Little Deadly Things

“How did you know that?” asked Denise, interested and, for the first time since they’d met, a bit more at ease.

“I’ll explain everything in a minute,” he continued. “You are more orderly than most people. You got laid off or fired before you came to NMech.” Dana paused and watched her reaction. “Twice?” She nodded. “Whistleblower?” She cocked her head and stared at Dana before nodding again.

“You thought about coming to the funeral all night and didn’t get much sleep. You made up your mind to come at the last minute. You have a cat—is it named Rex? Mom trusts you and she wants Dad to trust you, too. And he’s wrong, you prefer white wine.”

Denise stared, openmouthed. Jim smiled and Marta beamed at her son.

“How on earth did you know my cat’s name?” Denise asked. “Did you get that from your sleeve? I didn’t think that was in my cloud data.”

“No, that was a guess,” said Dana. Marta watched her son. It was his turn to beam. She knew that demonstrating his skills in front of his father filled Dana with satisfaction.

“You have a few cat hairs on your clothing. They’re very curly. Only a Rex cat has hair like that. I took a chance it’s a male and that you named him Rex.”

“Did my son get it right, Denise?” asked Marta.

“Yes, he did,” she said, nodding her head. She smiled at Jim, “You must be proud of him. But Dana, what about the rest? The last-minute decision? Job troubles? All that?”

“I’m sorry if I got too personal right away. But you’ve got cat hair on your forearm and on the bottom edge of your jacket, and on your slacks where they would meet your jacket if you were sitting down. So, your cat jumped on your lap as you were sitting and you were wearing the jacket at that moment. You seem like a careful person—I mean, you’re an accountant, right?—so you would have taken off the jacket before you sat down. Or you would have noticed the cat hair if you weren’t in a rush.”

“You’ve got a good eye,” Denise said quietly. “Now tell me the rest. This actually makes it easier for me to tell my story.”

“Okay. Your clothing is stylish, the edges of your sleeves are frayed. So times are a little tough and that points to job problems. You passed on buying new clothing, but made sure your hair was properly cut. You are conscientious, which is why you came to see Mom at Colleen’s funeral, so you didn’t lose your job because of anything you did wrong. Maybe it was something you did right that got you in trouble?”

It was clear to Marta from Denise’s smile that she enjoyed the boy’s attention. He will be quite a prize for a lucky woman some day. Or a lucky young lady very soon, the proud mother realized. She felt a momentary pang of—what? Not jealousy, but something akin to it. She felt protective. Dana would find someone to love him. She would have to trust that person to love him as deeply as she did. Could anyone care about him as much as a mother?

Her rumination was interrupted as the waiter came by with a platter of appetizers. Crunchy cod fritters, sweet plump cornmeal fingers, and crescent-shaped turnovers, some filled with lobster, some with beef. Steam floated up from the platter and carried a piquant aroma of pepper, oregano, and garlic. The four diners attacked their food. The only sound from the table was the clink of silverware and expressions of enjoyment.

When the waiter returned, Marta asked Denise, “Do you mind if I order for the table?” Denise nodded and Marta spoke for a few minutes in the rapid, guttural Spanish characteristic of Puerto Rico. The waiter smiled his approval and returned to the kitchen.

“This restaurant has the most authentic Borinquen food you’ll find in Boston. I’ve never been disappointed,” said Marta.

“Borinquen?” asked Denise.

“The Taino word for Puerto Rican,” Marta explained.

“Taino?”

“Ah. The indigenous people of Puerto Rico were the Taino Indians.”

“Well, this will be something new for me. It’s hard to find any cuisine in Boston other than Italian. Or seafood—but it’ll probably be in marinara sauce,” said Denise. The family facing her chuckled.

A tureen of black bean soup appeared, following the appetizers. Marta smiled. “Some people say that the black bean soup is Cuban in origin, but I do not accept that. One hundred percent Puerto Rican puro.”

They finished their soup and awarded plaudits to Marta for her choices. Then the table grew quiet.

“Suppose you tell me what’s troubling you,” Marta said to Denise. “Relax, take your time.”

Denise Warren drew in a deep breath and exhaled. She lost her hesitant manner. “Okay, here goes. NMech’s bookkeeping for accounts receivable—the money that customers owe us—is easy to automate. Same transactions, over and over. Every month the same prescription or the same lease payment for an environmental project. That’s the key. The transactions are repetitive, and no one really has to look at them.”

Denise continued, a professional in her element. She had the table’s full attention. Waitstaff cleared plates, poured wine and water, and left, unnoticed.

“If the accounting system is up to snuff, then you can trust the results, as long as people use the system.” She looked around to make sure the family was following her explanation.

“Okay. One more technical bit, then it’ll be clear. There are millions of transactions. Accountants, auditors, regulators—they can’t check each one. So the auditors pick a sample and test. If there are any discrepancies in the sample, then there’s a problem.”

Heads nodded around the table.

“Well, I’m new at NMech. I wanted to learn more about my job, so I spent some time looking into the operations. And that’s when I found it.” The forlorn look returned to her face.

“And it is…?” Marta prompted.

“There’s, um, too much money. I know that sounds crazy. But revenue exceeds what we were owed. The amount of money that people pay us should equal the amount of money that they owe us, right? I mean, nobody pays extra. The difference was barely enough to notice. A few dollars. Even auditors disregard this small of a discrepancy. But I was curious.”

“What I found was that there were some customers paying us even though the accounts were closed.”

“I don’t get it. What’s the problem?” asked Marta.

“The accounts were closed for nonpayment. But those customer accounts were current.”

“Okay, so we owe them a refund. I still don’t see the problem.”

“Most problems were minor. When customers complained, we apologized and gave them a free month or two. They were happy and life went on. But here’s the scary part. I don’t know how to say this.”

“‘Start at the beginning, continue to the middle, and stop at the end,’” said Jim.

“Alice in Wonderland,” Denise smiled.

Jim started to speak again but Marta stopped him. “Tell us the rest, dear,” she said.

“Some customers didn’t complain. And the reason those customers didn’t complain—” Denise hesitated.

“Go ahead, Denise,” Marta prompted gently.

“—is…they’re dead. They died. Their meds were cut off and they died. And I think it was done deliberately.”

“You’re kidding,” said Marta.

“No.” Denise picked up her glass and sipped her wine. She looked around. The shadows outside had grown longer as the day ran out. People hurried by on the street. They were like streaks of color flashing across the restaurant’s window. Denise studied her wine glass as if there were an answer there to the riddle she’d found.

She shook her head slightly and refocused on her story. “I dug a bit and looked into the patient backgrounds to see if there was something they had in common. Maybe that would identify an error in the accounting system. And I found it.”

She picked up her glass again and drained it. “Not one of them had any family to speak of. No husbands, no wives, no kids or parents. I couldn’t even find any friends. Nobody to miss them. Dr. Cruz, Marta, I’d swear that these customers were selected because nobody would ask questions. It’s just too much of a coincidence.”

“Holy crap,” said Marta, who never swore. “How long?” she asked in a clipped voice.