X - Chapter Nineteen "The Thirty Percent Solution"

 

"The Thirty Percent Solution"

Chapter Nineteen 

      “There’s nothing worse than an investigation when you don’t know what you’re investigating. There’s nothing worse . . .” 

      It was four in the afternoon, and Vince DuBois was seated alone at a table in the Starbucks in the lobby of a glass tower on 53rd Street. He was wearing a dark business suit, white dress shirt and tie. He had placed his dark-gray fedora on the table. The Starbucks was almost empty; only one other table was occupied, by two young women, chatting and giggling. 

      As he shook his head, DuBois repeated the phrase over and over to himself. “There’s nothing worse than . . . .” As an FBI special agent, he admitted this assignment had turned into a problem. There was a lot of waiting and little clarity. And then the surprise. The head of Winshire Associates, Theodore Merritt, had been found dead in his office.  

      It was one of those cases that had a dubious beginning. It started with a tip reported by the FBI’s San Jose office. A technical consultant from Silicon Valley had walked into the office; it appeared he knew one of the agents because he was granted rapid access and full credibility. The consultant said his firm, Winshire Associates, was planning a scheme to cheat its clients, to extract money through unjustified charges. The consultant didn’t know the legalese, but it appeared wrong. DuBois knew the legalese, and it appeared to be a case of conspiracy for fraud. 

      The case bounced to the U.S. Attorney’s office in San Francisco, and then bounced again to the U. S. Attorney for the Southern District of New York, and then bounced one more time to the FBI and Special Agent Vince DuBois. 

      DuBois followed SOP, the procedure he’d honored his entire FBI career. He conducted document and personnel searches, many on line but also from FBI files and from other government agencies. There was a pattern developing, a pattern DuBois had seen before: An uncontrollable desire for more power and money. With that as DuBois’ hypothesis, Theodore Merritt appeared at the center of it.

     But with Merritt’s death, DuBois was sure the bean counters in the U.S. Attorney-SDNY’s offices would want to close the case. DuBois was already lining up his arguments for pursuing the case: Conspiracies by definition include numerous parties. But more important, DuBois believed, big management consulting companies were gaining more and more influence and income; they should recognize that regulators and law enforcement were watching them. 

      Now, DuBois realized that proving the case would be more difficult and that his superiors would be following his investigation more closely. He saw the risks, and he was willing to gamble. 

-0-

      As a kid in Los Angeles, Vincent DuBois had been fascinated with science and mechanical devices. On graduating from high school, he decided to study mechanical engineering at Caltech. With his degree, he had his choice of positions with several major industrial companies. But he decided he wanted to see more of the world before getting on the corporate treadmill. Surprising his family and friends, he enlisted in the Army’s counter-intelligence program and served in the Counter-Intelligence Corps in Paris for three years. Back in the States and full of self-confidence, he sought excitement. After a long vetting process, DuBois was accepted by the FBI for its New York City office. But advancement was slow and competition agile. After ten years, he made Special Agent, but he didn’t climb up the hierarchy to greater responsibility. He admitted some fault; he was often opinionated and occasionally obstinate. 

      Then, just ten years ago, DuBois’ life changed radically. A close friend convinced him to give up the hermit’s life and join a group of friends for dinner in Little Italy with some models. DuBois ended up sitting across the table from a stunning blonde; her name was Leigh Woods, and she teased him about his typical French name. Loosened up by two glasses of Chianti, DuBois teased her back and told her that they – in fact – had the same surnames, only in different languages. With more wine and servings of pasta in marinara sauce, DuBois realized that Leigh Woods was not only beautiful; she also had a natural ease and sense of humor, and she had an incisive mind and was studying sociology at NYU. On his way out, DuBois tossed two twenties at his close friend, and he and Ms. Woods snuck away from the boisterous party to have cannoli and cappuccino at a discreet pastry shop, and they talked late into the night. 

