The Black Tortoise Read online

  Copyright © 2017 Ronald Tierney

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system now known or to be invented, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  Tierney, Ronald, author

  The black tortoise / Ronald Tierney.

  (Rapid reads)

  Issued in print and electronic formats.

  ISBN 978-1-4598-1240-6 (paperback).—ISBN 978-1-4598-1241-3 (pdf).—ISBN 978-1-4598-1242-0 (epub)

  I. Title. II. Series: Rapid reads

  PS3570.I3325B53 2017 813'.54 C2016-904531-5

  C2016-904532-3

  First published in the United States, 2017

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2016950244

  Summary: In this work of crime fiction, forensic accountant Peter Strand investigates an arts-oriented nonprofit. (RL 4.8)

  Orca Book Publishers gratefully acknowledges the support for its publishing programs provided by the following agencies: the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund and the Canada Council for the Arts, and the Province of British Columbia through the BC Arts Council and the Book Publishing Tax Credit.

  Cover design by Jenn Playford

  Cover photography by iStock.com

  ORCA BOOK PUBLISHERS

  www.orcabook.com

  I heard the water lapping at the pilings.

  I went to the edge and looked over. To my

  surprise there was a large tortoise—more

  likely a turtle, since it was at home in the sea.

  Its dark, shiny shell might have been five feet

  long. When our eyes met, it disappeared.

  CONTENTS

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ONE

  I’m a little bit of a puzzle, I’m afraid. I look Chinese. That’s because I’m half Chinese and half Cherokee. Unfortunately, I never knew my parents, a story for later maybe. I was adopted by an elderly white couple from Phoenix. I speak English, no Chinese. But in keeping with the stereotype, I’m very good at math. I became an accountant, one who specializes in forensic accounting. This means I investigate criminals, people who try to cook the books. I also acquired a private investigator’s license when I moved to San Francisco.

  I’ve never met Mr. Lehr, though he is my major client. I talk to him on the phone or we converse by email. He is an important man in the city. He owns a lot of property, from which he earns a handsome living. I help him by looking into his investments for signs of fraud, embezzlement or kickbacks—any criminal behavior tied to the handling of money. My private investigator’s license allows me to look into past behavior and associations of people with whom Mr. Lehr does or might do business.

  I was talking to him when a riotous band of wild parrots swooped into a berry-bearing tree outside my bedroom deck. They screeched as they battled over the fruit. I barely heard Mr. Lehr, who was speaking in low tones, obviously trying not to be overheard.

  “Strand, listen,” he said in a gravelly whisper. “You know the Fog City Arts Center?”

  I did. From what I could remember, the center was on a couple of old piers off the Embarcadero along the San Francisco Bay. The buildings housed a couple of theaters and major exhibition space.

  “I’m on their board,” Lehr said. “Some crazy shit is going on down here. The staff is ready to mutiny. I told the board you’d go down, look into things.”

  “What things?”

  “The crazy stuff. You need to see Madeline Creighton. She’s the executive director. So arrange things and straighten it out.”

  How was I to know the crazy shit he mentioned was Madeline Creighton?

  The business offices of the Black Tortoise Foundation were toward the end of one of two long piers that jutted into San Francisco Bay. I walked along the edge of one of the piers, a distance longer than a football field. The water was choppy. A fleet of pelicans flew in a V-formation within a few feet of the entrance at the far end, where I stood for a moment to get my bearings. I thought about the disorderly parrots, comparing them to the disciplined pelicans and their flight.

  I had to wait. Mrs. Madeline Creighton wasn’t quite ready for me. As it turned out, I wasn’t quite ready for Madeline. She was tall, all bones, cosmetics and jewelry. She jangled when she walked or motioned with her heavily braceleted wrists. When she spoke, every pause turned into a pose, as if she expected to be photographed. I sat in front of her grand desk in a low-slung chair. The setup was designed so the guest would have to look up to her. The walls were covered with photographs of Mrs. Creighton with celebrities from the stage, screen and politics.

  “I don’t have time to bother with these petty problems,” she said, her hands flung wide in dismissal. “You need to talk with Emelio,” she said.

  “Who is Emelio?” I asked.

  “The money man,” she said. “That’s what all this foolishness is about, isn’t it?”

  “That is correct. Mr. Lehr talked to you about this?”

  “Yes.” She smiled. “He said that you were Chinese and very good with numbers.”

  “He’s half right.”

  “Where in China?”

  “Phoenix.”

  “Where are your parents from?” she asked. Her tone was stern. She didn’t like to be played with.

  “Scottsdale.” I decided not to make it easy for her. “Now if you’ll direct me to the money man, I’ll take my abacus and go.”

  “Mr. Salazar?

  “Emelio,” he said.

  His clothes were not expensive. His shirt, a little too brightly colored for my taste, was open at the neck, showing a tuft of hair and a gold chain with a cross.

  We shook hands, and I was guided to a small table where we sat across from each other.

  “You’re the money man, she said.”

  “Madeline prefers to deal with creative people. To her, money is dirty unless you have a lot of it and might give it to her. Having to count it is pedestrian.”

