In It For the Money

by Cathy Perkins

  She ignored the dig. She really hated when he pulled that law enforcement crap on her. “Nobody ran his truck off the track.” She also ignored the ridiculous suggestion in the newspaper that the truck had been sabotaged. “Come on Tate, let’s go.”

  “I’ll give him a ride.” JC tilted his head toward the elevator.

  “I don’t think so.” Fighting for emotional distance, Holly crossed her arms. Her voice regained an even tone. “Tate didn’t have anything to do with the wreck.”

  “Actually.” Tate shoved his hands in his pockets, looking from her to JC. “I wouldn’t mind talking to Detective Dimitrak.”

  She glared at JC, then refocused on her cousin. “If the police think you’re involved in whatever might’ve—and I repeat, might’ve—caused the wreck, you should definitely have an attorney present.”

  Tate shook his head. “You can come with me. You should hear this too.”

  JC opened his mouth, as if to veto that suggestion.

  “I’m not an attorney,” she told Tate.

  JC closed his mouth. She’d beaten him to the punch.

  “Am I under arrest?” Tate looked at JC for confirmation.

  “No.”

  “Then I’ll talk to you, but only if Holly can be there.” He glanced at her. “You can tell me to be quiet if you think I’m saying something I shouldn’t.”

  “Be quiet.”

  Laurie had remained silent at the nurses’ station through the argument. Now she tried unsuccessfully to smother a laugh.

  “You think this is funny?” Holly gave Laurie her best laser eye of death.

  “Oh, come on,” Laurie flexed a dismissive hand. “Tate wouldn’t hurt a fly.”

  As if Laurie had seen him in the past ten years, including the years Tate had been in the Marines and most likely had hurt more than a fly. He could’ve morphed into a maniac slasher killer during that time, as far as she knew.

  But the moral support couldn’t hurt.

  Holly cut her gaze to JC and recognized the stubborn set of his jaw. No way was he going to let this drop. At least today she had the option to be in on the conversation.

  She shook her head in weary resignation. “Fine. Laurie, do you have a conference room we can borrow?”

  ***

  Holly strode after Laurie, who crutched them down the hall to a vacant room. Tate and JC followed. Both looked grim.

  Holly didn’t like the way events were headed. But maybe it was better to get it over with so JC would eliminate Tate from his stupid suspect list.

  “Just turn off the lights when you’re done.” Laurie moved away, her crutches squeaking again the tile floor.

  Tate stopped just inside the door. He stood ramrod stiff at the head of the small conference table. Six metal chairs with hard plastic seats surrounded the rectangular table, crowding the space. Instead of a window, there was an X-ray film box, a digital screen and a generic picture of the Cascade Mountains.

  JC stepped past Tate and took the seat at the other end of the table. The two men stared at one another, sizing the other up like a pair of junkyard dogs.

  Holly shoved one of the side chairs out of the way and sat at the middle of the table. It seemed a decent analogy for being caught between her boyfriend and her cousin.

  Tate finally sat down. “My first instinct isn’t to like or trust you.” He crossed his arms and give JC a hard look. “I was in the Corp when all that shit went down between you and Holly. You hurt her bad.”

  Holly’s cheeks heated. She avoided looking at either of them. “Why bring up ancient history?”

  Tate continued as if she hadn’t spoken. “Clearly, you two have worked it out. None of my business. But if she trusts you, I’m willing to give you a chance.”

  She felt JC’s gaze burning into her, along with his unspoken question—Do you trust me?

  Did she trust him? Not with her heart—that was a separate topic. But did she trust him to be fair? She looked up and silently met his eyes before turning to her cousin. “JC will listen to what you say, and he’ll do his job.”

  Of that much, she was confident.

  Tate absorbed her words. Gaze fixed on the table, he seemed to be processing their meaning. Finally, he looked up. “I don’t have anything solid.”

  JC didn’t move, and Holly also waited for Tate to continue.

  “When we walked into the hospital room and Shaw wasn’t there...” Tate again dropped his gaze. “I thought maybe he took off. Like he wanted to get out of town.” His shoulder twitched. “Maybe he thought the wreck was a warning.”