      Marriage followed only several weeks later, and then the new couple moved from Manhattan to a cute row house in Forest Hills, Queens. DuBois remained a dedicated FBI Special Agent, but his life with Leigh opened up new vistas for him: areas of culture he’d never been interested in, like classical music, even opera, and he enjoyed his new neighbors, and – thanks to Leigh – he enjoyed socializing with a more artsy crowd. Leigh remained popular as a model. But the day she announced she was pregnant, the couple had a new priority: their child. And as Leigh’s condition became more evident, she decided to establish a support group for models, to protect them from sexual harassment and financial exploitation. With the passage of time, Leigh’s support group gained adherents and influence, and their daughter Kelly began to resemble her mother more and more every day.  

      Now, ten years later and increasingly involved in the Winshire investigation, DuBois realized his dilemma. DuBois still wanted to earn greater responsibility in the FBI, and he thought maybe success with the Winshire investigation could help him win it. But then, he saw a parallel between his ambition and the illness he witnessed at Winshire in particular and the New York financial world in general: The obsessive pursuit of wealth and power. 

      And now there was the Jimenez factor. For the last few years, DuBois and Capt. Rafael Jimenez of the NYPD’s Detective Bureau had been assigned to some of the same cases. At first, both of them were defensive of their turf; then they started working out compromises; and finally they became close friends. DuBois learned that Jimenez had already started his investigation of Theodore Merritt’s murder, and the case was sure to attract public notoriety. 

      This time, compromise might not be easy. DuBois knew that Jimenez could be impulsive, and his temper was known to occasionally explode. DuBois was ready to cede the murder case to his friend. DuBois knew that the U.S. Attorney’s office was more interested in the conspiracy for fraud case; and for that, DuBois would have to move fast to seize strong document evidence, an action that could set Jimenez off.  

      And for that, DuBois would have to be a master of diplomacy. And that could mean, DuBois realized, giving up on using the Winshire case for a grand personal triumph to achieve some kind of a promotion in the FBI.  

-0-

       Just after five o’clock, DuBois spotted Michael Stein walking through the open lobby toward the exit. In his investigation so far, he established that Michael Stein – even though he was a new hire – seemed to be in contact with some of the most influential members of Winshire Associates. Quitting work so early was not normal for the competitive world of management consulting. 

      DuBois waited until Stein passed through the bank of revolving doors, stuffed The New York Times into his brief case, and walked briskly toward the door himself. He spotted Stein walking on 53rd Street toward Park Avenue, and followed him. 

      There was no danger that Stein would recognize him, DuBois judged, because his attire was different than days earlier, and a dark business suit was practically a uniform in Midtown. Stein turned right on Park, and – approximately twenty feet behind and hidden by other pedestrians – DuBois made the same turn. At one point, after one block south, DuBois saw Stein turn, survey the people behind him, and then continue walking toward the MetLife building. 

      Approaching the Helmsley Building, the number of pedestrians increased, and DuBois had to decrease the distance between himself and Stein. Still, DuBois judged little danger he’d be recognized. He even had to follow him more closely through the MetLife Building and Grand Central Terminal. Luckily, DuBois caught sight of Stein as he turned left on 42nd Street, and then entered the Grand Hyatt. 

      The Hyatt’s Zen Lobby had its usual mix of tourists and business types, and their number was increasing. DuBois spotted Stein on what passed for sofas – pillows on blocks of marble – with a young blonde woman in a dark business suit. They were engaged in an agitated conversation, but there was a certain distance between them, as if they did not have a close relationship. 

      Interesting, DuBois noticed that other men seemed to go out of their way to walk past the young woman. DuBois saw a space in the crowded lobby open up, and he quickly seized it. He had a better view of Stein and the woman, without being dangerously close. From that vantage point, he saw the reason: The woman was a stunning beauty, with fine features and a slightly open corsage; but more important, she projected a sensuous attraction. 

      DuBois pulled out the newspaper from his brief case and pretended to read. After about ten minutes, he saw Stein nodding his head and then preparing to leave. The woman reached out and grasped Stein’s arm for just seconds. Stein did not respond. Then they rose and walked in different directions, she toward the concierge desk and he toward the 42nd Street exit. 

