Chasing Frost by Isabel Jolie
Two
Sadie
Sunday afternoon, I ring the buzzer on a nondescript Park Avenue office building. The basement row is filled with small offices for a variety of medical practices, such as physical therapy and chiropractor services. A small index card taped on the outside touts the therapeutic benefits of massage and the hours for unit 6A. Above the offices, condos reside.
The buzzer rings, and I look into the camera above the panel. A man’s voice comes through the speaker.
“Yes?”
“Frost here.”
The buzzer sounds, and I lift the stainless-steel handle and push on the door with one last glance down the wide city street. At the end of the hall, toward the back of the building, is the office the FBI occasionally uses for meeting up with undercover operatives. I won’t return to the NYC field office until I’m off this case, to ensure my cover isn’t blown.
Agent Hopkins opens the door before I reach it. He holds his hand out. “Agent Keating.”
His voice is low, and no one is in the hall, probably even in any of these offices given it’s a Sunday, but all the same, I’d prefer he not use my real name. But what do I know? This is my first undercover case.
I step past him into the small room. There’s a square faux wood table, four black standard office chairs, and several cabinets along two walls. The office has no window, and I happen to know it has reinforced soundproof walls. It’s a discreet, protected meeting place. A door to a bathroom is in the far corner, near the small hotel-like kitchenette, with a microwave, Keurig, and mini-fridge.
“How’d last night go?”
I pull out the nearest black chair and set my folder and notepad on the table.
“No issues. McLoughlin raised over three million. Impressive haul.” His blank expression tells me this is not news to him. “Evan Mitchell introduced me to several key players. He had me seated at a table with many of the accountants.” The balding middle-aged Chief Financial Officer had been nice enough. Tall with a noticeable slouch and a wide girth.
“Anyone of interest yet?”
“No one not already on our radar. None of the employees I met said anything of relevance to the case. I got the feeling Tom Bennett’s wife might be having an affair with Chase Maitlin.” The tall, skinny Chief Executive Officer had barely acknowledged my existence, so any conversation hadn’t been possible.
“Really?” This seems to amuse Agent Hopkins as much as anything, based on the smirk on his face. Men.
“I don’t have any evidence. But she acted like a woman defending her lover when I came around. She couldn’t keep her hands off Maitlin, and her husband was in the room. I never noticed Bennett watching them, though, so either he doesn’t care, or I might be off track. All of Bennett’s attention centered on Senator McLoughlin.” The Illinois senator starred as the biggest celebrity in the room. Bennett was hardly the only attendee clamoring for the charismatic Senator’s attention. “I didn’t get a good read on Maitlin. He sat at the table with all the executives, including Bennett and Mitchell. I found that interesting because when looking at the org chart, I wouldn’t have expected he’d be seated with all the bigwigs.” It wasn’t difficult to see why Mrs. Bennett would seek Maitlin out. He was a good-looking guy. He didn’t seem to be returning her interest, but doing so at an event with her husband present would be the height of stupidity. And, even though Maitlin didn’t appear to be attracted to her, he did give her more attention than her spouse.
“Who all was at Maitlin’s table?”
I push my summary to him. He’s also got it uploaded on the intranet.
“Cooper Grayson, John Fischer, and their wives. All Chicago business executives. There was another guy I hadn’t seen before who was there without a date. His name is Elijah Mason.”
“Yeah, we’re looking into him. He owns a medical supply business.”
“Did you check to see if he’s a Stanford alum? That seems to be a connection between all of them.”
Operation Quagmire initially started as a public corruption investigation into Senator McLoughlin. The senator is a rising political star and a Chicago bigwig with ties far and wide. As the Chicago public corruption team uncovered more about his business dealings, the operation expanded to include investigating an additional business, a real estate development group. Coincidentally, that business is also owned by a Stanford alum and close friend of the senator.
“Elijah Mason’s name didn’t come up in the alumni directory. His business is a major contributor to the McLoughlin Charity, and the charity is one of their big clients. One more circular business. McLoughlin remembers his friends. You set in your new apartment?”
