“An old friend completing your audit doesn’t sound very official,” Murphy said.
She ignored the pull of Murphy’s gaze, keeping her focus on O’Neal. “No, I imagine it doesn’t. But I was embarrassed. When I started, I was determined to run the gallery without any assistance. I wanted to prove to my family I could do it without any help, but I was drowning in my own hubris. I knew Remy would be discreet. And he’d be honest. I figured any uncrossed ‘t’s’ could be fixed without my family being aware.”
“You didn’t want help from your family?” Murphy challenged.
More than he could ever know. “That’s correct.”
“But your mother started working at your gallery two years ago. Didn’t she refer Markov to you?”
Heat burned a path up her neck. Her exposed collar bone felt like a flashing red neon, “Guilt Lives Here”. “Yes, she did. But I’m not certain that is relevant. Her husband passed away, and she needed a distraction from the pain she was enduring over the loss of her spouse.” The partial truth almost sounded whole to Charlotte’s ears. Almost.
Murphy leaned forward in his chair causing the metal frame to creak. “You don’t think the timing is a bit odd? Your business skyrocketed at the same time your mother came into your employ?”
“No, I don’t.” Or at least until eight months ago she hadn’t.
“Your mother is first generation American, correct?” Murphy continued with the questions.
“Yes, on her mother’s side. However, my grandfather’s family has ties to the Mayflower, but what does my mother’s lineage have to do with Remy’s audit?”
“Your grandmother immigrated to the U.S..”
“Yes, but again, I’m not sure why you want to know about my grandmother. As I said, my family was not financially involved with the gallery.” At least she hadn’t intended for her mother to be connected. Remy had discovered her mother’s potential intimate connection with the gallery’s finances—the non-paper trail kind.
“And your grandfather owned fifty-one percent of Beckford Mercantile at the time of his death, correct?”
“Yes, but again, what does Remy’s audit of the gallery have to do with my grandfather or grandmother?” Charlotte’s stomach twisted into a pretzel. She refused to think her grandparents had any connection to the irregularities Remy had uncovered. Mama, on the other hand…unfortunately the connection was too easy to assume.
Agent Murphy rested his elbow on her desk. “And, you’re also aware after your grandmother’s death, fifty percent of your grandfather’s holdings will go to your mother and fifty percent to you.”
She nodded. “And, again, Agent Murphy, what does that have to do with the audit of the gallery’s books?”
Murphy leaned closer. His eyes narrowed.
A knock sounded on her door. Before she could respond, the door swung open.
Filling the doorway was all six-foot-three inches of Mac Taylor—the undeniably handsome thorn in her side for the last two months. And she’d never been happier to see him. “Mr. Taylor, did we have an appointment?” She hoped he would demand her presence in whatever meeting, stand-up, or round-up he had scheduled for the morning. She deplored meetings, but this morning, she would give her favorite designer jeans and heels for one of those painfully depressing stock-ledger reviews he forced her to attend.
He barely glanced at the two FBI agents, before shifting his dark brown gaze to her. “We have a stand-up in Arthur’s office to discuss the progress of the systems conversion on the West Coast, and then we have the scouting report to review from last week’s winter ball round-up. The coaches and scouts are meeting in the team conference room at ten-thirty, but if you’re too busy to care about the team, or the business, please continue on with your little conversation.” His top lip twisted to a snarl. “Wouldn’t want to distract you with real work.” He pivoted and strode out of her office.
“Gentlemen, I am sorry to cut this discussion short, but as you heard, I’m apparently late for a very important date.”
O’Neal closed his notebook. “Miss Dixon, I’m sorry we’ve disrupted your morning.” He reached inside his jacket and pulled out a business card. “Special Agent Murphy and I’d like to continue our conversation at a later time. Would you be so kind as to have your assistant call us with a convenient day?”
She hoped she hid her shocked relief. She didn’t care what made them stop their questions—even if it was Cranky-Pants Taylor. Reaching for the card, she stood and then walked to the door. “I’ll have Bridget set up time in the next week or so. With the holidays, it may not be until the new year.”
