government suspected the copper was being siphoned off and sold elsewhere. They were right. I found out how the thieves did it after I worked there for six months as a janitor. They put the stolen copper in a Dumpster. Their accomplices picked it up late at night.”
“So what happened?” Helen said. “Did the crooks go to jail?”
Phil shrugged. “No. My investigation was buried in paper.”
“Were you disappointed?”
“They stopped ripping off the company,” he said. “That was my job and I did it. You get used to nothing much happening in government work.
“My next investigation took me to New Jersey. Some generator parts were getting sidetracked. I traced the shipments down to the Miami–Fort Lauderdale area. I thought it was going to be another version of the copper ring, but it was more than that. When the shipments were found, there was evidence that drugs had been in the packing cases.
“That led to undercover work down here for more than a year. The case has turned out to be complicated. I can’t give you the details, but the Mowbrys are involved. That’s why I was at the party. That’s why I wanted you to leave it.”
“They’re loaded,” Helen said. “Why would they be involved in an illegal operation? Melton Mowbry is a doctor and his family is richer than God.”
“Wrong,” Phil said. “The Mowbrys used to have money.
It’s long gone, but most people don’t know that. Here’s something else they don’t know: Mindy Mowbry’s maiden name is Cavarelli.”
“She’s related to the lizard?” Helen said.
“Would you care to explain that?”
“There’s this scary-looking guy at the boiler room. I nicknamed him the lizard. He’s from the New York headquarters.
When he visits our office, even Vito is scared of him.”
“Vito should be. That’s Carlo Xavier Cavarelli, Mindy’s first cousin,” Phil said. “The family is connected. Mindy got her Florida mansion the same way her granddaddy got his on Long Island—by breaking the law.”
“Does it involve those charity orgies?”
“The parties bring in big bucks. Some of the money goes to the charity. The rest goes to the Mowbrys for upkeep on that mansion.”
“Are they blackmailing people?” Helen studied Phil’s slightly crooked nose. She liked the way it veered to the left.
She wondered why little flaws made a man more interesting.
“No,” Phil said. “They’re providing a recreational opportunity for broad-minded bigwigs. Remember when those schoolteachers got caught at a Broward County swingers’ club? There was a big scandal, even though the teachers were consenting adults doing something that was not illegal in Florida. Same thing here. Broward County’s movers and shakers can’t be caught at an orgy. They need a safe place to play. They pay well for that peace of mind.”
“Enough to buy the Mowbrys a mansion?”
“Not that much. The Mowbrys also have an interest in that boiler room where you sell septic-tank cleaner.”
“They’re laundering money, aren’t they?” Helen said.
Phil raised both eyebrows.
Margery smiled. “That’s my girl. She notices things, Phil.”
Phil said nothing.
“I bet you if Mowbry is a doctor, he’s involved in Medicare fraud,” Margery said. “It’s a big temptation for those doctors. He’d have to find a way to launder that money.”
Phil still said nothing, but his eyes bulged a bit. Helen figured Margery was on target.
“I know how they do it,” Helen said. “There was a near riot last payday. About five or six staffers, including this big biker, complained they’d been cheated out of their commissions. They’d been shorted two or three sales.”
“Don’t they have records?” Phil said.
“Yes, but not good ones. The telemarketers keep track of their own sales. But there are no sales logs or official company forms. Everybody writes down their sales on scrap paper. There is no supervisor’s signature or date to verify the sales.”
“Interesting,” Phil said.
“From the way everyone was complaining, I gather they were ripped off pretty regularly. But this time, the staff rebelled. They finally had enough. I thought they were going to beat up Vito. But then Mr. Cavarelli appeared. They all backed down when they saw the lizard. Even the big biker was afraid of him. I think Cavarelli had a gun.”
“So what did the staff do?”
“Nothing,” Helen said. “What can they do? The biker is an ex-con. Who else is going to hire him? The others are desperate for different reasons. Most people who work in boiler rooms are trapped. That’s why it’s a perfect place for money laundering. The bosses can put any numbers they want in the computer for our sales. They’re also stealing the staff’s commissions. All the telemarketers have are their scrap-paper lists. Those would be useless in court. At least I know now why Cavarelli was slithering around the Mowbry party.”
It made Helen sick, when she remembered the party. The Mowbrys’ obscene luxuries were stolen ten dollars at a time from single mothers and high school dropouts. She thought of Marina’s little boy, Ramon, playing on that filthy carpet.
And Nick the junkie, borrowing quarters for orange soda to feed his sugar blues. She saw the other faces in the boiler room, young and old, listening to Vito’s pep talks, desperate to hang on to their last-chance jobs.
And then she saw something else: those papers on Vito’s desk.
“They’re scamming another way,” Helen said.
