The Diminished Man: A Cpa Uncovers Charity Fraud and Murder While Diminishing Himself

By Charles E. Schwarz

Who is behind the disappearance of an auditor's daughter during Christmas week. Why are reprehensible shady characters operating charities in desolate places. Murder lies at the end of a CPA's investigation of people helping poor African Americans resulting in his losing all that is important to him.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Oct 24, 2008
• ISBN: 9781440103261

Charles E. Schwarz

Charles E. Schwarz is a member of Mystery Writers of America and Private Eye Writers of America. His fiction has appeared in New Mystery Magazine, International Issue, PI Magazine, Writers’ Forum, and many others. He is the recipient of the Blaggard Award for Best Mystery Short Story and winner of the World Wide Writers’ Contest. He lives in Florida.

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

THE DIMINUTION BEGINS

There may be a real reality somewhere out there,

But our reality is only what we know:

Our blood, our friends, our things,

And if we lose one,

Our hurt is in our diminished reality.

Monday, December 11, 12:12 PM

The Head of the Albany state Audit Division, impeccably dressed Wallace Slowely, leaning back, rubbing his palms across the smooth white tablecloth suggested, A pre-luncheon drink?

Although I was one of five senior auditors working in his division, directly under his authority, it was well known he never extended a luncheon invitation to anyone below his exalted position. Wallace dined with those above him, or if necessary, with those level with his position, but he’d rather dine alone than stoop so low as to eat with those beneath him. Yet here I was, enjoying an expensive luncheon as Wallace’s guest at the upscale Hunter’s Hen and Duck Club. We dined amid linen napkins, china and crystal, a prominently displayed piano player playing background music, and waiters dressed in black and white — the kind of place where the bills are always tax write-offs.

Since he was picking up the tab — well, actually the division’s general expense account was — well, hell, the taxpayers were — I thought a pre-luncheon Manhattan wouldn’t be amiss. Wallace ordered a Bloody Mary and, after the waiter left, contentedly ran his hand up and down the tweed vest covering his ample paunch. Are you hungry for a really good meal?

I’ll do justice to the menu, I smiled. And I thought, Hell yes, if you’re paying.

Good old Wallace Slowely, smiling complacently and looking about the restaurant, gently waved to someone either coming in or going out. Knowing Slowely was sly, smooth and smart (bureaucratic smart, not street smart) and realizing he hadn’t invited me to a credit-card lunch out of the goodness of his heart, I knew this was a set-up lunch, and I was prepared to say no to whatever he asked.

Though we were on friendly terms, it was office friendly: conversations at coffee breaks, Christmas parties, department picnics, and office celebrations of births and marriages, but never friendly conversations one-on-one outside the office. Though we had met each other’s spouse and children at such affairs, I had never been to his house, he never to mine.

If I was right about Wallace (known behind his back as Slick Wally), I wouldn’t hear about the favor he wanted until desert.

We ate the appetizers during general inquiries as to family health and the minutiae of everyday office concerns.

The soup du jour was consumed while discussing the state scandal du jour, the news reports of funds unaccounted for and missing from the Inner City’s War to Save Albany’s Children Charity, Inc. Merely because the federal government had supplied a party fifty millions towards it funding, some foolhardy auditor from the federal Inspector General’s Office had actually audited this highly respected, powerfully connected black charity and his results showed fiscal chaos, bookkeeping records from hell, unaccounted-for expenditures, and vanishing money, and the blame for all this financial mismanagement was floating in the air like a poisonous cloud looking for a convenient place to rain down upon. State and federal legislative investigation hearings were going to be held, but it was understood that since this was a children’s charity, the officers of the Inner City’s War to Save Albany’s Children Charity could and would excuse their lack of verifiable record keeping by saying they were not in the business of bookkeeping, they were in the business of saving children. The general assumption was that the Charity’s money was well spent, but with the poisonous question still floating around of why it wasn’t properly accounted for, everyone appeared to be fanning and blowing that toxic cloud towards our State Audit Department, (known humorously in the corridors of bureaucratic Albany as SAD, as in it’s sad you have to work there, or if you work there you’re a sad loser.)

