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Authors: Allison Brennan
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before his dad died. He left the Marines, got his degree, and, because of an aptitude test, was recruited into the FBI. He ended up doing what he was good at coupled with the only thing he truly knew and understood: being a cop. Maybe it was in the blood. And that was okay with Dean. This was where he was supposed to be; there was nothing else he wanted to do.
Sooner than he had expected, he was done inputting the information from Jones’s day planner. Nothing jumped out right away, so he looked again, for notes and odd marks. There were none. The planner was as neat and efficient as Xavier Jones’s house and physical appearance. His perfect, crisp, all-caps printing was neither too small nor too big, with little deviation—Dean had to look closely to see any differences between the same letters. Virtually every “E” looked identical. Almost impossible to do by hand, but the writing was definitely ink. All black, fine felt-tip.
The handwriting analysts would have a field day with this, if they could get anything useful, other than what Dean had already figured out about his personality.
Dean looked at today: Wednesday, June 3.
11:00 A.M
.
BRIEFING @ XCJ
12:00 P.M
.
LUNCH @ CHOPS: CLIENTS
5:00 P.M
.
DRINKS @ FRANK FATS: CLIENTS
Odd. He looked back at all the previous meetings. Jones never identified who he was meeting with, but he always had a location. Was the location a code? Or did he not want a physical record of the people at the meeting?
XCJ was Jones’s lobbying firm. Again, Dean flipped through the book. He had no business listed except weekly “briefings”—almost always on Mondays, except today.
Was that because he’d been out of town this past Monday?
There were no appointments scheduled for this week Monday or Tuesday, the days he had been gone. Dean looked at the book closely. Several things had been whited out. Again, meticulously. And because it was felt-tip, Dean couldn’t see the impression of the individual letters through the white-out, so he couldn’t recreate the meetings that had been canceled. He turned the page to see if he could read the bleed-through and decipher the backward text. The flip side had been whited out as well.
Maybe the evidence response team could come up with something, but Dean wasn’t holding his breath.
Another thing that stuck out to Dean was that for a multimillionaire philanthropist who owned several businesses and millions of dollars in property, there was surprisingly little written in the day planner. The e-teams unit had already informed Dean that Jones didn’t use the calendar on his computer. They were looking at possibleonline calendars by going through his browser history, but they had to re-create the history since Jones used sophisticated software to permanently erase his files and Internet travels.
Who else might keep a calendar for Jones? He couldn’t keep all his plans and meetings in his head, could he? Maybe his cell phone, but Dean didn’t have a warrant for phone records. And Jones wouldn’t put anything incriminating on it. With one of his employees—that was more likely. Separating himself from any record of illegal activities by having a third party involved.
Employees … how did he pay his employees? Cash? That wasn’t enough to prosecute, especially if there was a record of it. Dean noted large withdrawals from Jones’s bank account once a month. Payroll? Maybe. He had employees through two businesses: XCJ Consulting and XCJ Security. Dean had taken a look at the tax forms and nothing jumped out at him as odd about the businesses, other than that they were very profitable—and Jones was paying his required taxes on the profits.
Sam Callahan walked over to Dean’s cubicle and said, “We missed breakfast. I’m starved. I’m going to the deli down the street. Want something?”
Dean glanced at his watch: 11:00.
He knew where Jones was going to be at noon. Dean would be interested in finding out which “client” he dined
Sooner than he had expected, he was done inputting the information from Jones’s day planner. Nothing jumped out right away, so he looked again, for notes and odd marks. There were none. The planner was as neat and efficient as Xavier Jones’s house and physical appearance. His perfect, crisp, all-caps printing was neither too small nor too big, with little deviation—Dean had to look closely to see any differences between the same letters. Virtually every “E” looked identical. Almost impossible to do by hand, but the writing was definitely ink. All black, fine felt-tip.
The handwriting analysts would have a field day with this, if they could get anything useful, other than what Dean had already figured out about his personality.
Dean looked at today: Wednesday, June 3.
11:00 A.M
.
BRIEFING @ XCJ
12:00 P.M
.
LUNCH @ CHOPS: CLIENTS
5:00 P.M
.
DRINKS @ FRANK FATS: CLIENTS
Odd. He looked back at all the previous meetings. Jones never identified who he was meeting with, but he always had a location. Was the location a code? Or did he not want a physical record of the people at the meeting?
XCJ was Jones’s lobbying firm. Again, Dean flipped through the book. He had no business listed except weekly “briefings”—almost always on Mondays, except today.
Was that because he’d been out of town this past Monday?
There were no appointments scheduled for this week Monday or Tuesday, the days he had been gone. Dean looked at the book closely. Several things had been whited out. Again, meticulously. And because it was felt-tip, Dean couldn’t see the impression of the individual letters through the white-out, so he couldn’t recreate the meetings that had been canceled. He turned the page to see if he could read the bleed-through and decipher the backward text. The flip side had been whited out as well.
Maybe the evidence response team could come up with something, but Dean wasn’t holding his breath.
Another thing that stuck out to Dean was that for a multimillionaire philanthropist who owned several businesses and millions of dollars in property, there was surprisingly little written in the day planner. The e-teams unit had already informed Dean that Jones didn’t use the calendar on his computer. They were looking at possibleonline calendars by going through his browser history, but they had to re-create the history since Jones used sophisticated software to permanently erase his files and Internet travels.
Who else might keep a calendar for Jones? He couldn’t keep all his plans and meetings in his head, could he? Maybe his cell phone, but Dean didn’t have a warrant for phone records. And Jones wouldn’t put anything incriminating on it. With one of his employees—that was more likely. Separating himself from any record of illegal activities by having a third party involved.
Employees … how did he pay his employees? Cash? That wasn’t enough to prosecute, especially if there was a record of it. Dean noted large withdrawals from Jones’s bank account once a month. Payroll? Maybe. He had employees through two businesses: XCJ Consulting and XCJ Security. Dean had taken a look at the tax forms and nothing jumped out at him as odd about the businesses, other than that they were very profitable—and Jones was paying his required taxes on the profits.
Sam Callahan walked over to Dean’s cubicle and said, “We missed breakfast. I’m starved. I’m going to the deli down the street. Want something?”
Dean glanced at his watch: 11:00.
He knew where Jones was going to be at noon. Dean would be interested in finding out which “client” he dined
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