O’Neal shook her hand. “That’ll be fine. If we have any urgent questions, we’ll get with you sooner.”
They walked to the elevator. With a swish of the metal doors, they were gone.
The tension twisting at her shoulders released. She glanced at Bridget, handing her Special Agent O’Neal’s card. “Tell Mr. Taylor I’ll be a few minutes late to the stand-up and please contact the agents to set up time to finish this um…meeting.” She closed the door. Her body felt like mushed spaghetti as she slid to the floor. Tears raced down her cheeks. Breaths puffed through her lips in short spurts.
Time was running short.
She had to know the truth. Or die trying.
2
Murphy and O’Neal exited Watershed Industries using the scenic route through the Double A ballpark, the pride of the small, tightknit community of Colin’s Fancy, South Carolina. Nearing the end of the calendar year, the field was covered with a protective tarp, saving the grass for the warm days of spring.
Murphy’s long strides quickened closing the distance to the exit. Anger fueled each step.
“Man,” O’Neal hollered. “You’ve got to slow up or I’ll be running on my chubby stumps.”
Murphy glanced over his shoulder. His partner, slightly pudgy and barely five-foot-six, was nearly skipping to keep up with him. Chuckling, he stopped, leaned his shoulder against the fence and waited for Dylan. “Dude, you could stand to run once in a while. What if we’re in the middle of a sting and we have to chase down a criminal?”
“That’s why I have you, Cade. You’re like half bionic. You can chase him down, and I’ll drive the car and cut him off.” He shrugged, slowing his gait to a stroll.
“I risk my life and you stay in the car like a grandma? What do you bring to this partnership, Dylan?”
“Sensitivity,” he said. Patting Murphy on the shoulder, the two exited through the side gate, nodding to a security guard on their way to the dark blue government issued sedan.
Murphy slid behind the wheel and cranked the ignition. The decrepit vehicle likely wouldn’t pass any EPA regulations, but it made it from zero to seventy in under sixty seconds—all he could ask of a car. Gliding into the surprisingly heavy early morning traffic, he changed lanes and merged onto the parkway for the hour-plus trek back to Charleston and the regional office where the partners were temporarily assigned. Today’s hundred-and-twenty-mile round-trip tour of the South Carolina low country hadn’t met his expectations. Not even close.
He was hoping the surprise visit would set Little Miss Perfectly Coiffed Dixon into a tailspin, but she’d deflected their questions like a pro, which only fueled his frustration. He’d lost his cool, not something he was known to do. Self-disgust planted itself on his shoulder and chirped in his ear.
After two solid years of tracking the spider web of the New York branch of the Bratva, Russia’s answer to the Mafioso, he’d thought today was the day. The day he could stop searching for clues and start closing the shackles in the name of Lady Justice.
He’d presented the potential of Charlotte Lucya Dixon as a possible witness or co-conspirator to the Assistant Director, convincing the AD a temporary reassignment to Charleston was necessary to break the case. Although he and Dylan had been in Charleston for less than twenty-four hours, he’d strong-armed O’Neal with a mixture of guilt and will. Confronting Charlotte
Dixon as soon as possible would make their case.
After the last thirty minutes, he regretted not listening to his levelheaded partner. Dylan had been right. Cade’s desire for justice in this case ran too deep. He needed to stuff his emotions into the pit he called a heart. Seal them away until he heard the clink of the jail doors lock behind the last Bratva slime ball.
He changed lanes. The winter sun shined through the windshield, warming his hands and soothing his spirit. He relaxed his grip and leaned back into the seat, stretching his legs as far as the cramped sedan would allow.
“Take the next exit.” Dylan ordered, breaking the nearly fifteen minutes of silence.
“Why?”
“Don’t question, Probie. When have I ever steered you wrong?”
Cade lifted an eyebrow, but flipped the turn signal and eased into the right hand lane, turning onto Kean Neck Road.
O’Neal was silent for a few minutes. “Turn right on Witsell.”
