Two Crimes, One Thread

Castlelock's income statement was remarkably clean. Fitting, for a company with a major accounting firm attached — there wasn't a single flaw anywhere to pick at.

I began slowly turning through the itemized statements of outsourcing and service fees.

The twelfth page. A red dot rose from the paper.

Pop. Pop. Pop.

Three dots surfaced in a row, and my heart gave one heavy, off-beat thud. The dots swelled slowly, then reshaped themselves into arrows.

The first arrow sprang from the labor management service fees line and drove itself into the list of six payees at the bottom of the page. One of those six was a company deeply implicated in my father's death.

My breath caught.

Honestly, I hadn't predicted it would reach this far. That even after the news of my father's death six years ago, these people were still out there toying with human lives...

The problem was the second arrow. It launched from the consulting advisory fees line — three million, four hundred thousand dollars a year — and it refused to stop. It trembled as if about to tear right off the page, then stretched out into the other folder lying open beside it: the published volume of last year's political contributions.

...This is anything but normal.

A jolt of pain lanced through my temple. I shut my eyes, but even behind closed lids the red afterimage lingered, swaying. Nearly a hundred pages in a single day would do that. You mustn't overexert yourself at times like this; push too hard, and by that evening the letters bleed across the page like newsprint soaked through with water.

Just a little more. One line, that's all.

I opened my eyes again. The line where the arrowhead had planted itself read:

So a construction company is paying advisory fees to a lobbying shop.

Well, that much was business as usual. In Washington, lobbying was less a crime than an industry — people in this city buy influence the way they buy their morning coffee. The trouble lay in the combination of the sum and the name. Three point four million dollars. Roughly five billion won. A company running eleven job sites around Washington, spending that much on consulting? Not for winning construction contracts, but for policy advice?

It smelled. A vicious, festering stench that seeped in no matter how hard I pinched my nose shut.

I opened my laptop and started pulling records.

"...Just four people, providing three point four million dollars' worth of consulting?"

That worked out to eight hundred fifty thousand a head — and a United States Senator in this city earned one hundred seventy-four thousand a year. Four consultants parked in a single office, drawing the combined worth of five senators. Even bullshit ought to come with limits.

I pulled up the next screen. My hand stopped.

A nonprofit corporation filing form...?

Only now did it register: Harrison Strategy Group was registered as a nonprofit organized for social welfare purposes. Which is to say, an organization that paid no taxes whatsoever.

"These lunatics."

I leaned back into my chair. Nonprofits aren't obligated to disclose their donor lists — which is why, in Washington, people called this structure a washing machine for black money. A corporation feeds cash in, and it comes back out into politics with the donor's name scrubbed clean. Past a certain ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠point, this wasn't tax savings. It was tax evasion of the most malignant kind.

And there was no conceivable way a company with an accounting giant like Grant & Cole attached didn't understand the structure. So this wasn't ignorance. It was intent.

In the end, that single red line had skewered two crimes on one thread. One was the ghost workforce at the site where my father died. The other was wherever that money had flowed afterward.

I shut the file and looked up at the ceiling, where the fluorescent tube buzzed and flickered. Six years in, I had finally closed my hand around a handle called revenge.

"Still not heading home?"

Sara poked her head through the doorway, two paper cups in hand.

"It's already eleven. Even the cleaning crew's gone."

"Why haven't you left?"

"How is the rookie supposed to leave when the senior investigator hasn't?"

"Ah, drop it. I'm allergic to that macho-posturing garbage, so knock off early and often."

Sara set one of the cups down on my desk. "And what's that? You've been staring at it for a while now."

"Materials on Castlelock Construction Group."

Her eyes went wide. "That Castlelock? The convention center they're putting up next to the National Mall?"

"Yep."

"I heard they run more than ten sites? They even took a site-safety commendation last year and — wait. Hold on." Sara froze with her cup halfway raised and looked at me. "Don't tell me you're going after that company right now. Alone?"

"Just doing some reading."

"That IS doing something! I have never once seen you shuffle through papers without a reason. Not one useless sheet of paper has ever landed on your desk!"

Her voice carried down the corridor. She hastily clapped a hand over her mouth and pulled the door shut. "I—I've only been on the job four months, but even I know this much: the second we touch that place, the phone rings from upstairs. And after the phone, your desk goes down to the basement archives."

"I know."

"Then why—"

"Sara."

I rested my hand flat on the file. "Do you know how many people were killed or hurt on that company's job sites last year?"

"...I don't."

"Neither do I. Care to guess why?"

Sara opened her mouth, then shut it again. I gave a thin smile and finished it for her.

"Because it isn't in the paperwork. If your name isn't on the roster, then getting hurt doesn't count as hurt, and dying doesn't count as dead. No pay stub means no payroll tax. No payroll tax means no workers' comp. No workers' comp means the company owes nothing when you're crushed under a beam. You think an outfit like that pays its taxes honestly? And where do you suppose all the money it saves ends up?"

I tapped a finger against the political-funds volume sitting at the edge of my desk. Sara stared down at its cover for a long moment. The hand around her paper cup tightened until it crumpled without a sound.

"...I just heard something genuinely frightening, didn't I."

"Coffee's going cold. Drink."

"Leo, honestly..."

But she hauled a chair over, sat down, and — asked by no one — scooped up a fistful of files.

"What do you think you're doing?"

"I want to look too. Last train's long gone anyway."

I regarded her for a moment. Four months ago, I remembered, her hands had shaken as she posted a single levy notice at her very first site. She's growing, too.

"...Then verify the subcontractor roster first."

And so, at nine the next morning, I — having worked straight through the night — planted the paperwork on the desk of Team Leader Margo Chen, who had only just walked in the door.

"Request for authorization to open an investigation into Castlelock Construction Group."