During Chicken Marsala, Slick Wally directed the discussion into ways our department could move said cloud so it would rain on someone else’s parade, or if not accomplishing that, how we could at least devise umbrellas to protect ourselves from the fallout. Wally cut into his chicken. Ed, we’re in a dangerous position. You know as well as I, the Inspector General’s Office, as well as those charity higher-ups, are saying we didn’t do our job, should have been overseeing and auditing them much more closely. We both know our Debbie Booth was the senior CPA overseeing their account, and though it would be easy for me to throw her to the wolves, damn it, I can’t see doing it. Damn it, it wasn’t her fault…those people just didn’t keep records.

Popping the last part of a dinner roll into my mouth, I nodded a sympathetic response, wondering if I should order a second drink. The first was strong, and on an empty stomach encouraged a pleasant degree of bonhomie in the blood.

Wally decided the second drink question for me by ordering us another round. Besides, Ed, she’s new to the senior position and you were her overseeing monitor.

I downed the last of my first drink, sensing a cloud of ill will drifting in my direction. Debbie was a good looking thirty-five year old divorcee twice over who’d been promoted in the name of diversity. Standing in front of an investigating committee with her good looks and her innocent looks, and her being the only female state senior auditor, no one was going to be sexist and rain on her parade, so the rain most probably would go up the food chain a notch. Alert to the direction of Slick Wally’s dialogue, I put my empty glass down., And with you responsible for her promotion, and having assigned her the job of auditing the Charity, we could all look bad.

We understood each other and, as I sipped my second Manhattan, Slick Wally busily composed his resume to heaven. "I support my staff and refuse to let down anyone in my department. It would be unthinkable to let Debbie go to the wall on something that wasn’t her fault. Right now those stupid federal auditors are camped in the offices of that damn Inner City’s War to Save Albany’s Children Charity offices and refuse to tell us anything.

Looking down he rhetorically asked, What do you think of us blaming the initial funding legislation, saying it was flawed in not setting up appropriate spending safeguards and establishing sufficient fiscal instruments for thorough and efficient record keeping?

As the waiter removed the main course’s utensils and dishes, Slowely looked up and I nodded my silent assent while perusing the dessert menu, thinking, Yeah, the legislature accepts its responsibilities; believe that and believe in free lunches, including this one. Deciding on New York cheesecake topped with chocolate swirls and coffee, I reviewed the luncheon courses: we had pleasant chitchat as an appetizer, we had office business during the chicken, and now, with dessert, comes the favor. Given the cost of the lunch, I expected the worst.

As a preamble to the attack, sort of softening up the invasion beach, Slick Wally again asked about my family. With malicious intent to annoy him I lied, telling him of my pride and excitement over my wife’s plans to return to college and my son being awarded college scholarships in both sports and academics. I fabricated even further, saying my son was planning to major in pre-med, with the ultimate goal of being a neuro-surgeon.

That didn’t sit too well with Slowely as he ordered blueberry pie a la mode with double scoops of blueberry ice cream, and after the waiter left, he gave out a heavy sigh. I wish my Wendi was doing as well as your son. Despite my wife’s acceding to Wendi’s desire to attend a college outside the Albany area, I always had reservations about her going to Fordham University in the Bronx. It’s not the university but the city that worries me, and the terrible things that could happen to a young, impressionable girl living there. But what’s a husband to do when both his wife and daughter gang up on him?

Pausing and hoping for a Gee, Wallace, what is Wendi doing in New York City that bothers you and Naomi? but irritated at not getting it, he continued. It’s probably nothing, but we haven’t heard from her in two months. During her freshman year she was religious in calling and e-mailing us at least once a week. In her sophomore year, our contacts have been less and less frequent, and now it’s like we don’t have a daughter. Naomi is afraid she may be in trouble, and I’m afraid she’s hanging out with the wrong crowd.

As dessert was served, and feeling good at another human’s misfortune, I said, Gee, that’s bad.

Being office smart, Slowely was not one to ask for favors; rather, he clothed his requests in the garb of conferred favors. Throwing the bait over the table, he asked, Ed, how would you and your wife like an expense-paid vacation to New York City to do some Christmas shopping and see a couple of Broadway shows?

