Today, his guest was Mr. Gregory Caitlin. Sam put in his Bluetooth headphones and switched the big-screen to transmit to them, then began his warm-up on the machine.
Gregory Caitlin was a big shot, all right. His graphic user interface had overtaken both Windows and Apple in a matter of months. It was so intuitive, so easy to use, that many reviews claimed that the users felt the machines were “reading their minds.” Sam didn’t know about all that, but he did know that he had been able to process complicated deductions and exemptions in less than half the time using Caitlin’s accounting software.
And now, it seemed, the man was running for governor.
Why the hell not? Sam’s steps quickened on his treadmill. If he could just get past that irrational belief in God, he’d be set. He punched up the incline. Maybe he’s just giving it lip-service for his electorate...No.
He glanced back up at the T.V., where Caitlin was shaking hands with the assembled crowd and staff. If he’s shoveling bullshit, he’s a world-class crap harvester. Too bad.
As the show ended, Sam checked his wall clock. 6:05. Time to wind down and get something for dinner. He shut the treadmill off, wiped himself down with his towel, and headed to the kitchen.
The kitchen furnishings were sparse – a fridge, microwave, stove – without much decoration or embellishment. Sam opened the pantry.
“Goddamn it.” He reached inside and brought out a box of Honey-Nut Cheerios. “Seriously, is this it?” He ducked down, peering into the dark space. A small spider scuttled across his line of sight, hiding in the barren wasteland of the cabinet.
“Cereal. And I’m out of milk.” Sam sighed as he replaced the box. “Looks like it’s either a night out or a shopping trip.”
His stomach grumbled, and he looked down at it, a small grin playing on his lips. “Guess that settles it. How does Italian sound?”
Sam hopped in the shower to clean off the workout sweat. Life is good, he thought as he soaped himself up. Money coming in, people at work love me, and I can enjoy myself without worrying about living hand-to-mouth. He glanced at his reflection in the tiles.
Not too shabby, Sam. Not too shabby at all.
~~~
Gregory Caitlin got out of his car, waved to his driver, and headed up the walk to his modest Northridge home. The grass was freshly cut but there was no sign of clippings or trimmings on the path.
Glad we hired that gardener; he does good work. Smiling at the smell of the rosebush near his door, Gregory turned his key in the lock. “Knock, knock, axe murderer!” he called, beginning a ritual he and his wife Susan had started when they were first married.
“Oh, no!” Susan raised her head from her book and laid it down on the table nearby. “Guess I’m a goner, then.” She laughed and got up from the couch as Gregory took off his shoes and hung his keys near the door.
“How was work?” Susan smiled and locked her arms around her husband’s neck. “Anything special?”
Gregory shook his head. “I’m waiting on a new product idea. Something that could put DelCo into the automobile industry, I think – computer systems for cars, you know.” He laughed. “Same old same old. How’s the home front?”
“Phone’s been off the hook since you made that announcement today.” Susan rolled her eyes, but her smile did not falter. “Email too. Your Twitter account and Facebook page have been lighting up nonstop with questions and ideas.” She paused, bit her lip, smiled. “You know, I think I deserve a bonus for working so hard on this.” She ran her hand down his chest, eyes locked on his.
“I think I can come up with something.” He leaned down to give his wife a kiss, then patted her behind. “Head into the bedroom, love – I’ll be there in a few.”
“Don’t keep me waiting.” Susan thrust out a pouty lip. “Or I might start thinking that you don’t love me.” She winked, turned, and walked away, swaying her hips with each step.
Gregory stared after her for a few moments, then laughed to himself as he opened the door to his private office. Gregory had been clear on how this was his space, how he needed a room to do his work and have things his way. At first, his wife had worried that there was something…untoward going on, that maybe this room was where he would stash his child pornography or something like that. As years had passed, however, she had come to accept the fact that, sometimes, a man needs a place to be himself.
