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Ana’s mouth twitched. “Okay, look.” She exhaled a ribbon of smoke. “I never accused him of anything. But I heard stuff about him. And he had this attitude. Like, he didn’t need to worry because he would get his someday. He kept hinting he had it made financially.” She took a drag and blew the smoke my way. “So when they found money in his file cabinet, I figured he was the one stealing. It would, like, explain his whole attitude, you know? And, yeah, it made me mad. I could have used that promotion and I never would have stolen from the company.”
“Did it not occur to you that Brad’s family may have money? That an inheritance would be his someday?”
She sniffed. A sapphire-blue stud twinkled in her nose. “Oh, really. Well poor, pitiful Brad.”
“That doesn’t justify accusing him of a crime.”
“Look, all I said was he had this attitude.” Ana dropped the cigarette and crushed it with her pointy-toed pump. “I never accused him of anything. I figured he did it, though.”
I wasn’t sure I bought her story, but I nodded and we went inside. As the elevator doors opened, she said, “I still think he’s an asshole.”
* * * * *
Hirschbeck wasn’t in his office and wasn’t expected back all day. I hustled back to the car and sped off to Silver Hill Intermediate.
Little D was waiting in front of the school. I flashed my courthouse pass at the guard and explained that we needed to see Greg the janitor about a case involving one of the students. He took us to the administrative gatekeepers. After we’d received their blessing and our visitor’s badges, the guard directed us to the custodian’s office.
The head custodian was a stocky man with a shiny mahogany pate. Folds of fat collected above the back of his collar. “Greg’s busy,” he said, in a voice suggesting that he was, too. “Could you come back later?”
Little D stepped forward. “It’s important we speak to him. Now.”
The man’s gaze traveled up the full length of Little D. “Well,” he said. “I suppose I could page him, if it’s that important.”
Little D smiled. “We’d appreciate it so much.”
The man walked to the nearby PA system and hit a button. “Greg Beaufort, please come to the custodian’s office. Greg Beaufort, to my office.”
He busily ignored us while D and I waited. The second Beaufort came into view, I recognized him from the video. He was short and slight, with close-cropped hair. His complexion reminded me of caramel candy. His crow’s feet suggested that he was between 30 and 40. He wore a dark-blue jumpsuit.
An adjoining room had a metal desk and a couple of chairs. I asked the custodian if we could use it. He grunted assent.
Walking in, Beaufort’s glanced darted back and forth from Little D to me. “Whatchoo want?”
“I’m Sam McRae,” I said, closing the door behind him. “I’m a lawyer.” I paused to let it sink in. “I need to talk to you about something that affects my client. Have a seat, please.”
His eyes narrowed, but he sat down. Little D leaned against the wall, arms folded, ankles crossed. I perched on a corner of the desk.
“First, I need you to verify how late Tina Jackson was at your place a week ago Wednesday. Second, I want to know how you got involved in the child porn business with Kozmik Games.”
He glared at me. “Fuck you.”
“We know Tina was at your place that night,” Little D said. “We know about the sex parties.” He stepped toward Beaufort, pulled a DVD envelope from his jacket pocket and waved it. “We have a copy of your, shall we say, greatest hits?” Little D’s voice was calm, but the look he gave Beaufort could have melted steel.
Beaufort’s expression changed. The cockiness vanished for a second. He collected himself. His temple pulsated. “Bullshit.” He spat the word. “That could be Walt Disney you got.”
“Fine. You don’t have to believe us now.” I shrugged. “After we give the DVD to the police, and they see Tina and her friends giving you and your buddies blow jobs, I think you’ll start believing.”
Beaufort’s calm expression collapsed into panic. His eyes broadcast fear, his mouth trembled. He held his head. “Shit,” he said.
“There’s no point lying. Tell me how late she stayed that night.”
“Shit,” he said again. He covered his face, as if to wipe us out of his sight. “I’ma lose my job.”
“You’re going to lose more than that,” I said. “Of course, if you cooperate, you might be able to make some kind of deal. You never know.”
“For havin’ sex wit’ a minor? An’ recording it, too?” He shook his head. “Shit.”
Little D stood over Beaufort, staring down at him with growing disgust. At this last remark, I thought D might haul off and hit the little shitheel. I shook my head at him. D snorted. A wave of his hand said Beaufort was hopeless. D resumed his pose against the wall.