      DuBois waited a few seconds, then he followed Stein to 42nd Street and to the entrance to Grand Central. At that moment, DuBois gambled. He rushed around the Information booth on the opposite side Stein was taking and quick-stepped toward the escalator to the MetLife Building. He walked as rapidly as he could without attracting attention, back to the lobby with the Starbucks and to the table he had left just little more than an hour earlier. 

      When Mike Stein entered the lobby, DuBois walked straight in his direction, stopped right in front of him, and displayed his FBI identification. 

      Stein stopped. He looked shocked, and said nothing. Then he glanced at the brass shield and the card with DuBois’ photo. 

      Still holding his ID, DuBois said: “I’m Special Agent Vincent DuBois of the FBI. I wonder if you have some time. I’d like to ask you a few questions.”

      Stein looked as though he was gathering his thoughts. “Why? I haven’t done . . .  I’m not . . . . Why?”

      DuBois stowed his ID. “I’m just asking you for your assistance. We’re investigating the events at Winshire Associates. You’re not being accused of anything. I hope this can be simple, but if you want to pursue . . . a more administrative route with a subpoena and all that, we can do that, too.” DuBois stopped for a few seconds.

      “But I promise you, I think I won’t need more than an hour this evening, and I can get you home fast,” DuBois said in a softer tone. “Whadda you say? You’d be helping us.”

      Stein was silent for a few seconds, and then asked, “Can I make two calls, and let two people know where I am?”

      “Yes, absolutely yes.”

      They exited the building, and a black Chevy Tahoe SUV was at the curb. DuBois opened a rear door, and both men took seats. 

      DuBois said, “I think it should take around fifteen minutes to get to our headquarters, up to an hour of talk, maybe less, and then, if you want, we’ll get you home by seven. That sound okay?”

      Stein looked ill at ease. “Okay.”

      The driver started the engine, lowered his window, slapped a Cherry light on the roof, and took off. With the light flashing, the Tahoe cut across Manhattan – in and out of traffic and across the center line a few times – to the FDR Drive south. 

      Stein’s first call was to his wife. “Hi, honey. Just to let you know, I’ve been asked to help the FBI. I think it’s okay. They promise I’ll be home by seven.” Stein nodded his head several times, and then said, “Okay.”

      The second call was to Scott Li: “Scott, I’m being questioned by the FBI. I don’t think I had much of a real choice. I’ll be in the office  . .  . I think it’ll be okay. I’ll be in the office early tomorrow morning.” 

      Stein appeared less tense. He asked DuBois: “Do you know what you want to ask me?” 

      DuBois said, “I think so. You know I can’t predict everything. But two things are important. I don’t plan to use any information that doesn’t have a bearing on this case, and I want to get you home on schedule.” 

      The driver took the Brooklyn Bridge exit, but followed it with a few fast turns and ended up pulling into the underground garage of The Jacob K. Javitz Federal Building. After parking, the three men took the elevator to the 23rd floor, where they whisked past a reception counter and, after DuBois held an electronic pass up to the security lock, he pushed through a steel door, and immediately the three men found themselves in a warren of activity. Agents in shirtsleeves were pushing their way through crowded hallways, or holding ad hoc conferences in doorways. Following DuBois, they advanced to a prearranged interview room with a table, chairs, a few video cameras sticking out of the ceiling and a large mirror on one wall. There were no windows. 

      DuBois led Stein through some formalities. He asked the younger man for his driver’s license to photocopy and a business card, and then to state his Social Security number. DuBois stated his name, and introduced the agent who had driven as Special Agent Warren Owens. 

      Then, DuBois handed Stein a sheet of paper encased in plastic, and asked him to read it aloud. Stein spent a few minutes to read the statement, and then read it aloud. “I hereby attest that I am in the offices of the FBI of my own free will, and I am voluntarily allowing myself to be interviewed.” Then he asked Stein if the “FBI Tech Team could check Stein’s computer and phone, and Stein said yes. 

      DuBois said there were other formalities they didn’t have to go through, because he had already determined Stein’s home address, his employment, his job title and his work history. Then, he asked Stein to list the personnel at Winshire he had the most contact with. 