Gregory sat down in his chair and looked at the pictures on the walls: Michael casting Lucifer into Hell, God touching Adam’s hand in the Sistine Chapel. The great cross worn by the Crusaders, and overhead their motto of Deus Vult, meaning “God wills it.” He took a deep breath; in this room, he felt God’s presence most clearly, felt closest to the Divine here.
He picked up a small earpiece, put it in. Pushed the ‘transmit’ button. “Go ahead.” Listened for a few minutes, jotting notes down. He smiled.
“Ha! That should do it!” He kissed the earpiece and replaced it in its holder on his desk, then went into a frenzy of typing, sending notes and memos to his research and development staff. They would wonder where he had gotten these ideas, of course; they always did. No matter. One thing was for sure – this would work.
Again, it always did.
Gregory signed off his machine and headed into the bedroom where his wife was waiting for him. He closed the door as he entered.
~~~
Monday morning. Sam had broken down on Sunday and gone on that shopping trip, restocking his house for another few weeks.
He shook his head and sighed. Such a waste of a good weekend day. He pulled up into his designated parking spot and walked toward the entrance of Ludwig and Von’s Accounting.
“Hey, Sam! How was your weekend?” An older gentleman stood smoking a cigarette in the designated pavilion. “Hit it big?”
Sam grinned. “Hey, Philip. I headed to Vegas. Scored 12 million on roulette. Got married. You?”
“Meh. Penny stock I bought exploded; made about the same. Got three women in bed.” He smiled. “At once.”
Sam laughed and clapped his coworker on the shoulder as he passed. He nodded, waved, and greeted his way past the office functionaries until he reached his desk. There was a new packet sitting on it, with a note from Mr. Gonzalez, the V.P.
Highest priority. We’ve taken you off your other clients until this is handled. Do us proud!
Sam frowned as he scanned the note. Why would they take me off my other clients? That’s something you do for someone who is a fresh-faced newb. He grumbled as he shuffled through the papers until he found the cover slip.
Gregory R. Caitlin. Requesting a review of finances before campaign begins in earnest.
Sam sat, stunned, for a few minutes. Sure, it wasn’t uncommon for politicians, people under scrutiny, to send their tax records and such to be evaluated and certified again, just to cover their butts. But this…this was a chance to look into what made Gregory Caitlin tick, to put to rest the rumors on exactly how much money he pulled in and where it all went.
And Sam had never been able to let sleeping dogs lie.
Sam dug in, and hours passed as he reviewed the paperwork. It was organized, impeccable; every last cent of charity donations was backed by a receipt, every business expenditure, every service rendered. Caitlin’s salary was modest compared to his company’s profit margin, and it seemed that every I was dotted and T crossed. Sam cross-referenced Caitlin’s personal returns with his business filing, and everything matched up. It was almost boring by the time he got to the end.
There was a business-related receipt to a Miss Martha Stone which caught Sam’s eye, along with a photocopy of a check for $50,000. “Market research.”
Then another. And another.
Uh-oh, he smiled. Looks like someone might have been using the company funds for a little bit of…
Sam double-checked the records, looking for any further reference to Miss Stone, anything to suggest a regular payoff, perhaps. He glanced at the dates on the origin
al checks.
October 27, 2010. November 3, 2010. December 18, 2010. This was before Caitlin had gotten into DelCo at all. Sam looked at the returns for that year; almost all of Caitlin’s income that year had been from his wages – he had been a mailroom clerk – and from a $200,000 inheritance.
He paid half of his inheritance to get laid? Sam pursed his lips. That doesn’t seem right…maybe it was someone who had something on him that he wanted to keep quiet.
Sam knew better than to poke too deeply into the affairs of his clients; after all, you don’t bite the hand that feeds you. Everything was properly documented and legal, except for those $50,000 expenses three years ago that might actually have been market research. There was no reason to investigate further.
Before he realized what was happening, he was bringing up his Google search engine and putting in Martha Stone, just to see what would come up. There were several – PhDs, owners of restaurants, even a Titanic survivor. Sam sighed. Dead end there.
