AHMM, June 2012 Read online

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  AHMM, June 2012

  by Dell Magazine Authors

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  Mystery/Crime

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  Dell Magazines

  www.dellmagazines.com

  Copyright ©2012 by Dell Magazines

  NOTICE: This work is copyrighted. It is licensed only for use by the original purchaser. Making copies of this work or distributing it to any unauthorized person by any means, including without limit email, floppy disk, file transfer, paper print out, or any other method constitutes a violation of International copyright law and subjects the violator to severe fines or imprisonment.

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  Cover by Jerome Kleine/Gettyimages.com

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  CONTENTS

  Department: EDITOR'S NOTE: CRIME TIME by Linda Landrigan

  Department: THE LINEUP

  Fiction: THE SELLOUT by Mike Cooper

  Fiction: THEA'S FIRST HUSBAND by B.K. Stevens

  Fiction: CUPS AND VARLETS by Kenneth Wishnia

  Fiction: LAST SUPPER by Jane K. Cleland

  Department: MYSTERIOUS PHOTOGRAPH

  Fiction: THE POT HUNTERS by David Hagerty

  Department: BOOKED & PRINTED by Robert C. Hahn

  Mystery Classic: AFTERNOON OF A PHONY by Cornell Woolrich, Selected and Introduced by Francis M. Nevins

  Department: THE STORY THAT WON

  Department: COMING IN JULY 2012

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  Department: EDITOR'S NOTE: CRIME TIME

  by Linda Landrigan

  Join us in toasting John C. Boland, for as we go to press, we learn that his story “Marley's Revolution” (June 2011) is a finalist for the Edgar Award for Best Short Story. The Edgar Awards banquet in New York City and the Malice Domestic convention in Bethesda are two of my favorite events on the mystery calendar. I enjoy them because I get to catch up with old friends and meet new ones—and appropriately, this issue also features a nice balance of the familiar and the new.

  One new name this month—Mike Cooper—is actually the writer our readers know as Mike Wiecek, and “The Sellout” features the same nameless accountant featured in Cooper's new financial thriller, Clawback. Another name you'll know, but not (until now) through our pages, is Cornell Woolrich; Francis M. Nevins explains in his introduction to this month's mystery classic, “Afternoon of a Phony.”

  We welcome back Jane K. Cleland, who introduces a precocious teen sleuth in “Last Supper.” Dave Hagerty returns with “The Pot Hunters,” a tale also featuring a teen, but set on the Navajo reservation a hundred years ago. B. K. Stevens delivers a chilling, and perhaps cautionary story, “Thea's First Husband.” And Kenneth Wishnia brings us another adventure of Rabbi Ben-Akiva and his comrades-in-exile in “Cups and Varlets,” set in 16th century Poland.

  —Linda Landrigan, Editor

  [Back to Table of Contents]

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  Department: THE LINEUP

  Jane K. Cleland is the author of the Josie Prescott Antiques series. Her latest novel is Dolled Up for Murder.

  Shamus Award-winner (as Mike Wiecek) Mike Cooper is the author of the financial thriller Clawback.

  David Hagerty is a former newspaper reporter who is now completing his MFA and is at work on a novel.

  Robert C. Hahn reviews mysteries for Publishers Weekly and New York Post.

  Retired law professor and novelistFrancis M. Nevins is a two-time Edgar Award winner for his critical work, including Cornell Woolrich: First You Dream, Then You Die. He's written numerous stories for AHMM and EQMM, as well as edited anthologies.

  B. K. Stevens's e-novella, One Shot, a humorous fair-play whodunit, was published by Untreed Reads. Her story “Interpretation of Murder” (AHMM, December 2010) won a Derringer Award from the Short Mystery Fiction Society.

  Kenneth Wishnia's novel The Fifth Servant was an Indie Notable selection, winner of a Premio Letterario ADEI-WIZO, and a finalist for the Sue Feder Memorial Historical Mystery Award.