  Holly raised her eyebrows. “What made you think that?”

  “Rumors going around the circuit about defective parts. Guys who complain... disappear.”

  “Disappear? As in, walk into the desert and are never seen again?” She stifled the automatic eye roll. He had to be overreacting or overdramatizing. Even so, a worm of concern wiggled down her spine. Defective car parts—deliberately defective?—didn’t sound good.

  “No.” Tate gave her a don’t-be-a-girl look. “They get fired or quit.”

  She shot a glance at JC, who’d remained silent. She was mildly shocked he’d let her ask all the questions, so far. Maybe he thought Tate would speak more freely, answering her questions.

  As long as they were the questions JC wanted asked.

  “Nothing sinister about that,” JC said.

  Tate shook his head. “I’m not explaining it very well. It’s the way they leave. Like they’re just...gone. They didn’t start working for another team, or try to find another sponsor. Didn’t say goodbye. Just left town.”

  “Because they were talking about defective parts?” JC leaned back. His hands rested on the table’s smooth surface. “You mean like someone warned them off?”

  Tate grimaced. “Maybe.” He tugged the folded hospital map from his pocket and dropped it on the table. “If Shaw had left town, I might’ve thought it was simpler. Randy Kapaska, the douc—guy—who started the fight? Everyone knows he wants Shaw’s ride. He was pissed when I got the Chen ride this week.”

  JC’s fingers beat a quick tattoo. “And blaming you for the Shaw wreck might keep an owner from picking you up as their replacement driver instead of him.”

  “Dumbass should know I’m not going back on the circuit,” Tate said.

  Holly’s gaze ping-ponged from Tate to JC. “If the newspaper was right and the wreck was deliberate, could Randy Kapaska be the one messing with the car parts?”

  Messing with parts sounded less sinister than sabotage.

  Tate dropped his head. The overhead light cast a shadow, darkening and emphasizing the bruises on his cheek. “Shaw was trying to help me figure out what those rumors were about. If there really were defective parts out there.” He lifted a shoulder in a half-shrug. “Weird coincidence he got hurt. Worse that he died.”

  JC scribbled on a notepad he’d pulled from an inner pocket. “Is it always the same part that breaks?”

  “No.” Tate had clearly spent time worrying about this. “Down in Utah, it was the ball joints. But a tie-rod broke during practice here last week.”

  That must be why the reporter mentioned the tie-rod in today’s article.

  “Don’t those things normally wear out?” Holly asked. “Especially when you’re torturing them the way you guys do going over the rocks?”

  “Once or twice, I’d think the same thing.” Tate lifted a hand and let it drop. “Shit breaks. But everyone on the circuit constantly upgrades their rig. The parts that broke were supposed to be new. Put that together with the guys taking off, and some of us got worried about being out on the course.”

  Holly studied his expression, vaguely surprised he’d admitted being worried. “Like yesterday? When a part broke while Shaw was running—crawling—the course?”

  “Yeah. If he’d been further up the incline, the rig could’ve been totally trashed. Dammit.” Tate banged a fist on the table. Anger—and pain—threaded his voice. “Was h
e wearing his safety harness? The roll bar should’ve saved him.”

  Holly shivered, remembering the concern in the security guy’s face when he’d told George they needed the ambulance.

  JC didn’t answer. Instead, he asked his next question casually, glancing up from the notebook where he’d been writing. “Where were you before the event?”

  “Me?” Tate blinked.

  She figured he’d been wrestling his emotions under control. JC’s question apparently caught him off guard. Still—she shook her head, appalled and incredulous JC had even asked. “You’re really asking for his alibi?”

  “I was—” Tate began.

  She half-rose and shot a glare at her cousin. “Be quiet.” She pivoted back to JC. “We told you earlier, Tate didn’t do anything to the truck.”

  Both men stared at her—Tate surprised, JC annoyed. His jaw tightened and an eyebrow rose.