Or was it? Sam dug back into the records for 2010. In order to claim this as a business write-off for the following year, Caitlin would need to provide certain information on the people he paid, to prove they were qualified. Not everyone did this, of course, and most of the time it didn’t even get noticed, but the way Caitlin was…
There. Caitlin had filled out the proper form with Miss Stone’s date of birth, contact information…and Social Security number. Never had Sam been so pleased to see someone who had actually followed directions. A few phone calls and mouse clicks later and Sam had an address, both work and personal, for Miss Martha Stone. A Doctor of Theology at the Los Angeles campus of Pepperdine University. 62 years old.
What the hell? Sam’s brow wrinkled and his lips stretched in a grimace. Unless he’s a major cougar-chaser, it’s probably not a payoff for a hookup, past or present.
What could it be?
Sam knew that he should stop there. This was plenty; if Caitlin was paying some 62 year old theologian for market research, then that was that.
Right?
Right.
Sam brought up the Pepperdine University website again. Found Dr. Stone’s office number and hours.
“Philip, can you cover for me for a bit tomorrow? I have something I need to take care of.”
~~~
Gregory left the meeting room to thunderous applause, the door cutting off the sounds of approval from the other board members. He wiped his face; the proposal had gone well once he had outlined what he wanted the vehicle technology to do. In less than six months, he had promised, they would have the ability to produce voice-activated and locked vehicles, responsive to commands and able to analyze traffic patterns via GPS hookup.
And they would have it in the next year’s models.
Gregory beamed his trademark smile as he walked through the office building, shaking hands with employees and asking about children, wives, surgeries, sports. He reached the door marked President of the Board, G. Caitlin, opened it, stepped in.
The smile dropped off his face, and he leaned against the one-way glass of his office. God, that is always so hard, He rubbed his hands together to still their shaking.
You’d think I’d get used to this. He gave his face a quick splash in the sink, and water dripped from his chin and nose onto the porcelain. He was confident, of course; he knew that the designs would work, that the technology was sound. The other board members had learned some time ago not to question where Gregory got this information or how he came up with his ideas; they worked, they made the company money, and that was all that mattered, right?
Gregory shook his head. Godless. They had so little vision, so little concern for the big picture, that it sickened him at times. That he had to smile at them, stroke their egos, turned his stomach; he wished that he could explain the will of God to them in a way they would understand.
Gregory Caitlin was not in business to make money. He was in business to change the world, to shape it into a form pleasing to God’s sight. His political ambitions stemmed from the same goals. He had been given the gifts to do this.
And there was no doubt in his mind that he would.
“Deus vult.”
CHAPTER TWO
Sam shoved the copies of Caitlin’s tax records he had made into his glove compartment as he pulled up to the Graduate School of Education and Psychology, an impressive building made from bricks with columns carved in the shapes of angels. As he got out of the car, he took a deep breath, steeling himself for the hardships ahead; holding one’s tongue in the face of religious fanaticism was always difficult, he knew, and if he lost control he would be forced to leave without the answers that he wanted.
He shook his head and laughed at himself as he approached the door. Why am I even here? Have I lost it? Am I just that bored?
Office number 4232, Dr. Martha Stone.
Sam turned from the directory posted on the wall and pressed the “up” button for the elevator. The doors opened after the customary wait, revealing a small child, no more than 8 years old, with blond hair, blue eyes, and an LA Lakers T-shirt. Sam got in the elevator.
“Which way, mister?” The boy held his hand poised over the button panel.
“I’m going up, please,” Sam’s eyes held front; he did not turn.
“Are you sure?”
Sam’s head snapped over, looking at the boy looking at him with mischief in his eyes.
“Umm…yes, I’m sure. 4th floor.”
“Okie-dokie!” The kid punched the button, then smiled at Sam. “My name’s Mikey; who’re you?”
Sam sighed. “I’m Sam. How’re you, Mikey?”
“Oh, pretty good, I guess. My family is out looking for my sister.” Mikey’s face fell. “We miss her a lot at home.”