  Emelio Salazar’s office was quite different from Madeline Creighton’s. It was furnished with desks and chairs from discount stores, as most nonprofits are. There was a lonely orchid on a file cabinet near the window. A seagull, obviously traveling alone, effortlessly glided by outside the window. I looked around while Emelio fiddled with his computer. Not only were there no celebrity photos—there were no photos at all. Nothing personal. Nothing revealing.

  He printed out a page and handed it to me. It was the organization chart. He explained that the foundation, Black Tortoise, managed the Fog City Arts Center for the city’s Port Commission. After the costs of running it were deducted from the revenue, the net income went to the commission. It used these funds to maintain the two piers—seismic safety and repair of damage done by water, wind and salt. It was very expensive to keep these old piers from falling apart.

  “What are the revenue streams?”

  “Rent mostly,” he said. “Organizations rent the theaters and the exhibition hall. The space can be divided up into almost any size for conferences, art shows, fund-raising events, celebratory dinners. We contract by amount of space and number of days.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Donations, endowments, as well as interest on investments and the endowments. We’re allowed to keep an operating fund that exceeds our anticipat
ed needs. The board members make annual contributions, mostly token. We provide services—equipment, box office and so on—and take a cut of the client’s revenue.”

  “And you look after it all?” I asked. It was more complicated than I thought.

  “I reconcile accounts payable and receivable.”

  “Payable includes payroll, I’m sure. What else?”

  “Certainly that’s included. We also pay for catering services for our clients—we bill them for the cost of the service plus a markup. That’s both payable and receivable. We also have to pay for things like a new boiler or to fix a roof. Money comes in, money goes out. I count it.”

  “And you are audited?”

  “An outside firm. And we pass with flying colors. I’m always prepared. I’m proud of that. In fact, the audit firm often sends its junior auditors to us, because, for all practical purposes, I help train them.”

  “You are a CPA?” I asked. It wasn’t a requirement for being a director of finance.

  “Yes. Passed all four tests first time through.”

  The tests were comparable to passing the bar for lawyers.

  “Would you give me access to the financials for the last two years?” I asked him.

  He didn’t blink. “Sure. I can make some disks for you tonight, get them to you tomorrow.”

  “Emelio, aren’t you one bit curious about who I am, what I’m looking for and why I’m looking for it?”

  “What I know is that Mad Madeline has an enemy—one of many, I suspect—on the board, and he sent you to make sure everything is legal. I’m fine with that.” He scribbled something on a sticky note and gave it to me. “I’m having an open house tomorrow. My lover and I have a new house, and it’s finally ready to show.” Emelio touched my hand. “No gifts. There’ll be plenty of food and drink. A few members of the staff and some friends. Drop in. I’ll introduce you around, and I’ll have what you want ready for you. If you get bored, you can sneak out with the disks. Who knows? Maybe Mr. or Ms. Right will be there. Unless you’re already caught, you’d be quite a catch for someone.”

  Thank goodness being a nerd was no longer totally unfashionable.

  TWO

  I sat outside on my deck with a glass of wine and used Google Maps to find the home Emelio and his friend had just purchased. It was snuggled between Diamond Heights and Twin Peaks. Not a bad neighborhood, but then, there are few bad neighborhoods in San Francisco these days. Even so, this was quite a home for the employee of a nonprofit foundation of Black Tortoise’s size, even a director of finance. There were possible explanations. Emelio’s lover could be well heeled. Maybe Emelio’s family was wealthy. Maybe he’d won the lottery. But an expensive home is always a red flag.

  I emailed Emelio and asked if he could insert in his package a list of employees, Madeline included. I requested their job descriptions and salaries. I also asked for bios of senior staff. I wasn’t sure what I was looking for, so I wasn’t at all sure where to focus my investigation.

  The open house was a catered affair—all Mediterranean cuisine, appropriate for the exceptionally sunny and warm San Francisco day. Emelio led me up the steps to an open living space filled with chattering guests holding wineglasses.

  “Let me give you the tour first,” Emelio said.

  It didn’t take long. The house was smaller than I’d imagined from the outside. There were only two bedrooms up. The ground floor, where I had entered, contained another bedroom and the garage, where a plain Honda Civic was parked. The two bedrooms were pleasant but had the feeling of a staged home. In no bedroom were there any telltale signs of real inhabitants. No photos of family or vacations, no books, nothing eccentric, nothing purely sentimental. There was no sense that real people living real lives lived here.

  The home, as was increasingly the case in the city’s newer houses, had been designed to feature the kitchen. And the kitchen was something to behold. I’m not an expert on kitchens, but I knew the appliance brands were high-end. The countertop was marble.

  “I’ve had to do nothing. A house in financial distress—I got it for a song. But look at these floors!” He was exuberant and conspiratorial at the same time. It was true though. On the second level, the floors in all the rooms were covered in the same dark, expensive-looking hardwood.

  “Oh, I lied,” he said, touching my arm as we came back through the kitchen and the chattering guests. “I replaced the sink. It was aluminum. And aluminum smudges so easily. And the water marks! Every splatter, every drop. It drove me crazy.”