  Access—to Shaw, the rig, the broken part—might’ve made Tate look guilty, especially given Randy’s claim he’d seen Tate tamper with the truck.

  “That’s what you’re implying, isn’t it?” she accused. “That Tate sabotaged the truck?”

  With Shaw dead, the police couldn’t ask him key questions like, did he have enemies? Who installed the part? Did he install it himself? Where did he get the part? Where did anybody get the damn parts?

  JC ignored her and focused on Tate. “Witnesses place you at Shaw’s rig earlier in the day.”

  “What witness?” she asked, an edge to her tone.

  JC continued to ignore her.

  Tate’s hands twitched in a well, duh gesture. “Shaw asked me to help him adjust the timing.”

  JC jotted down something. “How often did you work on his rig?”

  “Whenever he asked me to. He’s a friend,” Tate said impatiently.

  “So, people wouldn’t find it unusual if they saw you working on the truck when Shaw wasn’t there.”

  “Hold it right there. Tate, I mean it. Be quiet,” Holly interjected.

  “I never worked on his rig by myself,” Tate said over her objection.

  “Be an easy way to get rid of a competitor,” JC said.

  “I’m not on the circuit anymore,” Tate repeated. “I got nothing to prove.” He placed his palms on the table and leaned forward. “Running Chen’s rig was a one-off. When I compete, I win for real. Smearing a guy with lies sounds like some asshole’s idea of erasing a competitor.”

  She’d had enough. “Dammit, JC. Why don’t you try finding the other missing drivers? Maybe there’s an actual crime there to solve. Something’s happening with those truck parts—and the drivers know about it.”

  JC regarded her evenly. “Because there’s definitely a serial killer hunting monster truck drivers.”

  “You’re being an asshole.” She rose abruptly and picked up her purse. “Come on, Tate. We’re out of here. Now.”

  Tate stayed planted in his chair. “Calm down. You’re overreacting.”

  She turned on her cousin. “Overreacting? I’ve seen how this works. Up close and personal. You. Are. A. Suspect. Can I make it any clearer? A murder suspect.”

  Tate glanced at JC, cocked a questioning eyebrow.

  She threw up her hands. “Seriously? He even called you a suspect!”

  “I’m simply looking for information.” JC’s voice was completely level, which just made her madder. He also focused on her cousin rather than addressing her directly. “We have to consider it a suspicious death until it’s officially labeled an accident. Tate, your information may be helpful in establishing motive.”

  “Which Tate doesn’t have,” she pointed out.

  Both men gave her quizzical looks.

  “Tate doesn’t have a motive. He isn’t on the circuit, doesn’t need a ride or a sponsor. And why would he sabotage a truck that was testing his own new part?”

  “What?” Tate’s attention jerked back to her.

  Crap. If he didn’t know Shaw was testing his part, there went his lack of motive.

  “You remember.” She leaned on the word. “Danny installed your new suspension in his rig.”

  “How do you know that?” JC demanded.

  She took a deep breath. Stay calm. “I saw the empty box when Laurie and I went to the prep area looking for George Chen.” She brightened, seeing another escape avenue. “We talked to a mechanic after Laurie pointed it out. The box. Anyway, they—Shaw and the mechanic—installed it right before Shaw started his run. While Tate was still on the course, driving.” Her voice might’ve had a triumphant note in it. She crossed her arms and glared at JC. “So, if somebody claims they saw Tate working on Shaw’s car, it was earlier, like Tate said.”

  JC didn’t look happy as he made another note. “I’ll confirm your story with the mechanic.”

  Right. Because she was definitely lying about it.

  She tugged at her cousin’s shoulder. “Let’s go.”

  He finally rose from the table. She saw the burning question in his puckered eyebrows. Shaw was using my suspension?

  Don’t say it out loud. A brainwave, mind-melding ability to communicate would be so convenient right now.

  “But you admit working on Shaw’s rig?” JC leaned back, causally crossed an ankle over his knee.

  “Give it up, JC.” She stalked to the door, heels drumming the floor with each step. “When you get past ignoring everything we’ve said that doesn’t fit your predetermined theory, you might start wondering why everyone who complained about breaking parts has vanished.”