The backcountry roads were lined with rows of gnarled trees and pockets of plowed fields ready for planting in the early spring.
Cade had the sinking fear that Dylan was leading him to a barren location so he could give him the overzealous lecture he deserved. Dylan didn’t yell often, but when he did, he could peel the paint off an iron bridge. Not that Cade didn’t deserve the lecture, nearly shouting at a suspect/witness this morning; but he would never let his partner know it. He hated admitting when O’Neal was right.
“Turn onto Half Moon Island Road.”
He turned the car onto the road, the tires slipping against the gravel path. “Where are you taking us, O’Neal? I think we’re far enough for you to scream your head off at me and not even a seagull will hear. I doubt they have discovered this swamp yet.”
“Relax. No yelling, Probie.” Dylan glanced back at his phone and stroked his finger against the screen. “You’re looking for a gravel road to the right, maybe another hundred yards.”
“You know we’re on a road with gravel?”
“Just slow down and look for the gravel road on the right.”
Less than a minute later, the road appeared. If he hadn’t slowed the car, he would have missed the turn-off. He eased down the narrow path shaded by hundred-year-old live oaks and magnolia trees meshed together to form a tight fence on either side. The path abruptly ended in a muddy mix of sand and gravel. A wall of trees blocked their forward progression.
“Now what, ‘O captain, my captain’?”
“Now, we hoof it.” O’Neal popped the glove box, reached inside for an evidence bag, and pressed a button to release the trunk. “Grab your boots. This will be messy.”
“Where are we going?”
“We’re about to do some heavy eavesdropping on one Miss Charlotte Dixon and Mr. Remy Reynard.”
Throwing his backpack filled with evidence bags, water, and a clean pair of shoes over his shoulder, Cade struggled to keep up with Dylan. “What do you mean, ‘eavesdrop’?”
Dylan winked. “I mean listen without being noticed.”
“Listen to what? They are supposed to be meeting for lunch at some restaurant.”
“Yes. She loves ‘that little fish spot ’, doesn’t she?”
Cade stopped and a grin pulled at the corner of his mouth. For the last two years, he had researched everything he could find on Anastasia Bickford-Dixon-too-many-last-names-to-hyphenate, and her only child, Charlotte. Charlotte was once asked about her childhood in a New York Times art section feature on her gallery. She talked about her favorite spot where her father’s property and her best friend Remy’s properties met. They liked to fish on occasion, but she never kept anything she caught because she hated the taste of fish. She had called it ‘the little fish spot’.
“How did you figure it out?” Cade asked, matching his strides with Dylan’s as they pressed through the trees.
“Well, Probie, that’s why I’m the senior agent.”
Today would be the day. Charlotte Dixon and Remy Reynard were conspiring about something. He just hoped the something they discussed would be the key to locking away the terror of the Bratva. “Lead on, oh, wise one. Lead on.”
3
Ignoring the shouts of Mac Taylor, Charlotte rushed down the hall, bypassing the matchbook sized elevator. One trip a day was her limit. Opting for the equally frightening metal grate staircase leading to the garage, she forced her gaze to her feet rather than the gaping abyss in the darkness below the narrow stairwell. Sweat pooled at the base of her neck, threatening to streak down her back. Her clammy palms slipped on the slick railing. Her fears were starting to overcome her. She needed to find a therapist in South Carolina. Long distance with Dr. Julianna wasn’t helping anything but the need for better deodorant. Hearing the faint din of footsteps behind her, she glanced at her watch and quickened her pace.
Time was running short to get to the back forty where the Dixon and Reynard family plantations were separated by a winding creek. Where Remy would be waiting to tell her how much trouble she was facing.
Charlotte slammed open the heavy metal door and sucked in a deep breath. Stepping into the wide garage, she scurried through the orange cone obstacle course as fast as her four-inch heels and pencil skirt would allow. Pressing the unlock button on her key fob, she waved to Mr. Croix, the groundskeeper. “The new dugouts look great, Mr. Croix. You’ll have to give me a tour tomorrow.” She took another step toward her car.