      Stein listed his superior, Scott Li; the head of the Technology Practice, Bill Voldman; the head of the Chemicals and Pharmaceutical Practice, Gordon Hope; the deceased President-CEO, Ted Merritt; his Administrative Assistant, Dorothy Reynolds; and the firm’s Research Director, Mohamad Mansour. 

      “My compliments,” DuBois said. “We’re moving pretty fast. Now, can you tell me the most important things you discussed with each of them?”

      Stein decided he had no choice but to be candid and truthful, but – just as with the Police Department’s Capt. Jimenez – to be careful. Especially since, Stein assumed, he was being videotaped and maybe even watched through the one-way mirror.

      Stein said: “With Scott Li, we basically just met. He’s my boss, and he seems honest and fair. I wrote a column with Bill Voldman, and Scott approved it right away. We agreed that we would help each other, since I used to be a journalist, that is, a reporter and editor, and he’s a consultant that’s never dealt with the media. So far, I mostly decide what I write, except two days ago when he asked me to write a media release about Mr. Merritt’s death.” 

      “How about Mr. Merritt, then?” DuBois asked. “What’ve you done with him?”

      Stein hesitated, but then plunged ahead. “I was working on a big speech with him. He was planning to give it to the entire firm. It was about our . . . the firm’s contribution to clients, especially in the coming years. I sat down with him, I think two or three times, to talk about it.”

      “How was he?”

      “I’m gonna say the obvious, hope it doesn’t sound stupid,” Stein said. “He’s been . . .  He’d been around for a while. He was the boss of a huge, worldwide organization, so he wasn’t . . . any kind of a sweetheart. But I was able to work with him. He listened to me, and we were making progress on his speech.” 

      “Anything out of the ordinary during your work sessions?”

      Stein hesitated longer than the first time. Then he said, “Yes. The first time we worked together, maybe a week or so ago, while we were talking about the speech, one of the other consultants I mentioned, Gordon Hope, came into his office and wanted to tell Mr. Merritt something, something about achieving fifty percent. I had no idea what he was talking about, but it sounded like some kind of a project. Gordy, that’s what he likes to be called, kind of insisted, and Mr. Merritt told him  . .  . ordered him to put his ideas in a memo.”

      “Then?” 

      Stein said: “After, when I came back to my office, Gordy was there, waiting for me. He seemed kinda wild. He asked me what Mr. Merritt and I were talking about, and I told him. Didn’t think it was a secret, and then Gordy said I had to help him, help him with some kind of a project, but I never really understood the project, and I don’t think we talked about it again.”

      “Did you ever find out if there was a project or what it was about?”

      “Maybe,” Stein said. “I’m not exactly sure when it was, maybe a few days later. I was told to go right into Mr. Merritt’s office, and he was on the phone. I don’t know who with. But it sounded like they were talking about the same project. They were talking about ‘thirty percent,’ and Mr. Merritt said that they shouldn’t go over thirty percent. And then, I guess because I was sitting right there, they decided to talk about it . . .  some other time.” 

      “Did you ever find out what the ‘thirty percent’ meant?”

      “No,” Stein said. 

      “Now, Mr. Stein, I’m going to admit something to you, and at the same time, apologize to you,” DuBois gave the slightest smile and softened his voice. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I’ve conducted some surveillance on you. I’m guessing it was a mistake. Now, I believe you are candid and helpful. This afternoon, I watched you in the Grand Hyatt Hotel . . . “

      Stein lowered his head in a jerky motion, and then raised it slowly. 

      DuBois said, “You remember, I mentioned that if something is outside the bounds of this investigation, I have no reason to pursue it. But I’d like to ask you, who was that woman I saw you with in the lounge?”