“Yes.” I transferred to the New York field office one week ago. I’d been tempted to use my real apartment during this operation. This is a white-collar crime case, and it’s unlikely anyone’s going to be following me home to ensure I am who I say I am. But it turns out the FBI apartment is somewhat close to Maitlin’s place, and he’s our prime suspect. Being in close proximity could allow for some impromptu run-ins.
When I met Chase last night, he didn’t strike me as a criminal. However, dating his boss’s wife would be indicative of low integrity and poor judgment. And, as we all know, criminals don’t have a look. They come in all shapes and sizes.
My job, in this case, is to determine who within BB&E Accounting is responsible for falsifying records. Operation Quagmire has uncovered that several of the senator’s largest campaign donations come from companies his charity buys from, whether it’s land, pharmaceutical drugs, or even patents. Senator McLoughlin has granted over $30 million in state projects to one of the real estate groups. And his charity, in turn, has bought renovated real estate at above market prices. They each feed the other. As Hopkins said, it’s circular.
This started as a corruption case, with suspicion that the charity was being leveraged for funneling campaign funds and potentially illegitimate payments to the senator. The Chicago team discovered falsified financial records that impact several companies, not just the senator’s charity. It’s a convoluted case, and I’m still getting my head around it as the newest member on the team.
The DA wants to go after the guilty BB&E employees, the ones responsible for falsifying the financial records. The “how” piece will strengthen his case. But, in the DA’s words, he doesn’t “want another Enron.” He’s not going to charge thousands of employees with misconduct as they did in that case. He wants to know exactly who the individual culprits are.
The FBI has one contact within BB&E Accounting—Evan Mitchell, the soft-spoken balding man who took me around introducing me to everyone. A small team met with him to disclose the suspected fraud. He was apparently distraught when informed illegal activity might be going on within his company. He offered up filling a currently vacant role within the company with an undercover agent. The FBI team hadn’t been angling for an undercover agent. They really were looking to get his take and to hopefully gain access to firm records.
But I was told Mitchell seemed so eager to find any bad apple within the company, the FBI special agent in charge agreed to the undercover idea. I expect Michell sees participating with the FBI in a covert operation as a way to avoid BB&E going up in flames from a public investigation on an Arthur Anderson scale.
“What did you think of Mitchell?”
“No red flags.” The guy seemed like any middle-aged dad. He showed me photos of his kids.
“Good.” Hopkins fiddles with his laptop. “Did you get the sense he’s trustworthy?”
I did sense he was handling me with kid gloves last night as he led me around the gala, introducing me to BB&E employees. Not that that’s unexpected. People generally find FBI investigations enthralling. I could be wrong, but I’m fairly certain he kept glancing at my gown, trying to determine if I was carrying a concealed weapon. And I was not. There was no need. This isn’t that kind of case.
“I didn’t trust him enough to tell him anything he hasn’t already been told.”
I am certified for undercover, but this is my first case. I wasn’t with Evan Mitchell long enough to make any kind of personality assessment. My specialty is forensic accounting. A different guy on my team probably would’ve gotten this assignment, but his wife’s due in the next month or two, plus I’m new to the team and to the city, so less chance of being recognized out and about. It’s a good case for me to transition to the New York office. And it should be a short undercover stint.
Agent Hopkins lifts a black computer bag onto the table and unzips it.
“BB&E will give you a company computer with access to its network. You’ve already received your identity documents, correct?”
“Yes.” He’s fully aware I received my identification with my undercover name, Sydney Frost, last Friday when I was assigned this role. “I wish they’d let me be Sydney Bristow. Would’ve been so much cooler.” Sydney Bristow from the TV show Alias is one of my all-time favorite undercover operatives.
“Am I the only one who thinks Sydney Frost sounds like a made-up name?” Agent Hopkins asks the question in a teasing tone, his body language indicating he’s ready to wrap up this Sunday afternoon meeting.
I don’t offer a response to his question. So many names in the world. They only sound off to us because we’re trained to pay attention to details. Not many people out there would hear someone’s name and think undercover agent.
“Ready for tomorrow? Anything you need? The warrants cleared, and we’ve planted listening devices. Surveillance has begun.”