  “Because they got labeled as troublemakers and their sponsors dumped them.” A trace of impatience had crept into JC’s voice. “Who’s inventing theories now?”

  “Have you talked to any of them?” she persisted. “Checked to find out if there was anything to their claims? Seems like there’s some smoke there.”

  “You’ve given me rumors. I work with facts.” Rigid, icy-toned, JC gave up his relaxed pose. His foot crashed to the floor. “Verifiable things I can prove.”

  She wasn’t about to be intimidated. “Then put some effort into verifying the facts Tate just gave you.”

  “When he gives me some actual facts, I will.”

  She stormed out, Tate on her heels. She would’ve slammed the conference room door, except it had one of those hydraulic hinge things that automatically closed it gently, and prevented the door from making loud noises. Nice for the hospital, not so much for the angry girlfriend.

  She stalked to the elevator and pounded the down arrow.

  Tate stood next to her and shifted his weight. “Listen, Holly—”

  “Don’t talk to me right now.”

  They found the econobox and drove away from the hospital. Silence sat on the console like a leering gargoyle. It grew with each mile until the pressure made Holly explode. “That was the dumbest thing I’ve seen you do.”

  “What?” Defensive male mode laced his tone.

  “Talking to JC, you idiot.” She kicked the accelerator, grateful traffic was at the midmorning lull.

  Tate waited until she pulled into the highway’s center lane. “We are talking about your fiancé, right?”

  “Ex-fiancé.”

  Tate absorbed that tidbit. “Says volumes about your relationship, doesn’t it?”

  “Will you quit trying to change the subject? Get this through your thick head. When a cop wants to question you, guilty or innocent, you keep your mouth shut until you have an attorney by your side.”

  He gave her a sour look and sighed.

  She pounded the steering wheel. “Look. I know you didn’t tamper with Shaw’s truck.”

  “Rig.”

  “Whatever. And you know you didn’t tamper with it. But if the cops have some basis for building a case with you as the prime suspect, trust me, they will.”

  “Yeah, well, I needed to tell him about the drivers who complained and vanished. That should give him—all the cops—a different angle to focus on.”

  “Maybe
, but it doesn’t give them a different person to focus on. Unless you convince them to look at someone else, specifically, they won’t. They have you boxed in a tidy package. You’ve already given them opportunity, and for some reason, JC is convinced about your motive. Give them a few days, and they’ll come up with the means, too.”

  Chapter Seven

  I’m Gonna Wash That Man Right Outa My Hair (Rodgers and Hammerstein)

  Holly stomped into the Desert Accounting office still mad enough to spit bullets. “Why did I ever get involved with that infuriating man?”

  Tracey, the Desert Accounting receptionist, studied her over half-rimmed reading glasses. “Because he’s the tall, dark and handsome man you love when you aren’t ready to kill him?”

  Normally Tracey was the office mom—appointment-taker and excuse-maker. Today she was just annoying.

  Mostly because she was right.

  “Besides that.”

  With a smile, Tracey handed her a stack of message slips. “Give it until tomorrow and see if you’re still mad at him.”

  Still grumbling, Holly strode down the hall to her office. She slumped in her desk chair. Her life was officially insane.

  Talking to her mother that morning had stirred up her uncertainty over whether she should stage Desert Accounting to sell the practice or take it over and run it herself. Had she actually committed herself to buying it, or just said she’d explore the possibility?

  Arguing with JC had highlighted a different set of concerns. He was supposed to be part of that decision making process. Right now, he was making it incredibly easy to change her mind again and leave.

  Blaming her, her job, for their inability to see each other. That was bad enough.

  Not trusting her.

  Not listening to her.

  Having the balls to demand she trust him.

  The whole Tate investigation—even thinking her cousin would deliberately hurt Danny Shaw—was ridiculous.

  But a huge eye-opener.

  She jammed her fingers into her hair, closed them into fists and tugged. What was she going to do about Desert Accounting? Grow the business? Pay off her deadbeat dad? Sell and bail?