  If he had said the kitchen had never been used, I would have believed him. Everything was so tidy—even the trash containers, which were strategically placed for the guests. They were lined with black trash bags and tied in place with white ribbons.

  “Do I get to meet your…” I stumbled, searching for the word. Was it companion, lover, husband, other half ? “Partner?” I should have been used to this by now. This is the most liberated city in the country. As an Arizona transplant I was surprised at the guests. I had expected an abundance of gays and lesbians, given Emelio’s flamboyant manner. But looking at the diversity of the attendees, it could have been a meeting of the United Nations.

  Emelio gave me a practiced sad face. He moved closer, almost nose to nose, his eyes on mine as if we had been best friends forever.

  “We had a little spat, and, well, Patrick was too upset to deal with all these people. Speaking of people, let me introduce you to some of the guests. Many of them are from work, and you’ll want to talk with them anyway.”

  He took my arm and led me to an athletic-looking man wearing a coral-colored golf shirt. “This is Craig Anglim and his friend Mira. Craig is the director of sales and marketing.”

  I shook hands. Craig had blond and gray curly hair. His companion was in a short black gown complementing her short, very black hair. “They have three lovely children,” Emelio added. He stepped back and looked at me. “Peter is a consultant for someone interested in how Fog City Arts Center operates.”

  Craig Anglim looked puzzled, but he didn’t follow up. We all smiled our goodbyes as I was taken to a short fiftyish woman with cropped silver hair. Marguerite Woodson. She wore jeans and a sweatshirt.

  “Marge, this is Peter,” Emelio said. Marge didn’t look happy. “Marge is in charge of operations.” Then, to her: “Peter is checking out our auditors, so he’ll be going over the books.”

  “About time,” Marge said.

  “Marge is an architect and oversees all major construction, repairs and so on.” She gave me a civil smile and him a scowl.

  “She’s a tough old bird,” Emelio said as we moved on. “She and Mad Madeline are destined for a serious collision.”

  “Why?”

  “Marge is all about safety and preserving the historic features of the structure. Madeline is all about how things look and not spending money if you can’t see what the money bought. Kind of like the way straight men feel about buying underwear and socks.

  “One more,” Emelio continued, leading me toward an attractive, young woman with long blond hair. Her Latin-looking male companion wore a blazer, white shirt and jeans. A kind of casual, non-revealing, socially acceptable uniform, much like mine.

  “This is Vanessa Medder and her friend Jorge Medina. Vanessa is our client liaison. She’s involved with all the events that take place at the center while they are happening. She keeps our clients happy.”

  “And everyone else,” said someone from a nearby group of guests.

  Jorge Medina said something in Spanish to Emelio. They both laughed.

  “Jorge is one of those Silicon Valley guys. A programming genius. Be nice to him. He can make a computer do anything he wants. He’ll be a billionaire in no time.”

  Medina smiled broadly, extending his hand.

  Emelio turned to present me.

  “Peter has been hired to go over our procedures to make sure we are as efficient and productive as we can be.”

  “Nice
to meet you,” I said to the couple, and to Emelio I said I needed to be on my way and that I had a lot to do before Monday.

  We moved toward the stairs.

  “I didn’t see Madeline,” I said.

  “She wouldn’t have come. No one important in attendance. Besides, if she showed up, the party would be over. She isn’t exactly beloved.” Emelio took a deep breath. “What do you think of Jorge? Gorgeous, isn’t he?”

  “They make quite a couple,” I said.

  “A walk on the wild side, if you ask me,” Emelio said. He raised his eyebrows in what he was imagining as a meeting of like-minded souls. “Sizzle,” he said. “I can’t imagine what goes on in their bedroom.” He grinned. Touched my forearm. “Oh yes I can—and do. You are too quiet, Peter.”

  Emelio wasn’t going to give up on pigeonholing me. It killed him not to know. For some reason that gave me pleasure. I looked back at the crowd. Vanessa was whispering something in Jorge’s ear. If they were sweet nothings, his serious expression didn’t show it.

  “Wait here,” Emelio said, leaving me at the top of the stairs.

  He was gone for only a second. He returned with a large expandable file. He handed it to me as if he were handing me the secrets of the Da Vinci Code.

  “You told each of them a different story about why I am here,” I told him.

  “I did, didn’t I? It will give them a lot to talk about.” He laughed. He was in good spirits for someone whose lover had just walked out on him. “Patrick will be sorry he missed you.”

  “Nice house,” I said. Despite the brevity of my visit, I had accomplished quite a bit, thanks to Emelio Salazar, who seemed to be able to read my mind.

  “Thank you. See you Monday.”

  THREE

  Much like Emelio’s, my home was relatively modern in a city full of Victorian and Edwardian homes. I had two floors, each one with a deck that had dramatic views of the city. I was able to purchase it largely because I did so years ago, through the generosity of my stepparents and what was left to me in the will of my stepfather, who was last to die. I could maintain it because of the regular paycheck from my best and most demanding client, Mr. Lehr. Never mind that I had put myself in a position of well-paid slave.