  [Back to Table of Contents]

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  Fiction: THE SELLOUT

  by Mike Cooper

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  Art by Edward Kinsella III

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  Now, the subway station, that was sharp thinking. A decade after 9/11 the MTA still hadn't installed its fancy new cameras. So unlike any other crowded, public space in Manhattan, the Fulton Street C Line platform was free of electronic surveillance. It was a nice solution for a total-deniability-type meet-up.

  The kind my clients always seem to prefer.

  Boyd Ecker must have forgotten about the freezing temperatures, though. He stood under icicles hanging from broken ceiling panels, kicking chunks of ice onto the tracks, arms folded and shivering.

  “The cars are heated,” I said when I walked up. No handshake offered, but that might have been because we both wore gloves.

  “I'm not going anywhere.” His distressed leather jacket was cut for style, not warmth. “Let's get this over with.”

  Not the most polite opening, considering he'd called me, but once your net worth crosses into ten digits, you don't have to worry about glad-handing the help.

  “I need an audit done,” Ecker said.

  “Sure.”

  “I mean, fast.”

  “Okay.”

  I waited. We looked at each other. Ecker was at least five years younger than me, late twenties maybe. He had to be incredibly smart—or lucky—to have topped out last year's private equity rankings.

  “I got your name from Nigel Grayling,” he said finally. “What did you do for him, exactly?”

  Okay—lucky, not smart. “If you hire me for something,” I said, “do you want me talking about it afterward?”

  “No.” Pause. “Right. Never mind.”

  An icy breeze rose from the tunnel, followed a few seconds later by a C train, the windows flashing past us as it slowed. Passengers jostled off and on, adjusting hats and scarves.

  “I'm closing a deal,” Ecker said when the crowd had trickled away to the escalators. “Selling one of our portfolio companies. It's a good exit for us, especially considering the economy like it is.”

  “Congratulations.”

  “It's not done yet. There's a, well, a complication.”

  Of course. “Why don't you tell me about it?”

  “Spin Metal Technology.” He shrugged deeper into his coat. “They're a specialty manufacturer in Indiana. We acquired them two years ago, rationalized operations, and now we've got a buyer. The closing is next week.”

  “But . . . ?”

  “Last quarter's financials. Spin Metal's staff gave us internal numbers three days ago.” Ecker's mouth tightened into a thin line. “The income statement's fine, but cash flow fell off a cliff. Something's wrong.”

  “Hmm.” I had to wait while a loud, scratchy, unintelligible message played over the station's PA. “Does it matter? Call the figures preliminary, or just bury them as nonmaterial. Let the buyers worry about it when they find out later.”

  “They're Swiss.” Ecker squinted in distaste. “Have you ever dealt with the Swiss? They go over our books like army ants. This will totally kill the deal.”

  “So send in a forensic platoon from Ernst & Young and sort it out before closing.”

  “We tried.”

  Aha. The interesting bit, at last. “They couldn't find it?”

  “The CEO's people obstructed them. Not openly. I had a team there from Chicago for fifty-six hours straight, and they couldn't find a damn thing.”

&nbs
p; “Let me guess—some sort of computer problem, slowing down the accounting software? And maybe one of the A/P clerks out sick? And they'd recently moved offices, so critical files were in a different building? Like that?”

  Ecker almost smiled. “Exactly.”

  “You want this solved before the buyers see the statements.” Why he called me was now clear. “You need an expedited audit.”

  “If you capture a terrorist, and he's not telling you where the nuclear bomb is, you don't read him his rights and call Legal Aid. You make . . . him . . . talk."

  “Okay. Waterboard Spin Metal's CFO. Got it.”

  Ecker raised his hands in a shooing gesture. “Don't tell me anything,” he said. “I don't want to know. Just get the answers. I don't care how, and the sooner the better.”

