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“Stay on Hirschbeck about that audit, I guess, and push for them to check the computer system. Find out what Marzetti and Cooper know about this.” I paused to think of more options, but little came to mind. “I could try to get Marzetti to go back to Kozmik and tell them about the account he saw in the system.”
“Didn’t Jon Fielding mention it to someone?” Walt asked.
“Yes, but that was second-hand knowledge. He didn’t know all the details. If I could get Marzetti himself there, he could tell them what he found, which might move things along. Assuming he can remember. It’s been more than a year.”
“If push comes to shove,” Walt said, “I say we go right to headquarters. They’ll put the pressure on, if Hirschbeck continues to stonewall us.”
Assuming there aren’t accomplices at that level, I thought. Now I was getting paranoid.
“Speaking of Philadelphia, I was thinking of taking a trip this weekend.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“Up to Philly, with a short detour to Frederick. A nice little road trip.”
“Sounds like fun,” Walt said.
“I haven’t seen the Liberty Bell since I was in high school. And I could go for a Philly cheesesteak. The real thing.”
“I’ve never seen the Liberty Bell,” Walt said. “You’ll have to tell me all about it when you get back.”
“Will do.”
“Enjoy your cheesesteak. Don’t forget the Bromo.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Saturday morning was a good time to travel up I-270 to Frederick. The few cars on the road were probably leaf peepers heading to Western Maryland, avoiding a longer trip to Skyline Drive in Virginia. Any weekday morning, this stretch of road would’ve been jammed owing to area commuters living farther and farther from downtown D.C. With all the businesses springing up along the “I-270 Corridor,” I’d heard that traffic was as bad heading out as in. Once again, I gave thanks for my two-block commute.
Marzetti lived in a new development just outside Frederick’s historic district, cul-de-sacs with look-alike two-story houses. The term “suburban palatial” came to mind. Marzetti’s house sported a brick facade with yellow siding and bright white trim.
The man who answered the doorbell appeared to be in his late twenties or early thirties, with a shock of red hair and sleepy brown eyes. He wore gray sweats and a faded blue T-shirt.
“Mr. Marzetti, I’m Sam McRae. I’m an attorney working for Brad Higgins. He took over your position when you left Kozmik Games.”
“Right. So what’s this about?”
“I’d like to ask a few questions.”
A slim, dark-haired woman in jeans and an oversized top wandered over and placed a protective hand on Marzetti’s arm. She gave me a curious look. “What’s up?”
“Just something about my old job.” He removed her hand and stepped outside. “This won’t take long, honey,” he called over his shoulder before shutting the door.
With a hand on my back, he drew me away from the house. So much for a tour of Marzetti’s mini-manse. Maybe another time.
I stopped before we reached the curb. “Right before you left Kozmik, I understand you found a suspicious account in the accounts payable system. Was the vendor ITN Consultants?”
His brow furrowed. “I don’t remember.”
“Which don’t you remember? Finding a suspicious account or the vendor’s name?” I caught a glimpse of Marzetti’s wife peeking from behind a curtain.
“Neither one.”
“So you never spoke to your old boss, Darrell Cooper, about a suspicious vendor account?”
“I don’t know. It’s been a year since I worked at Kozmik. I can’t remember everything I did while I was there. Why?”
I ignored the question. “I’m assuming that if you’d f