Thinking the bait was damn attractive, but knowing it was just that, bait, I was non-committal. Who wouldn’t?

Spooning some ice cream and pie into his mouth, he wiggled the bait across the table. I’d like to send you to New York City tomorrow through, let’s say, Sunday. What do you think of that?

I thought, Where’s the hook? Where’s the catch? And so, letting him jiggle the bait some more, I said, I couldn’t take all that time off from work. Then, foolishly, like some sucker fish, I nibbled at the bait, asking why he wanted me to go to New York.

Wise in the ways of conversational deception, he continued to simultaneously hide the hook and jiggle it. "Hey, what’s the use of being Division Head if you can’t send one of your senior CPAs to New York to audit the records of some of the suppliers of the Inner City’s War to Save Albany’s Children Charity?

What you do is go to a couple of their suppliers, for example the firm that supplying them with vaccines, pills and infant formulas, and maybe the food distributor that ships prepared meals to Albany. You pop in on these outfits for an afternoon, check their records, write a brief report, and the rest of the week is yours. We can always stretch out those reports to cover the missing work days.

This started to sound like work, possibly busy work, yet most government work is just that, and his offer to pay all expenses now looked like the division would be picking up the bill. Feeling the real hook was still hidden in the bait, I dodged his offer with a pious business excuse. I just don’t know if I should leave the department at this critical time of the year, what with Christmas coming and the numerous audits we have to finish by the first of the year. And there’s still the messy problems with the Inner City’s War to Save Albany’s Children Charity. But of course, I really appreciate the offer.

After giving me excessive credit for my loyalty to the department and my admirable work ethic, Slowely assured me the department could cope without me for three or four days. Then, satisfied, he sighed, opened a vest button or two, patted his amble protective suit of fat, and sighed again. You’re a married man, Ed. You’ve got children, and you know how mothers are. Well, poor Naomi is really worried about Wendi. She’s afraid Wendi’s in some hospital, or that she’s a rape victim, or is involved with drug dealers or is a member of some radical left wing group or something. I don’t think it’s anything serious, but listening to my wife harp on all these frightening scenarios, I have to admit I’m getting nervous about Wendi’s lack of communication. Possibly while you’re taking your paid New York Christmas shopping trip, you could look up Wendi, see if she’s okay, and maybe tell her to call her mother. If you do me this favor, Ed, let me tell you, Naomi and I will never forget it. I’ll owe you big time.

That last owe you I took as a reference to a possible promotion to head of the division when he either retires or moves up in the bureaucratic food chain. Again I discounted him and his meanings, reminding myself I was talking to Slick Wally where promises are vague and never put on paper.

Trying to get a better look at the hook, I asked why he and Naomi didn’t go on this great free vacation trip and see Wendi themselves.

He was prepared for that. It’s impossible for me to get away. You know how busy the department always is at the end of December, and there’s no need to tell you we’re behind schedule (we always were). And now, with this charity business, I’ve got to use all my acumen to save the department from getting the blame.

Right, I thought. You’re indispensable, although, as is the case with all department heads, you’re actually the most dispensable person in the department.

In fact, he continued, I’ll probably have to order the department to work over the weekend. Hate to do it right before Christmas, but we’re facing a crisis.

There’s the stick, I thought. The carrot was an expense-paid six days in New York; the stick was if I pissed off the boss I’d have to work the weekend, and as a senior auditor, I’d get no extra pay for the extra time. I asked, Why doesn’t Naomi go to visit Wendi?

With a slight laugh he answered, "Naomi doesn’t like to travel alone, and she’d be scared to be on her own in the Big, Bad Apple. So Ed, what do you think? Christmas shopping in New York…your wife would love it and you’d be doing me one big favor. You’d be getting some R&R and making your wife very happy — and very appreciative." That last was delivered with a wink.

I should have said no, remembering the old axiom, you get nothing for nothing, but I said sure, swallowing the bait, feeling there had to be a hook somewhere and I just couldn’t see it.