I can’t think of anything. To start, I won’t be wearing a wire. One less thing to worry about. Goosebumps spread on my arms, and I hope Hopkins doesn’t notice. My first undercover role. It’s a pretty straightforward plan. I’m filling the role of the CIA, or certified internal auditor, for the firm. I fully expect that as I home in on these accounts that I know have cooked books, I’ll be able to pick up on some discomfort level from the guilty parties. And, with network access, I’ll be able to see who is accessing the files for these firms the most.
When I was a kid, my sister and I would play secret agents. We’d bullet point our plans as if they were a shopping list.
Find evidence
Break into bad guy den (which we’d built ourselves)
Call chief (who was a plant pot with a smiley face)
Solve case
Put bad guys away
I zip up my laptop bag and think of this case in the same childish fashion.
Fill in the role of a certified internal auditor (CIA) for the firm
Home in on accounts with cooked books
Look out for guilty parties
Use network access to observe who is most often accessing the files for these two firms
Identify said guilty parties - A.K.A. Catch the bad guys
If I do my job well, I’ll make the case stronger. We’re dealing with a sitting US senator and several wealthy CEOs, so the prosecutor’s case needs to be airtight. These men will hire a stellar defense team.
Agent Hopkins lightly taps his pen on the table as I prepare to leave.
“Is it true you were Top Gun?”
“Yes, sir.” My claim to FBI fame. It’s a Quantico honor. I hoist my bag over my shoulder. Respect flashes across his features. Then he’s back to business.
“Anything suspicious, let me know. If at any point you don’t feel comfortable, you get out. You understand?”
I refrain from rolling my eyes, but internally, they’re doing three-sixties.
“Got it.” I give him a reassuring smile. It’s white-collar crime at an accounting firm. And I caught our prime suspect checking me out multiple times during dinner last night. He didn’t come across as overly confident, as he’d look away quickly when I returned his gaze. Our covert glances back and forth almost became a game. The classic black tuxedo complimented his broad shoulders. It wasn’t exactly a hardship to throw a few flirty glances his way. And the fact that doing so seemed to piss off that socialite Mrs. Bennett made it borderline fun.
“You know, now that I think about it, look into Mrs. Bennett too.”
“What’re you thinking?” Hopkins asks, pen in the air.
“It’s a hunch. I don’t think her marriage is a happy one. Or at least, if it is, it’s an open arrangement. The woman was dripping in diamonds. I know you’d normally check into her background anyway when looking into him, but I’m curious which one of them is the money source.”
“You got it. We’re already working on accessing financial records for all the executives.”
There’s something about Mrs. Bennett. The other wives weren’t particularly noteworthy.
We’re almost positive Tom Bennett, another Stanford alum and close friend of McLoughlin’s, is orchestrating the falsifying of the financial records. But the chances that the CEO is doing it all on his own are slim. He’s got to have at least one employee in on it. We strongly suspect that person is Maitlin, as he’s the client relationship manager on all the accounts we are investigating.
“Does Mitchell know you’ve bugged the office?”
“Yes. He offered it up. Well, he doesn’t know where we placed devices. He said he wanted to work with the FBI in every way possible. Why?”
“Tom Bennett and Evan Mitchell are close friends. I saw that last night. And they both went to Stanford. Did no one find that to be a risk?”
“Agent Blakely swears by Evan Mitchell. A personal friend. But we’ve put bugs in Mitchell’s office too. Blakely has us doing full surveillance for insurance.” Agent Blakely is the SPIC, or special agent in charge, on Operation Quagmire. He works out of the Chicago office.
This really should be a simple case. If Maitlin’s guilty, I’ll figure it out quickly. And, if we’re wrong, I’ll flip him and recruit him to help us catch the bad guys.
My goal is to have this case closed out in less than two weeks. I transferred to this field office in the hopes of building a more fulfilling life outside of work. Undercover is hardly a step toward meeting my personal goals.