Sam glanced back and forth. Here he was, in an elevator by himself with a kid, and apparently one of the boy’s siblings was missing? Great. Hurry up, will you?
The doors opened to the third floor. Mikey hopped out, turned, and waved at Sam. “If you see my sister, will you let me or my dad know? We’re really worried, you know.”
“Sure, Mikey.” Sam did his best not to roll his eyes. “If I see her, I’ll make sure you get her back. What’s her name?”
“Gabby. You promise you’ll look for her?”
“Sure, sure. Get out of the elevator door, Mikey; it’s trying to close.”
“Okie-dokie!” The boy waved to Sam, stepping aside as the door closed. “See you soon!”
Great. Sam rubbed his temples. Just what I needed.
4th floor. Sam stepped out as the doors parted again, passing by a couple of college students heading into the elevator. It took only a few moments to find Dr. Stone’s office. The door was closed, but he could hear her on the phone. He paused for a moment to listen.
“…yes, yes, Steve, I know we’re under pressure to stop teaching those subjects, but listen – if we don’t educate our young people about the various servants of God and the Devil, then what’s the point? Why are we even bothering?”
Sam gaped a moment, then shook his head, slapped himself across the face, and knocked on the door.
“Yes?”
“Dr. Stone? We had an appointment to talk at 10:30 today? I’m sorry if I’m a bit late…”
“No, not at all. Steve, I’ve got an appointment, I’ll talk to you about this later, okay? God bless you, too.” Sound of a phone being replaced on a hook. “Come in!”
Sam entered her office; the room was not very large, and it was cluttered by papers; several bookshelves were filled to bursting, and the walls were covered by religious icons, including a depiction of Christ’s crucifixion in oil paints and a rendition of the fabled Veil of Veronica.
Noticing Sam’s glance, the woman smiled. She pointed to a large picture, a painting, of an angel holding a spear, threatening a demonic figure beneath his foot. “Saint Michael.” She crossed herself as she spoke. “When we die, he comes to us, asks us if we repent of our sins. He
is the last one we have the chance to confess to, you know. The final stop for all our secrets.”
Sam declined to comment. “Doctor Stone?”
“Yes, that’s me.” Dr. Stone refocused her sky-blue eyes on her visitor. “You’re Sam, right? The one doing an interview for the school paper?” Sam nodded, the smile on his face covering any discomfort over the lie. “Have a seat, Sam.”
Sam took a stack of papers off of the nearest chair and glanced over at Dr. Stone. She laughed as she put out her cigarette in the ashtray on her desk and motioned toward a table that was already covered in sprawling stacks. “Oh, just put those over there.”
Sam winced as he did so, then sat down.
“So, Sam. What can I do for you today?”
Sam crossed his hands, tapped his thumbs together as he spoke. “I’ll get right to the point. Do you know a Gregory Caitlin?”
The corner of her mouth upturned. “Greg? I sure do.” She folded her hands together. “He’s a wonderful man, true faith in God if I have ever seen it. He was a student here, you know. That’s how I met him. Is he the topic of your article?”
Sam nodded. “I’m going to write a ‘rags-to-riches’ type story about him; alumni of the school and everything.”
Dr. Stone’s smile spread to her eyes. “I don’t think you could have picked a better subject for that. I’ll be glad to help.”
“Did you hear his parents died a few years back?”
Sadness rippled across Dr. Stone’s face. “Yes, I heard about that. Greg was very unhappy; he trusted in his family, in his parents.”
Sam leaned forward. “How did that affect him?”
“Oh, he had the usual crisis of faith.” She stretched her hand across her cluttered desk and grabbed a coffee mug, bringing it to her lips. “Even threw around some of that inheritance money trying to find an answer. ‘Why would God do this?’ he asked me. I told him that God has plans for all of us. That seemed to hit home for him, I think; at any rate, the next time I saw him, he had lost that hopeless, lost look in his eyes and gotten his feet back under him.”
Sam was on the edge of his seat now, but trying not to show it. “You said he threw around the inheritance money…what was he looking for?”