with Beck—he of the blistering stare.
As I came out from behind the front desk I saw hotel personnel moving along the corridor toward the dining room, obviously
assembling for the meeting with Danny. Spa staffers were recognizable in their khaki-colored T-shirts and matching drawstring
pants. I spotted a young Indian guy and figured that must be Eric. There was also a buxom blonde, very much an earth mother
type. That had to be Cordelia.
On the way to my room, I knocked on the door to room 17, but there was no answer. Babs Hollingswood, I realized, might be
down at police headquarters this morning, making a formal statement.
Back in my room, I dug through my purse for my PalmPilot and, after finding his number, placed a call to Bud Patterson, a
forensic accountant. I’d interviewed him two years ago when I was writing an article on a woman whose husband had bludgeoned
her to death with a golf trophy after she’d discovered he was draining gobs of money from their business and funneling it
into a secret offshore account. As a forensic accountant, Bud approached a bank statement as a possible crime scene. But instead
of searching for fingerprints or clumps of hair, he scoured for signs of money in motion when it shouldn’t be. I knew he’d
be able to tell me how to spot any funny business in Danny’s records.
He answered right away, sounding bright eyed and bushy tailed for a Saturday morning. Not bothering to get into the murder,
I explained Danny’s concern about the spa staff and asked how I could help.
“Follow the cash,” he said without hesitation. “That’s always the first rule.” I heard him take a swig of a drink.
“But it’s not a cash business,” I told him.
“I don’t mean literally,” he said. “You want to look at what’s coming in each month and what’s going out. See if all the bills
are paid up. When people siphon off money, the bills often get ignored.”
“But how do you siphon off money when it’s not a cash business? You can’t just write checks to yourself.”
“Well, actually, that’s exactly how people do it. They create a fictitious vendor—or vendors. It’s a spa, you say? If I’m
the bad guy, I might make up a vendor called Super Smooth Massage Oils. I send in invoices for them and make sure those invoices
are paid and sent to an address I have access to. Then I cash the checks. Top management isn’t close enough to the operation
to notice we never
use
Super Smooth Massage Oils.”
Before signing off to head for his in-laws, he gave me a couple of other tips that I jotted down.
At eleven I was on my way to the police station, allowing plenty of time in case I got lost. Though the inn’s setting had
an out-of-the-way, almost rural feel to it—in part because of its abutment to a nature reserve—it was actually just at the
edge of town. I drove down several quiet roads, which after a few minutes gave way to suburbanlike streets and then, as I
got closer to the center of the town, to older streets lined with clapboard houses. In their front yards sat glistening wet
piles of raked leaves, waiting to be bagged. I was only a few hours north of New York City, yet autumn was far more entrenched
here.
The building was a nondescript, one-story affair on a lot that years before had once probably held something more historic,
like the old New England–style buildings surrounding it. There was no receptionist at the desk in the lobby, but a patrol
cop was holding up the wall while drinking coffee from a Styrofoam cup, and he said he’d let Beck know I’d arrived.
It was ten minutes before he emerged, and he was accompanied by a couple in their mid- to late sixties. I overheard Beck thank
them for all their help, and I suspected that the woman might be either Babs or the other nine o’clock client. Beck nodded
at me, said good-bye to the couple, and then told me to follow him.
He was wearing brown pants, a white dress
As I came out from behind the front desk I saw hotel personnel moving along the corridor toward the dining room, obviously
assembling for the meeting with Danny. Spa staffers were recognizable in their khaki-colored T-shirts and matching drawstring
pants. I spotted a young Indian guy and figured that must be Eric. There was also a buxom blonde, very much an earth mother
type. That had to be Cordelia.
On the way to my room, I knocked on the door to room 17, but there was no answer. Babs Hollingswood, I realized, might be
down at police headquarters this morning, making a formal statement.
Back in my room, I dug through my purse for my PalmPilot and, after finding his number, placed a call to Bud Patterson, a
forensic accountant. I’d interviewed him two years ago when I was writing an article on a woman whose husband had bludgeoned
her to death with a golf trophy after she’d discovered he was draining gobs of money from their business and funneling it
into a secret offshore account. As a forensic accountant, Bud approached a bank statement as a possible crime scene. But instead
of searching for fingerprints or clumps of hair, he scoured for signs of money in motion when it shouldn’t be. I knew he’d
be able to tell me how to spot any funny business in Danny’s records.
He answered right away, sounding bright eyed and bushy tailed for a Saturday morning. Not bothering to get into the murder,
I explained Danny’s concern about the spa staff and asked how I could help.
“Follow the cash,” he said without hesitation. “That’s always the first rule.” I heard him take a swig of a drink.
“But it’s not a cash business,” I told him.
“I don’t mean literally,” he said. “You want to look at what’s coming in each month and what’s going out. See if all the bills
are paid up. When people siphon off money, the bills often get ignored.”
“But how do you siphon off money when it’s not a cash business? You can’t just write checks to yourself.”
“Well, actually, that’s exactly how people do it. They create a fictitious vendor—or vendors. It’s a spa, you say? If I’m
the bad guy, I might make up a vendor called Super Smooth Massage Oils. I send in invoices for them and make sure those invoices
are paid and sent to an address I have access to. Then I cash the checks. Top management isn’t close enough to the operation
to notice we never
use
Super Smooth Massage Oils.”
Before signing off to head for his in-laws, he gave me a couple of other tips that I jotted down.
At eleven I was on my way to the police station, allowing plenty of time in case I got lost. Though the inn’s setting had
an out-of-the-way, almost rural feel to it—in part because of its abutment to a nature reserve—it was actually just at the
edge of town. I drove down several quiet roads, which after a few minutes gave way to suburbanlike streets and then, as I
got closer to the center of the town, to older streets lined with clapboard houses. In their front yards sat glistening wet
piles of raked leaves, waiting to be bagged. I was only a few hours north of New York City, yet autumn was far more entrenched
here.
The building was a nondescript, one-story affair on a lot that years before had once probably held something more historic,
like the old New England–style buildings surrounding it. There was no receptionist at the desk in the lobby, but a patrol
cop was holding up the wall while drinking coffee from a Styrofoam cup, and he said he’d let Beck know I’d arrived.
It was ten minutes before he emerged, and he was accompanied by a couple in their mid- to late sixties. I overheard Beck thank
them for all their help, and I suspected that the woman might be either Babs or the other nine o’clock client. Beck nodded
at me, said good-bye to the couple, and then told me to follow him.
He was wearing brown pants, a white dress
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