A Knight of the Word

CHAPTER 20

Andrew Wren woke early that same morning despite the fact he had been up very late tracing the transfers of funds from the corporate accounts of Fresh Start and Pass/Go to the private accounts of Simon Lawrence and John Ross. It was well after midnight by the time he completed his work and satisfied himself he knew exactly how all the withdrawals and deposits had been made and the routes through which various funds had travelled. He was exhausted by then, but a little bit of sleep did wonders for him when he was hot an the trail, and he felt energised and ready to go once mare shortly after first light.

Nevertheless, he took his time. He had calls to make and faxes to send. He wanted to check on balances and signatures. He wanted to make very sure of what he had before he started writing anything. So he showered and shaved at a leisurely pace, thinking things through yet again, formulating his plans for the day.

It wasn't until he went downstairs for breakfast and was engaged in perusing Wednesday's New York Times that he overheard a conversation at an adjoining table and learned Fresh Start had burned down during the night.

At first he couldn't quite believe what he was hearing, and he paused in his reading to listen mare closely as the conversation revealed the details. The building was a total loss. There was only one fatality, an employee. Arson wasn't thought to be the cause. Simon Lawrence would be holding a press conference on the future of the program at two o'clock that afternoon.

Andrew Wren finished his breakfast and bought a copy of the Post‑Intelligencer, Seattle's morning paper. There were pictures and a short piece on the fire on the front page, but it had happened too late for an in–depth story.

Wren walked back to his room with the papers and sat down at his work desk with his yellow pad and notes and the packet of documentation on the illegal funds transfers spread out before him. He tried to decide if the fire had anything to do with what he was investigating, but it was too early to make that call. If it wasn't arson, then it wasn't relevant. If it was arson, then it might be. He stared out the window, deciding what to do next. It was only nine–fifteen.

He made up his mind quickly, the way he always did when he was closing in on something. He sent his faxes to the home office and to various specialists he worked with from time to time, requesting the information he needed, then began calling all the banks at which personal accounts had been opened in the names of Simon Lawrence and John Ross for the deposit of Fresh Start and Pass/Go funds. He used a time–tested technique, claiming to be in accounting at one or the other of the nonprofit corporations, giving the account number and the balance he had before him, and asking to verify the amounts. From there he went on to gather other information, building on the initial rapport he had established with whoever was on the other end of the line to complete his investigation. It was practically second nature to him by now. He knew all the buttons to push and all the tricks and ploys.

He was done by a little after ten–thirty. He called the number at Pass/Go and asked for Stefanie Winslow. When she came on the line, he told her he was coming over to see the Wiz. She advised him that Simon wouldn't be available until late in the day, if then. He assured her he understood, he had heard about the fire and knew what Simon must be going through, but he needed only a few minutes and it was imperative they meet immediately. He added it involved the matter they had discussed yesterday, and he was sure Simon would meet him immediately.

She put him on hold. When she came back on, she said he could come right over.

Andrew Wren put down the phone, pulled on his rumpled packet with the patches on the elbows, picked up his briefcase, and went out the door, humming softly.

Ten minutes later, he was climbing out of a taxi in front of Pass/Go. The educational center was situated right next door to Fresh Start, but separated by a narrow alleyway. Before last night, the two buildings had looked substantially the same‑I940s brick buildings of six stories facing on Second Avenue with long glass windows, recessed entries with double wooden doors, and no signs. But Pass/Go had survived the fire where Fresh Start had not. Fresh Start was a burned–out, blackened shell surrounded by barricades and yellow tape, its roof and floors sagging or collapsed, its windows blown out by the heat, and its fixtures and furnishings in ruins.

As he stood staring at the still–smoking wreck, Stefanie Winslow came out the front door of Pass/Go.

`Good morning, Mr. Wren' she said cheerfully, her smile dazzling, her hand extended.

As he offered his own hand in response, he was shocked to see the marks ors her arms and face. `Good heavens, Ms. Winslow! What happened to you?'

She gave a small shrug. `I was involved in getting people out last night, and I picked up a few bumps and bruises along the way. It's nothing that wont heal. How are you?'

'Fine.' He was somewhat nonplussed by her attitude. `You seem very cheerful given the circumstances, if you don't mind my saying so'

She laughed. `Well, that's my job, Mr. Wren. I'm supposed to put a good face on things, my own notwithstanding. We lost the building, but all the Clients got out. That doesn't help much when I think about Ray, but it's the best I can do.'

She filled him in on the details. of Ray Hapgood's death and the efforts, of the fire department to save the building. Ross had been present when it took place, but he had been sleeping earlier and she'd had to wake him to help her, so it didn't look like he was involved in any way. Wren listened without seeming overly interested, taking careful mental notes for later.

`The building was fully insured' she finished, `so we'll be able to rebuild. In the meantime, we've been given the use of a warehouse several blocks away that can be brought up to code pretty easily for our purposes and will serve as a temporary shelter during the rebuilding. We've been given a number of donations already to help tide us over and there should be more coming in. Things could be much worse'

Wren smiled. `Well, I'm very glad to hear that, Ms. Winslow.'

`Stefanie, please' She touched his arm. `Ms. Winslow sounds vaguely authoritarian'

Wren nodded agreeably. `Do you suppose I could see Mr. Lawrence now for those few minutes you promised me? Before he becomes too tied up with other things? I know he has a news conference scheduled for two o'clock'

`Now would be fine, Mr. Wren' She took his arm as she might an old friend's. `Come with me. We've got him hidden in the back'

They went inside through a lobby decorated with brightly coloured posters and children's drawings, past a reception desk, and down a hall with doors opening into classrooms and offices. Through tall glass windows, Wren could see a grassy play area filled with toys and playground the surrounding buildings.