  Rich, desperate, and under the gun—really, Ecker was a perfect client. “Let's talk fees for a moment,” I said, feeling good. “Then get me some background to read on the plane, and I'll go straight to the airport.”

  * * * *

  It's a small niche, though a necessary one, especially in economic times as difficult as these. Straightforward accountancy is all well and good. But sometimes you need someone packing a P226, not an HP12c, if you know what I mean.

  My own background? Military, of course, and I can't say much more about it. When I got out, most of the guys I knew were going over to Blackwater, but I wanted something quieter. Benefits paid for some college, I took the CPA exam because a girl I knew was doing it, and I just kind of drifted into this. If I had a logo it might be a green eyeshade crossed by a nine-mil.

  But I don't.

  When I landed at O'Hare, snow was falling and the sky was dark. Renting a car and driving down took another two hours. I found the plant with the car's GPS, no trouble, and sat for a few minutes, watching.

  The company occupied a long, two-story building of cinder block, the exterior walls stained by rust from exposed metal. A single tractor-trailer was backed up to a four-bay dock on one side. In the distance, blurry through light snow, Inland Steel's abandoned towers poked into lowering skies. It was just past four p.m., and the second shift began to emerge—men walking out with lunchboxes and heavy coats, headed for their cars.

  I could go straight in, but senior management had shown themselves clearly willing to stonewall. A little recon first seemed like a good idea.

  So I waited until several vehicles exited the lot about the same time, then swung in behind them. The neighborhood was industrial, half deserted. With one main avenue running east-west, it was predictable that they would go the same way.

  Nor was it a surprise when three of the cars pulled off, a mile down the road, at a low building with neon in the windows. baltic tavern, glowed the sign, and the flock of vehicles out front was mostly motorcycles.

  In twenty-degree snow. We were in America's industrial heartland, all right.

  The Spin Metal employees had a table inside, and it was easy to join them. I was dressed like they were, I had a pitcher, and you know what?—people really are basically friendly.

  I didn't even have to lie much.

  “Spin Metal, huh?” I said. “I heard of them. Filter equipment, something like that?”

  “Centrifuge machining,” said one of the employees, a balding musclehead in a Colts sweatshirt. “Don't know for how much longer, though.”

  “Business is bad?”

  “What are you, a banker? Yeah, business is bad. The whole damn economy is bad. People'll be eating each other in the streets soon.”

  “You're a fucking moron.” The second guy had a full beard, half gray, and longish flyabout hair. He looked like Moses calling down manna. “We're getting steady orders. They even hired up some last month. The Chinese'll notice someday and eat our lunch, but that hasn't happened yet.”

  “Clayton's worried.” John Clayton, the CEO. Ecker had kept him on after the acquisition.

  “Naw.”

  “Then why is he selling out? Tell me that.”

  “Selling?” Ecker had sworn the deal was totally secret.

  Moses ignored me. “Because that's when you get top dollar, of course. Wait until the company's hurting and they'll gnaw you down to bone meal.”

  If Clayton had any sense, he'd put Moses on the negotiating team. “How do you know you're on the block?” I asked.

  He snorted. “They don't tell us nothing, but when a bunch of guys in suits show up and spend two days studying the line, well, we can rule out the OSHA inspector, you know?”

  “Would your boss do that?”

  “In a New York minute,” said the Colts fan.

  The company had just over a hundred employees, according to the backgrounder Ecker had given me. Small enough for everyone to know everyone. Spin Metal wasn't GM, with separate entrances and bathrooms for executive management.

  Moses disagreed. “Clayton's all right. But it's not him calling the shots anymore. We got bought out a couple years ago, some vulture fund back east. They just want to flip it.”

  “Who's the buyer? Not the Chinese, I take it.”

  “No.” The third guy thought that was funny. “Sounded like Germans to me.”

  “Well, if you got bought once already, it probably doesn't matter. You'll keep on making, whatever, centrifuge rotors— it'll just be the next owner banking the profits.”