Finishing our coffee, we stood up, and he gave me Wendi’s Fordham campus address, a current picture, and a letter requesting everyone to give me any and all assistance as I was acting on his behalf. There was an awkward pause where I looked at him, waiting for him to discuss the expense trip money arrangements. Looking nonplussed at my delay in leaving the table, the reason for my delay finally dawned on him. He cavalierly promised to reimburse me for all my expenses with a laughing, Just don’t pad it too much. Put it all on your credit card and the division will pay it when the bill comes in. Of course, the wife’s Christmas purchases are your responsibility. The last was accompanied by a little nasty smile. Unable to react to his nasty asides impugning my honesty because he covered them with a friendly laugh, which nasty people often do, and annoyed in not being able to react in kind as nice people are often inhibited, I let it go by.

Like I said, he was smooth smart, making me front the money and trust him to sign off on my reimbursement from the division’s expense account. And of course I’d be getting out of a lot of year-end work and some no-pay overtime craziness. Then he did a very strange thing — he dropped cash on the table for the bill instead of using the department credit card. I committed myself to six days in New York City and, against my better judgment, hoped there wasn’t a hook.

Later that afternoon, from my cubicle, in a happy, anticipatory mood, I called Jackie at her Macy’s job. She answered the phone in a warm, enthusiastic voice. Hello, I’m Jacqueline.

I said, Hi, it’s Ed, and her voice dropped below freezing as she complained about receiving personal calls at work. Since I was calling from my office, I was annoyed by her comment but persevered, filling her in on the trip to New York City, detailing it with extravagant claims of fun we’d have exploring the Big Apple, especially with all the stores lit up and decorated at Christmastime. She refused to be lit up by my excited talk of the two of us together going crazy in New York City. Instead, she gave me a lot of indecision, with phrases like I don’t know, I need more time to think, and I need time to pack.

That last phrase came to the fore when I told her we’d be leaving tomorrow morning. Continuing the theme, she complained of having no clothes, of having to find clothes, of having to get clothes from the cleaners, of having to buy clothes, of having to clean clothes.

Hell, I said. Just throw a few things in a carry-on and off we go.

She laughed at my suggestion as being totally ridiculous, and the conversation ended with an unenthusiastic maybe in her tone, and Let me think about it in her words.

Leaving work a little early, I waved to Slick Wally. He signaled with a thumbs up; with that, we’d both acknowledged I’d be leaving early tomorrow for New York City on a trip he’d pay for.

On my way to Jacqueline’s I picked up a bottle of wine and a small charm for her bracelet, a silver apple, costing as much as a dozen apples in December, but still cheap considering I’d be climbing into her bed one hour after I rang her bell. I’d be climbing back into my pants a half hour after she rang my bell in time to get home, just an easily excused hour or so late.

CHAPTER 2

THE FIRST CRACK

An individual’s reality collapses, not all at once.

It starts with minuscule fissures,

Whose real meanings are misunderstood.

Monday, December 11, 5:10 PM

At Jacqueline’s apartment (she liked to be called Jackie), I laid out the trip as a spur-of-the-moment, wild, crazy, adventurous, romantic love fling.

Twenty-nine and unmarried, Jackie, my mistress (she preferred girlfriend) for over a year, was starting to make noises that I should be getting a divorce, or at least leave my wife and move in with her. In six months she’ll turn thirty, and with that number haunting her, I knew she was trying to turn her nothing life into something, which included marriage and children, and that meant putting pressure on me.

I was ambivalent about burning my current marriage license and committing to her. Well, ambivalent is too kind a word; adamant would describe my feelings towards marrying Jackie, adamant as in never. A year in and out of her bed had robbed her of all her physical excitement and revealed all her physical and psychological flaws, which I, a couple of years from forty, had the life experience to notice. My goal, if I had any, was to maintain the status quo and enjoy the pleasures of her bed gratis for as long as possible. Besides, I knew all her protestations of undying love for me rested on her age and biological clock, and had very little to do with me. Thinking this trip would placate her and dampen her now very audible and predictable feminine noises for decisive marriageable action on my part, I was surprised when she refused. Hell, despite her equivocating telephone noises, I was sure she’d jump at a romantic trip to New York City, as well as jumping on me for six solid days in gratitude for taking her. Besides, she could read this jaunt as a signal that I was about to move in with her and make our thing a permanent thing.