`The nursery, kitchen facilities, dining rooms, Special Ed, and more classrooms are upstairs,' Stefanie informed him, waving to one of the teachers as she passed by an open door. `Life goes on'

Simon Lawrence had set up shop in a tiny office at the very back of the building. He sat at an old wooden desk surrounded by cartons of supplies and forms, his angular frame hunched forward over a mound of papers, files, notepads, and pens and pencils. He was on the phone talking, but he motioned Wren through the open door and into a folding chair identical to the one he was occupying. Stefanie Window waved good–bye and went out the door, closing it softly behind her.

The Wiz finished his conversation and hung up. 'I hope this isn't bad news, Andrew,' he said, smiling wearily. `I've had just about all the bad news I can handle for the moment:

'So I gather' Wren glanced around at the boxes and bare walls. `Quite a comedown from your last digs'

Simon snorted derisively. 'Doesn't mean a thing compared to the cost to Fresh Start. It will take a minimum of three to four weeks to get the warehouse converted and the program up and running again. How many women and children will we lose in that time, I wonder?'

'You'll do the best you can. Sometimes that has to be enough'

Simon leaned back. His handsome face looked worn and haggard, but his eyes were bright and sharp as they fixed on the reporter. `Okay, Andrew, what's this all about? Lay it out on the table and get it over with'

Andrew Wren nodded, reached into his briefcase, took out the copies he had made of the documents with which he had been provided and placed them on the desk in front o£ the Wiz. Simon picked them up and began scanning them, quickly at first, then more slowly. His face lost some colour, and his jaw tightened. Halfway through his perusal, he looked up.

Are these for real?' he asked carefully. `Have you verified them'

Wren nodded. `Every last one'

The Wiz went back to his examination, finishing quickly. He shook his head. `I know what I'm seeing, but I can't believe it' His eyes fixed on Wren. `I don't know anything about this. Not about the accounts or any of the transfers. I'd give you an explanation if I could, but I can't. I'm stunned'

Andrew Wren sat waiting, saying nothing.

The Wiz leaned back again in his folding chair and set the papers on the desk. `I haven't taken a cent from either program that wasn't approved in advance. Not one. The accounts with my name on them aren't really mine. I don't know who opened them or who made the transfers, but they aren't mine. I can't believe John Ross would do something like this, either. He's never given me any reason to think he would'

Wren nodded, keeping silent.

`If I were going to steal money from the corporations, I would either steal a lot more or do a better job of it. This kind of petty theft is ridiculous, Andrew. Have you checked the signatures to see if they match mine or John's?'

Wren scratched his chin thoughtfully. 'I'm having it done professionally. I should know something later today.'

`Who brought all this to you?' The Wiz indicated the incriminating papers with a dismissive wave of his hand.

Wren gave a small shrug. `You know I can't tell you that'

Simon Lawrence shook his head in dismay. 'Well, they say these things come in threes. Last night I lost a good friend and half of five years' hard work. Today I find I'm about to lose my reputation. I wonder what comes next?'

He rose from the desk and paced to the door and back again, then turned to face Wren. `I'm betting that when you check the signatures, you won't find a match'

`Quite possibly not. But that doesn't mean you aren't involved, Simon. You could have had someone else act for you'

`John Ross?'

`Ross, or even a third person'

`Why would I do this?'

`I don't know. Maybe you were desperate. Desperate people do desperate things. I've given up trying to figure out the reasons behind why people do the things they do. I've got all I can handle just uncovering the truth of what's been done'

The Wiz sat down again, his eyes smoldering. `I've spent five years building this program, Andrew. I've given everything I have to make it work. If you report this, it will all go down the tubes'

`I know that,' Wren acknowledged softly.

`Even if there's nothing to connect me directly, even if an

inquiry clears me of any wrongdoing, the program will never be the same. I'll quit in order to remove any lingering doubts about the possibility of impropriety, or I'll stay and fight and live with the suspicion that something is still going on, but either way Fresh Start and Pass/Go will always be remembered for this scandal and not for the good they've accomplished'

Andrew Wren sighed. `I think maybe you're overstating your case a bit, Simon.

The Wiz shook his head. `No, I'm not. You know why? Because the whole effort is held together by the slenderest of threads. Helping the homeless isn't a program that attracts support naturally. It isn't a program people flock to just because they believe in aiding the homeless. What happens to the homeless is a low priority in most people's lives. It isn't a glamorous cause. It isn't a compelling cause. It's balanced right on the edge of people's consciousness, and it could topple from view with just a nudge. It took me years to bring it to people's attention and make it a cause they would choose to support over all the others. But it can lose that same support in the blink of an eye'

He sighed. `I know you're just doing your job, Andrew' he said after a moment. `I wouldn't ask you to do anything less. But be thorough, please. Be sure about this before you act. An awful lot rides on what you decide to do'

Andrew Wren folded his hands in his lap and looked down at them. `I appreciate what's at stake better than you think, Simon. That's why I came to talk with you first. I wanted to hear what you had to say. As far as making any decisions, I have a lot more work to do first. I won't be rushing into anything'

He rose and held out his hand. `I'm sorry about this. As I told you earlier, I admire the work you've done here. I'd hate to think it would suffer for any reason'

Simon Lawrence took his hand and shook it firmly. `Thank you for coming to me about this. I'll do what I can to look into it from this end. Whatever I find, I'll pass along.'

Andrew Wren opened the door and walked back down the hall to the reception area. There was no sign of Stefanie Winslow, who was probably out working on preparations for the press conference. He paused as he neared the front door, then turned back.

The young woman working the intake desk looked up as he approached, smiling. 'Can I help you?'

'I was wondering' he said, returning the smile, 'if you know where I could find John Ross'