"I do not delegate such matters," Smith said stiffly. "There must be a mistake."
"IRS computers," Vonneau said just as stiffly, "do not make mistakes of this scope."
"Thank you," Smith said without emotion, and hung up.
Ballard stood up and said, "I will need to see all your in-house financial records to start."
"Why is Folcroft being audited?" Smith demanded suddenly.
"Routine. Your return popped up on the random-audit list."
"I happen to know that random auditing has been suspended for the next two years while the new IRS computer system is being installed."
"True," said Ballard, offering a weak smile. "I might as well tell you, word has come down from the top. The President's health-care program has to be paid for somehow. Waste and fraud in the medical profession are rampant, as you know if you watch any of the Pews-magazine shows. The IRS has been asked to look into this very thorny area. We've already collected substantial sums in back underreported taxes, FICA payments and fines, all of which will be earmarked to pay for the health-care program. Of course, I'm sure that won't be the case here."
Harold Smith heard all this with his ears ringing. He was being audited by the IRS. It was a virtual impossibility. Smith had continual access to Folcroft's IRS records by computer. He knew the mathematical formulas the service used to target institutions for auditing and every year carefully made out his returns, underreporting legitimate deductions and not taking others so that no red flags triggered the random-audit process.
And just in case, his computers were programmed to monitor the IRS master file in Martinsburg, Virginia, for this very eventuality. Smith should have been warned Folcroft had been targeted for an audit. He could have headed it off by remote manipulation of the IRS's own computerized files.
The Folcroft Four had failed him again. And he was forced to sit numbly in his chair as IRS Agent Bryce Ballard droned on about his needs. Harold Smith stared at the scarred corner of his desk that hid the system he could not access and now no longer, trusted if he could.
"First," Ballard was saying, "I will need to see your computer system."
Smith looked up, startled. "System?"
"You do have financial records?"
"Yes. On a standard three-book ledger."
Ballard's round face slackened into stunned lines. "Do you mean to say, Dr. Smith, that a facility of this size has never been computerized?"
"I have never seen the need for it," retorted Smith.
Chapter 11
If Jane Kotzwinkle didn't have three children to raise and an ex-husband who believed child-support payments were due only when he won the daily number, there was no way she'd put herself through the many indignities of wearing a Con Ed hard hat and snug uniform in broad daylight. The night shift was fine by her, and usually it was enough. But she needed the overtime, her babies needed new clothes, and with so many of her colleagues on vacation, Manhattan needed her services.
What Jane Kotzwinkle didn't need was the stares. Not from the passersby who did a double and sometimes triple take when they happened upon her digging up a section of New York City pavement in her Con Ed blue-and-gray coveralls, nor from her fellow workers who stopped what they were doing to appraise her rear end whenever she bent over to look down a manhole or pick up a tool.
And especially she did not need the wide cow eyes she got whenever a NYNEX rep came out to check on the dig.
This one looked fresh out of CUNY or some damn place. He pulled up in a NYNEX company car that was no more than three months old and, spotting her hard hat with its Con Ed symbol, walked right up to her and asked, "Where can I find Kotzwinkle?" The brainless mutt.
"I'm Kotzwinkle."
This one didn't even try to hide his surprise. "You?" Duh, Jane Kotzwinkle thought. Like this wasn't the 1990s.
She got down to business using her best ramrod voice, the one she used on her boys when they wouldn't turn in at bedtime.
"We're digging in back of this building," she said, walking away. "Come on. I'll show you!'
"My name's Larry," he said, clutching his rolled-up blueprints. "Larry Lugerman."
Like I care, you waxy-eared dip, Jane thought. She took him around to the side and pointed to the spot. They were in the shadow of one of the few new buildings in upper Manhattan. Her crew stood around drinking Dunkin' Donuts coffee, looking bored in the early-morning light.
"Is this a line break?" Larry asked, his voice a little nervous.
"Client wants a gas line put in. That's what we're going to do. Hook him up."
They came to the spot. Jane Kotzwinkle indicated it with a disdainful toss of her head. "We've got a gas pipe that runs north-south, right here," she said. "We're going to tap it and run a line into the basement. According to DigSafe, we're okay."
Larry looked at the spot and unrolled his blueprints, holding them so Jane couldn't read them over his shoulder. Like the location of NYNEX trunk lines was a fucking national-security secret, she thought. "Let's see..." he muttered. He looked from the blueprints to the spot in the concrete that Jane was impatiently tapping with her work boot and back to the blueprints.
"You're in the clear if you don't disturb anything beyond twenty yards in either direction," he said finally.
"Good. Thanks," she said dismissively. DigSafe had told her the exact same thing.
Larry Lugerman looked stricken. "I'm supposed to stay."
"Fine. Can you manage a jackhammer?"
"No."
"Then what's the use of you staying?"
"In case there's a problem with the phone lines."
"You just said if we stay within a forty-foot box, we're okay."
Larry swallowed. "Sometimes the blueprints aren't updated as well as they should be."
"Then what's the point of all this hoop jumping?"
He took a step backward. "I'm just doing my job."
"Fine. Just stay out of the way while men are working.
Jane walked away from his melting face. She knew he had been thinking of asking her if she was free for lunch. He had that gooey look in his eye.
Like she'd date a guy who wore a coat and tie to work.
An hour later the stuttering of the jackhammer had died down, and they were into the shovels and pickaxes portion of the excavation.
"Got something here," Melvin Cowznofski called out.
Jane beat the NYNEX suit to the hole. Partially buried in the dirt was a braided steel cable, half-severed. Twisted strands of copper wire lay exposed to the early-morning light. The strands were protected by bright red rubber tubing.