Her excuse for not going with me was her job. She couldn’t take Tuesday through Sunday off because the people she worked with depended upon her, and she just couldn’t let them down. Of course, it was a lot of bull. She worked at Macy’s, in a mall, behind the perfume and make-over counter, where she and her co-workers spent most of their time working over each other.

Though I argued, she dug in and hid in a bunker of work ethics, the Christmas rush, lost bonus money, and the lack of a warning, all of which proved impenetrable to the blandishments of my love — how we’d have a great romantic adventure together and how deeply I wanted us to be together, not for a night, not for a day, but for six solid days and nights in exciting New York City.

Unbending, she maintained her job responsibilities forbade yielding to her heart’s desires, and the final blow was her turning it on me, asking if she came up with an out-of-the-blue trip, would I suddenly leave my job for five days. A mall perfume salesgirl and a senior CPA weren’t a balanced comparison, so either she rated herself too high or me too low, but putting our jobs on par was insulting.

Sitting curled on her black velour couch under a pound of face powder and bright red lipstick, and wearing a tight green wool skirt pushed up to her thighs, in all reasonableness and profound sadness, she maintained her uncompromising position: she wanted to go, she’d love to go, she was happy I wanted her to go, and she was devastated she couldn’t go. In fact, she would be glad to go on any trip after Christmas. She knew we’d have a great time but the demands of work had to be answered. It would be unconscionable for her to take off even a day, never mind a week, before Christmas. She absolutely couldn’t let Macy’s down.

That last remark destroyed any credence her excuses had. For heaven’s sake, let Macy’s down? Her? A make-over counter girl?

Unfortunately my disappointment continued. Shutting off further arguing so there would be time left for sex, and with the subtle sensitivity of a Lover of the Year, I suggested we adjourn to her bed. I was shocked by her refusal, and her justifying it by saying she had Macy’s Christmas fatigue.

I had a third drink to help swallow her refusal. Damn, this was serious rebellion. What to make of it? Was this a new ploy in her battle of the sexes with me, playing hard to get? Well, Honey, it’s too late in our sex game to try that gambit. Was her passing up the trip her signal to me that she was giving up hope of getting me to play the crucial role in her wedding party? That possibility was very disturbing. What could I do? Time was running short, and investing it in argumentation would yield nothing, so, finishing my drink, I got up, mad and ready to leave.

Seeing my departure was imminent and not wanting me to take my anger with me, she pounced and, between hard tongue kisses, expressed her thanks for the silver apple. While her tongue was doing a tactile count of my wisdom teeth, I was regretting the money I’d spent on the silver apple.

Coming up for air she expressed her deepest regret she couldn’t go with me, but before I could respond, she again plunged into my mouth, attempting to give my tonsils a vigorous tongue massage. Finally extracting myself, teeth and tonsils bruised but still intact, I reached for my overcoat but, grabbing it, she held it for me saying, Darling, call me tomorrow night at 10:30 from your hotel room and make sure you have a glass of wine. I’ll be holding a glass of wine, and we can toast our love over the phone.

Damn her! No sex now, and no New York City future sex! Just a lot of feminine, bullshit, sensitive feelies lovies over the phone, a woman’s idea of phone sex.

I left to go home, planning to sit down to a nice home-cooked meal and tell my wife, Janice, about our all-expense-paid trip to New York City, knowing damn it, Janice would certainly jump at the trip.

CHAPTER 3

ANOTHER CRACK

In life, two consecutive disappoints to the self

Do not double, but quadruple the pain.

Monday, December 11, 7:05 PM

My wife was like our home, comfortable if not exciting. It’s the kind of home where you know the nice places, the awkward places, the attractive and unattractive places, the places that needed repair and never would be repaired, like the thin serpentine cracks in our cement walk, and her spider web wrinkles, both of which would just continue to grow. It was a place for Sunday nights but not Saturday nights. This is to be expected, after being married for eighteen