When I push open the door to the FBI apartment on King Street, my new short-term home, it feels like I’m stepping onto a movie set. As one would expect, the team did a good job setting it up. It could be any single person’s New York one-bedroom apartment. The wear and tear on the end of the sofa arms suggest the furniture is rental. One sofa, one side chair, one coffee table, two sofa end tables, two matching lamps, a queen bed in the bedroom, one dresser, and one side table. I can envision the rental form and the checked boxes beside the rooms of furniture.
They didn’t fill it up with photos, as my cover role has no family and no boyfriend, and I shouldn’t have a need to entertain anyone here. They did hang landscape poster art, so at least I’m not stuck staring at blank white walls.
I pull out my laptop to review my cover story one last time before I fall asleep tonight. As a new employee, most likely I’ll be meeting a lot of people and could face a variety of random questions about my past. Where I came from, when I moved, how I found my apartment. I need to be consistent.
My phone rings. My personal phone sees little activity. I hesitate then read the screen. Aaron. I don’t particularly want to talk to my ex. We haven’t talked in weeks. But it might be important. I pull my legs up under me and answer before it goes to voicemail.
“Aaron, hi.”
“I heard you’re working UC now?”
“Yes. In New York.”
“What the hell?”
“What do you mean?” I ask at the same time I notice my blinds are open and people from the building across the street can probably see me sitting on the sofa.
“I work undercover.”
“Yes.”
“You know relationships don’t work when both partners are undercover. We’ll never see each other.”
I hold my phone out and look at the screen as if it’s going to divine answers. Then I put it back to my ear.
“Aaron. We broke up.”
“That was temporary. Until I finished this case.”
“You’ve been on this case for over six months.”
“And so what? You’re walking away?”
“Aaron. I moved. I now live in New York.”
“It doesn’t matter where you live. I don’t have that much time off between cases, anyway. Unless you meant it this time? We’re done?”
I exhale, searching for strength. “Aaron, yes, I meant it.”
“Sadie, are you asking me to stop working undercover?”
“No. No, I’m not. You love working undercover. But I didn’t love us. And I especially didn’t appreciate you telling everyone about us.”
“That really pissed you off?”
I grit my teeth, refusing to get into this with him again. I worked hard to get where I am. The FBI is accepting of women. But that doesn’t mean dating a colleague was a smart choice. Aaron didn’t understand. Told me I was being sensitive.
“How long’s your op?”
“Indeterminate.” As if I’m going to tell him anything. “Who told you I’m UC now?”
Typical Aaron, he disregards my question. “When we’re both off our cases, let’s take a weekend. Talk. Don’t take another case until then.”
“There’s nothing to talk about. We’re done.”
“I’ve been calling you every month. I’ve been calling you instead of my mom.”
“Here is why that piece of information is disturbing. One, in all those conversations, I never had any clue you still thought we were dating. Not one. Think on that, Aaron. And call your mother.”
I end the call. Angry at him…and myself. Him for opening his mouth and making me uncomfortable in the D.C. office. Me for putting up with him for as long as I did. The man is emotionally barren.
Wait. When was the last time I spoke to my mother? Or father? I check the time. Pot, kettle. It’s too late to call them now. But it’s not too late to call my little sis.
She answers on the first ring.
“Sadie? Are you okay?”
“Yes. Why wouldn’t I be?”
“I don’t know. You don’t usually call me. And it’s late here.” I hear music in the background.
“Are you out?”
“Yeah, wait, I’ll go outside.”
“No, it’s okay. I’ll let you go hang with your friends.” She’s in college. She should be out enjoying herself. She’s in Cambridge, so it’s quite late her time, but she’s a big girl.
“Well, tell me why you called?”
She knows me. If I call, I have a reason.
“Aaron called.”
“Let me guess. He’s back in D.C., and he wants you back. For the weekend.”
“Well, not exactly. I moved to New York last week.”
“What?” Her shriek pierces my eardrum.
“Go back to your friends.”
“When were you going to tell me you moved to a different city?”
“Now. I called you. Remember? Now, call me tomorrow.” Then I remember I’ll be working and won’t have my personal phone with me. “Scratch that. I’ll call you.”
“Don’t forget.”
“I won’t. Promise.”