Conduct in Question

Chapter 42

The private dining rooms of the Alton Club were located off a long paneled corridor running from the main dining room past the library. The executive committee of Cheney, Arpin had been closeted in the furthest room since nine o’clock, Monday morning. Any calls or visits from members of the press had been flatly turned down.

Jonathan Conroy sat at the head of the table, flanked on either side by Bill Cawthorne and Arnie Rosenberg. He popped an antacid pill into his mouth. He had slept little since early Sunday, when the press had called for a reaction to McKeown’s arrest for murder and fraud. God help them—it looked like McKeown was the Florist. Nightmares had spilled over into reality.

Bunnie, his wife, had been mystified. In her books, unless you were stupid enough to get caught with a smoking gun in your hand, or worse still, with your pants down, there was no trouble.

“For God’s sake, Jonathan. What is your problem?” she had demanded.

“I’m accountable,” he fussed. “I’m the Treasurer of the Law Society.”

“So? You didn’t steal anything. You didn’t bump anyone off.”

“Yes, but I should have seen McKeown was trouble.” He sank onto the bed clutching his stomach.

Jonathan was beset by the subtle shades of gray. Actually, he had known plenty and had turned a blind eye. And so, all Sunday and into the night, Jonathan weaved a tortured path through the realms of his distraught conscience. Fortunately, the fraud seemed to be contained within McKeown’s practice. The firm could cope with one bad apple.

Looking down the boardroom table, Conroy cleared his throat. “This money-laundering scheme of Tony’s…” Jonathan drove to the heart of the matter.

“Alleged money-laundering scheme, Jonathan.” Arnie Rosenberg corrected him.

Jonathan merely nodded. “How in hell did it get past our accountants? I thought we had every conceivable check in place.”

Rosenberg shrugged. “We don’t know yet. We’re just learning too.”

“Well, what part did Jenkins play in it?”

“Tony used him as a front.” Peter Niels said. “Apparently, it was better to use his trust account as a conduit for the funds.”

“So he was a dupe. He knew nothing,” Conroy persisted.

“Not at first,” said Rosenberg. “But he immediately took a big chunk of the retainer, before he’d done any work.” His eyes darted to Niels. “I’d say that implicates him big time.”

“How does that establish his knowledge, his willing participation?” asked Conroy.

Arnie spoke patiently, as if to a half-wit. “He had to know what was up, otherwise he wouldn’t have dared rip Albert off.”

Steeves broke off from his doodling to say, “Our guys are not forensic accountants. Who knows? Tony was brilliant, you know. He could hide just about anything.” Steeves’ admiration was scarcely concealed in his wistful tone.

“Did Tony set up that chain of companies himself?” Conroy asked.

The simple, straightforward question demanded a forthright answer. Aware of the uncomfortable silence, the Treasurer of the Law Society glanced down the conference table. A moment passed.

“Well, Peter?” Conroy tried again. “You’re head of the corporate department.”

Peter Niels had begun twisting his third paper clip, and Cawthorne, suddenly developing a tickle in his throat, reached for the water.