BOOM!
The blast threw her ten feet backwards into a concrete pillar.
Her head cracked against the corner. The ringing in her ears rivaled the time she’d sneaked to the top of the bell tower of St. John the Baptist in Charleston at noon. A warm sticky substance oozed down the side of her cheek.
The garage skewed in her vision.
Two Mr. Croix’s sprinted toward her with fire extinguishers in their hands.
The blaze evaporated to a smolder in seconds. Billows of smoke filled the garage.
Pressing her hands against the ground to stand, knives seemed to stab her palms. Pain radiated up her arms. Nausea rolled from the pit of her stomach and burned her throat. She dropped her hands in her lap, lifting her gaze to her smoking car, and saw two Mac Taylors racing to her. “Aww man, not him,” she muttered. And the world went black.
~*~
Mac sprinted toward Charlotte. Fear jolted adrenaline through his system. He shouted at Croix to call 911 as he slid to her in a move he’d last used heading into home for the Bombers nearly ten years earlier.
Ignoring the tear he felt in his knee, he gently shifted Charlotte’s head forward to inspect her wound. The gash was at least four-inches long but didn’t seem too deep. He reached into his pocket, yanked out a handkerchief and pressed the clean linen against her head. With his hand firmly supporting her neck, he tried to assess her other injuries. Most appeared to be superficial, but he would feel much better when a paramedic, or better yet, an Ivy-League-educated doctor made an assessment.
He glanced across the garage where Croix and two additional groundskeepers were valiantly spraying down the car that now looked to be in more of a smolder than threatening flames.
What happened?
Had Charlie “You-Can-Call-Me-Charlotte” Dixon’s car really exploded? In Colin’s Fancy, South Carolina? A town so small it didn’t even make it on the Beaufort County map. He shook his head, glancing at his temporary patient. If she hadn’t left the scouting meeting in such haste, after making a stink last week for not being included in the winter meetings or the two-day jaunt to Puerto Rico to watch two new potential pitchers, he would never have chased after her.
Racing down the back entrance to catch her, he’d heard the explosion before his feet hit solid pavement. The blast had shaken the walls like a tuning rod. With little thought, he’d smashed open the door to the garage and watched in horror as a blood-soaked Charlie slid to the concrete.
In the past two months, he’d dealt with her tantrums, fits, and demands, but the mom
ent he saw her helpless and in need, he wanted to rush her to safety. When his beloved employer and mentor died two months ago, he’d known his greatest challenge in life would be to endure the twelve months Bentley Dixon’s Last Will and Testament required of his daughters.
Each stood to inherit nearly a quarter of a billion dollars if they could “cordially” co-lead Watershed International and all of the subsidiaries under its control—including Bent’s prized acquisition, the Double A baseball team, the Beaufort Bombers—for one little calendar year. Within twenty-four hours, Mac was convinced that Charlie “You-Can-Call-Me-Charlotte” was ignorant to the definition of the word cordial. Despite spending her first six years and summers until she was twelve in South Carolina, Charlie Dixon embodied every stereotype associated with the privileged upper class. She was pushy, demanding, and was aloof with nearly every employee with the glaring exception of the groundskeepers and baseball support staff. With the men and women who made the ballpark shine, she was the sweetest Southern belle he’d ever encountered. The kindness she desperately tried to keep behind her hardened shell was what kept drawing him to her. For the sake of Bent, Mac was determined to crack her hardened exterior and help convert the man’s prodigal daughter into the legacy his dear friend deserved.
The wail of a first responder siren drew him from his thoughts.
Alarms echoed off the garage walls. The ground trembled under his legs as an ambulance squealed to a stop beside the smoking car. Two medics rushed from the cab.
Mac brushed Charlotte’s hair from her face. The cut above her left eyebrow had stopped bleeding. But the bruise spreading from the cut’s center would require Charlie’s deft hand at cosmetics in the coming weeks.
Girls of Summer Page 2