      “Her name is Ermira Bajrami. She’s a friend of . . . Gordy.” Stein waited a few seconds and took a few quick breaths. “This is a stupid and embarrassing thing. After I’d been with the firm for about two weeks, this was maybe two weeks ago, I was invited to a reception, it was a Winshire reception. It was at a place . . .  It was at the Huntington Residences, up on Lexington, on the Upper East Side. I was told that the firm wanted to show me how much I was appreciated for what I was doing. Gordy said I was doing such a great job. He wanted me to come, and I didn’t think I could refuse. Anyway, it was an evening thing, and as soon as I saw what it was . . .  There were these women there, they looked like hired escorts. Maybe you get the picture, very attractive women. And a lot of the Winshire consultants were there. I felt stuck, trapped. Escorts or . . .  Anyway, that’s not my thing. Plain and simple, that’s not me. Anyway, that’s where I met Ermira. She slipped me her phone number and asked me to call her. I had no idea what she could want, but she seemed nervous, and I thought she needed some kind of help. I called her, and we met at the Grand Hyatt, and she asked me to help her return to Albania. From a friend, in Hastings, I got the name of an immigration lawyer. We met again, and I gave her that name and phone number, etcetera. And today, when I was with her, she asked me to help her . . .  well, drop Gordy. It’s hard, I don’t know their relationship. I guess I’ll have to talk to him. I don’t know.” 

      “It might be a good idea to wait a little,” DuBois said. “Is that all about that?”

      “I think so,” Stein said. 

      “Can you give me her number?

      “It’s in my phone.” 

      DuBois nodded to Warren Owens, and he got up and exited the room. “No, problem. You can get it when we give your phone and computer back to you.” 

      “What about Bill Voldman?”

      “He may be one of the most solid people I’ve met with the firm. He invited me to take a trip with him and one of his associates to one of his clients. That was near Boston. He wanted me to see . . . ”

      “The associate, what’s his name?”

      “She’s a young woman, she’s Rani Khanna,” Stein said. “She’s from the San Jose office, like Bill. Anway, the trip was great. I really did see how the firm, at least Bill Voldman, works with clients. The firm’s name is Semper Fi, and I learned a lot about data storage.”     

      “Mr. Stein,” Du Bois said,  “I think we accomplished a few things, more than a few things, in the time we spent.” 

      “I did my best,” Stein said. “Thanks.” 

      “I want to thank you for your time and information. I may ask you to give me a little more time, I don’t know how things advance . . .  or don’t advance. Who knows?” DuBois handed Stein a business card. “But, if there’s anything you want to tell me, if something comes to mind or you realize you forgot something, please give me a call.” 

      This was standard. Leave the door open. DuBois knew that all interview subjects withheld information. Stein seemed fairly honest. DuBois bet that some facts that Stein held back would work on him and he’d eventually find an excuse to provide them. Here, DuBois chose the soft approach.

      “Can I ask you a question?” Stein said. 

      “Of course.”

      Stein explained, “I just kind of think, since I hope I gave you some useful information. . . .  What’s this all about? I’d just like to know, if that’s possible.”

      “I’ll tell you what I can,” said DuBois. “It has to do with possible financial irregularities at Winshire. But we’ve just started our investigation.”

      “Could it have anything to do with Mr. Merritt’s death?”

      “That could have a bearing,” DuBois said. “But that I certainly can’t discuss. Anything else?”

      Stein hesitated. “I don’t think so, but thank you.”

      “You’re sincerely welcome. Now, . . . Agent Owens might be the best driver, among other things, around here,” DuBois said. “He’ll get you home maybe even before we promised.”  

      DuBois made a point of giving Stein what he hoped would come across as a reassuring smile. He offered his hand, and the two men clasped each other’s hand in a stiff gesture to mark the end of the session. As Stein turned to leave, DuBois returned Stein’s computer and phone; Stein kept his promise and accessed his phone and gave DuBois Ermira Bajrami’s phone number. 

      DuBois said, “Good luck” and watched Stein move down the hallway with Owens. Stein walked with a slight effort, a bit unnatural, as though he felt a weight on his shoulders, and disappeared in the crowd. 

      How’d that guy end up with those clowns? DuBois asked himself. Seems like a decent guy, nice family, beautiful wife, cute sons, must have talent for what he does; they sure glommed onto him. Hope he doesn’t get trapped in this mess. Hope he doesn’t get hurt. But still . . . we’ll see.