  “No, no, not this time.” Moses drank off half his plastic stein. “They're taking the whole plant. The machines.”

  “Really?” I didn't have to pretend bafflement now. “Why?”

  “Guess they need it over there in Germany.”

  That didn't make much sense. Germany had the best machine shop base in the world.

  Of course, Ecker had said the buyers were Swiss. “Are you going with them?”

  The third guy laughed again. “Yeah, sure.”

  “Naw,” said Moses. “We're gonna be over at DWD, standing in line for unemployment with everyone else.”

  “Sorry to hear that.”

  The Colts fan stood up. “Gonna get a bacon burger. You all want anything?”

  When he'd wandered off to the bar, Moses shook his head. “I'm not looking forward to losing the job,” he said. “But at least we got a pension, and that's more than most around here.”

  “Thanks to Clayton,” said the other. He looked toward Moses, the conversation moving away from me. “I was talking to Jenny up in Accounting, you know her?”

  “Sure. The redhead.”

  “She says we got nothing to worry about—Clayton's been squaring the pension reserves. Making sure we're covered no matter what.”

  “Huh.”

  “It's true.”

  “Believe it when I see it.”

  “Clayton's on our side.” He looked at me. “He used to fight mixed martial arts, you know that?”

  “Really?” Not your typical route to senior management.

  “True,” said Moses. “Light heavy. He was ranked in the UFC. I saw him lose a couple times, down in Lafayette and at the fairgrounds.”

  “He won more than he lost.”

  “And he had the sense to get out before too many concussions piled up.”

  Clayton began to sound more interesting than Ecker's backgrounder had suggested.

  “And now he fights for you,” I said.

  “Huh,” said Moses again. “He could run for mayor with that line.”

  The Colts fan came back with food. I stayed a while, had some nachos, finished one scant beer. At six it felt like time to go.

  “Good luck,” I said.

  “Things generally work out.” Moses shrugged. “I'd hate to see them sell, though. Hell, we could run it better than they could.”

  “Who knows?” I said. “The sale could still fall through.”

  * * * *

  John Clayton was in his office, waiting for me. Ecker had called ahead, telling him one more auditor was coming in to check the books.

  “There's nothing to find.” He was big—at least six inc
hes over my five ten—rawboned, and lean. When we shook his hand was blunt, with hard calluses across the knuckles and along the edge. “Business ebbs and flows. We have a full order book and receivables are steady. What's the problem?”

  We didn't sit down.

  “The problem is that free cash flow declined by twenty-seven percent in Q4—”

  “Those E&Y kids went through our accounts and didn't find a penny out of place.”

  “—which is even worse year over year, since you usually see net cash inflows in December. Customers clearing their books, I assume.”

  “What can I tell you?”

  The office was modest, even by Rust Belt standards: pinewood desk, vinyl-topped credenza, and a shabby loveseat-and-armchair set around the coffee table. Clayton was on the second floor, up some open-tread metal stairs, and he had a big window overlooking the machine shop. The floor looked empty at this time of evening, the line quiet.

  “Let's start at the beginning,” I said. “I understand you make high-end centrifuge components. Gas permeation. For what—medical devices?”

  “No. Industrial applications. Blood filtration, you need smaller machines.”

  “Big customer list?”

  “Average.”

  And so on. This was getting us nowhere.

  “All right.” I found my carrier bag on the floor and stooped to pull out Spin Metal's last 10-K, their annual SEC-mandated financial report. “I had some time on the flight.”

  “Oh?”

  I held out the printout, which was half an inch thick. “Footnote thirteen, sub-para four. ‘Retirement provisions.'”

  Clayton took the document but shrugged. “Public information.”

  “If the acquisition goes through, you walk away with fourteen million dollars.”

  “It's not all cash.”

  I looked at him. “Oh, come on, you can do better than that."

  He had the grace to appear embarrassed. “The board's compensation committee makes those decisions.”