Margo stopped mid-sip and set her coffee down. Then she took off her glasses. She didn't clean them. She only ever cleaned them when she was about to hand out a compliment.

"Leo."

"Yes."

"The Rudy Marchetti matter closed at three yesterday afternoon. Which means you're standing here with the next one eighteen hours later. Ease off the gas a little, why don't you."

"They say idling ages you fast, Team Leader."

"Was that line meant for my ears?"

Margo flipped the application open. Her hand slowed after two pages — then stopped dead on the last one. The office had gone very quiet. The two investigators at the neighboring desks, catching the hardening mood, kept ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠peeking around their monitors at us.

"What's your basis for this?"

"The outsourcing service fees are irregular. Four of the six payees share a single registered address. And three point four million dollars went out the door as consulting advisory fees. It reeks, doesn't it?"

"They can simply deny all of that. If they plant their feet and insist there's no problem, then we're the ones who have to spend the time proving it."

"Which is exactly why I'm filing to open the case first. We're not the ones who need to flinch, are we? I have plenty of hours, and I love this work."

Margo slapped the application down onto the desk. "Denied."

"Team Leader—"

"I said denied."

She looked me dead in the eye. "Castlelock already sat through one of our routine tax audits last year and walked away with no findings. They keep Grant & Cole on retainer, and their outside counsel is an ex–Department of Justice man. And Leo — this is me speaking off my own ledger."

Her voice dropped. "Upstairs has instructed us to bounce, unread, anything touching companies with that name on it. In effect since last year."

I said nothing for a while. I had expected this. Six years of waiting had never once fooled me into believing there wouldn't be a wall like this one. But having expected it didn't upend my resolve, either.

"I have never heard of, seen, or been told of any such instruction. Who issued it?"

"Leo, knowing that is how you get hurt."

Margo put her glasses back on. "I'm talking you out of it because I hate the thought of you wasted. Your name carries real weight inside this headquarters building right now — the Director himself has his eye on you. Keep this pace for three more years and you might genuinely wrestle a section-chief seat at headquarters. But lay a hand on that company, and I'll guarantee you this: three months from now, Internal Investigations. Four months from now, you're doing circuits of some district office out in the boonies."

"Team Leader."

I picked the application back up.

"What?"

"I'm withdrawing the request to open an investigation."

Her face lit up for one brief instant. I folded the application in half and slid it into my inside pocket — and then, regrettably, I had to go and crease her expression right back up.

"Instead, I'll pursue it as my own side matter."

The Internal Revenue Service has one rather entertaining rule. An investigator like me can, entirely alone, slap a levy on somebody's account this very day. Naturally, that requires supporting documents and approval from above — but those were overflowing across my desk by now, so no worries there. What's more, having walked every lawful step to its end and then stood before my senior, she had, in the end, no choice but to grant it.

"To start, I intend to make those bastards' accounts choke on what they owe. Just give me the authorization. I'm running this one ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠separately, so nothing serious can splash back onto you, Team Leader."

"Leo..."

Feigning blindness to the stricken look on Margo's face, I went back to my desk.

"Sara."

"Yes!" She popped up from behind the partition.

"Of yesterday's six subcontractors, which one was the oldest?"

"Keller Staffing Solutions. Registered in 2011. All the rest were created within the last three years."

"Pull its filing history."

"Already pulled." Sara handed over the printouts with a face full of pride. Not bad at all.

I took the stack. Quarterly payroll tax returns — headcount, total wages, amounts withheld. A bundle of documents dense with information. And the moment I turned the first page—

A red dot popped up. Just one this time. One blindingly clear dot. It swelled into an arrow, plunged straight down the page, and buried itself in the box marked amount paid.

I drew a breath. The ability only indicates direction. The rest, I have to read myself. I flicked out a pen and began combing through the figures.

Second quarter of last year. Eighty-four employees. Total wages: three million one hundred thousand dollars. Reported withholding: four hundred forty thousand. And what was actually remitted?

Twelve thousand dollars. That's it.

...Vile. Genuinely vile.

I punched at the calculator. In truth, thanks to the ability, most of the numbers dissolved into understanding the instant I saw them — there was no real need to punch anything. But Sara was watching, so I punched anyway.

"One million, five hundred fifty-five thousand, four hundred dollars."

"Sorry — what?"

"With penalties and interest, closer to one point eight seven million. That's what Keller Staffing cheated out of the treasury. Embezzlement aside, that is."

Sara all but snatched the documents out of my hands and checked the page I'd been reading, her eyes flicking left and right. "...How do you know that just by looking?"

"I'm quick with arithmetic."

"You told Mr. Marchetti the same thing yesterday!"

"Well. It happens to be true."

Sara held the papers against her chest and stared at me — then abruptly shot to her feet. "Um. Leo?"

"What."

"I went to graduate school for taxation, you ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠know. My grades weren't bad, either."

"And?"

"And I'm starting to think everything I believed I'd mastered was one giant misunderstanding."

Her face was honestly, thoroughly crestfallen. "Now I finally get why people call you what they call you."

"Where's this coming from? What do people call me?"

"'If Leo gets his hooks in you, it's over.' That one."

"Ah. That old chestnut?"

A laugh escaped me. I closed the binder and rose from my seat.

"Pull the personal file on Keller Staffing's CEO. Randall Keller. Address, bank accounts, vehicles titled in his name, any corporations under his wife's name — all of it."

"Him personally? This is a corporate delinquency..."

"Money withheld from workers' paychecks can't hide behind the business. The individual's liability is written in black and white."

"That's the principle, sure, but... whew. This is going to turn out fine, right?"

"You're still underestimating the IRS, you know. The agency you're standing inside at this very moment is more powerful than anything else in America. So don't be scared."

© Kim Okji #1v8mj