In It For the Money

by Cathy Perkins

  “Jerk.” Laurie folded her arms.

  “Oh, and it gets better. He came by the office this morning to tell me he was just doing his job when he questioned Tate. Then, in a show of trust, he tells me my client might be crooked.”

  Laurie’s eyes popped. “Yikes.”

  “Seriously. But he can’t give me any details. ‘Cause, you know, his job.” Holly smacked a hand against her forehead. “What he does is important. But he doesn’t set any boundaries between work and the rest of his life.”

  “Has he considered adjusting his priorities?” Laurie pushed her plate aside and leaned forward on the table.

  “Who knows.” Holly traced a pattern in the table top, considering. “I’ve thought about this a lot. The thing is, it’s more than trust or priorities. For me, it’s about...being vulnerable.”

  “Is that a good or bad thing?”

  “For me, it’s a goal.” Holly blew out a breath. “It’s about not being afraid. Putting myself out there.”

  Laurie flexed a hand at her. “Woman, I see you doing that every day. How many new clients—”

  “I’m not talking about work.” Holly waved the comment away. “That’s different. That’s selling a product. A skillset.”

  “So, what’s the problem?”

  “I’m talking about relationships. About JC. I’ve been there once with him. I think we can get past the Meredith disaster, but damn. Look at my father. He cheated on the family as well as Mom.”

  Laurie nodded but didn’t speak.

  “As an adult, my sense of betrayal is different than if Dad had walked out when I was a kid. Before this left turn into the ludicrous with the yoga instructor, my parents were talking retirement, bugging me for grandchildren. And now? Poof.” She mimed an explosion.

  “Not every couple falls apart,” Laurie pointed out

  “No, but how do I find a way to let go of fear and believe a relationship can work?” Hands clasped, Holly propped her elbows on the table. “If I’m going to give up my professional dreams, how do I trust JC not to do the same thing to our relationship?”

  Laurie’s gaze drifted, a thoughtful expression on her face. “Would you be giving up your dream, or just changing the dream?”

  Holly released a deep sigh. “I don’t know.”

  “You two have to figure this out together.” Laurie reached across the table and grasped her hand. “He has to want your relationship to work as much as you do. Which means he has to be willing to give too.”

  Gaze locked on the table, Holly tightened her fingers around her friend’s. Finally, she looked up and met Laurie’s concerned gaze. “I’m not sure he will.”

  Chapter Twenty

  What’s Up (What’s Going On) (4 Non Blondes)

  “Hi, Tracey.” Driving, Holly made a surreptitious check for roaming patrol officers as she spoke into the cell phone.

  “What can I do for you?” her receptionist asked.

  Holly shifted into the center lane of the highway, avoiding the slow moving cars exiting onto Columbia Trail.

  “I have a couple of meetings this afternoon I’m not going to be able to make. Can you please call and reschedule them? And let Rick know I won’t be back to the office until later this afternoon.”

  “Sure. Any particular time on the reschedules?”

  Holly loved that Tracey knew when to ask questions—and when not to. “Anyplace you can work them in.”

  She wrapped up the call and dropped her cell into her purse. Looking into the speculation and rumors at Boulder Bounders might be an exercise in futility, but damn. Both Tate and George could be in trouble and no one seemed to be doing a thing about it.

  If JC was going to get on her case about sticking her nose into a family crisis, she’d damn well stick her nose in. If the cops weren’t going to look into the claims about the rumored substandard, defective parts—other than as a motive for Tate to go after Shaw—she would. The broken part on Shaw’s rig was at the center of this mess. Missing an actual defective part—something quality control should have caught—was one thing. A substandard copy was an entirely different issue.

  Rick might be right about George’s problems not being an issue for Desert Accounting. Tate, however, was inextricably intertwined with Cascade Precision. Threats to George, to Cascade Precision, had ripple effects she couldn’t ignore.

  A few minutes later, she pulled into the Boulder Bounders parking lot. Given the number of cars and trucks packing the lot, either the wreck hadn’t dampened enthusiasm for the event or, more likely, the crash had brought out even more spectators.

  She found a parking space in the VIP section and climbed from the car. She hesitated. Okay... What was the plan?

  With no suspects—other than that Randy Kapaska guy, and she was pretty sure she didn’t want to talk to him—she didn’t have a place to start. She eyed the cluster of climbing and mudding courses. Noise and dust swirled above the crowd. Focused on the competing rigs, their friends and their beer, most likely none of them would want to talk to her. Besides, would the spectators know anything about the suspect truck parts?

  She turned and studied the booths. The vendor section appeared to be doing a brisk business. Mikhail Petrov was the only one who was supposed to sell George and Tate’s suspension part, at least for now. Until she knew exactly what broke, talking to Mikhail was pointless. The other vendors would have no reason to discuss its performance. They might be happy to dis the suspension, but they wouldn’t have insights into any problems.

  That left the staging area. Through gaps between the vendor tents, she could see men milling around in the prep stations. She didn’t know any of them. For a moment, she wished Laurie could’ve come with her. Her friend’s bubbly personality drew guys like moths or flies or... Surely, she could think of an analogy that didn’t involve bugs.

  Coward.

  Quit stalling.

  She squared her shoulders.

  You can do this.

  A panel van blocked the direct route between the vendor tents and the competition staging area. She detoured around the van and slid between two booths. Picking her way past the tangle of guy wires, she maneuvered through the narrow gap. A flash of a bad memory—surreptitiously creeping through her client’s annex office last month before uncovering disastrous evidence—stilled her feet. She was using the same tense-body, careful-where-you-put-your-feet steps to inch her way forward. A shudder shimmied down her spine.

  Denial reared its head. This was different. She wasn’t snooping. She was straight up asking questions.

  Maybe.

  So, why did it feel as if she were doing something wrong?

  With a determined shake of her head, she stepped around a stack of boxes at the mouth of the alley.

  A man appeared out of nowhere.

  Whoa!

  Her heartrate skyrocketed. Where’d he come from?

  Hand pressed to her chest, she gulped in air. Just a guy. A vendor, probably. No biggie. At least his back was to her. Starting out with some macho man laughing at her panic would be a serious setback to learning about the truck parts.

  She took several long, slow breaths until rational thought was back in charge. A quick scan left and right showed a gap in the canvas at the back of the booth next to her. Duh. He’d stepped out of a vendor tent. Had nothing to do with her.

  She rolled her eyes. Get a grip.

  She watched his broad back as he crossed to the van and opened its back door. Dark ink peeked above his collar. How did people tattoo their necks? It looked cool, but it had to hurt like crazy.

  Stepping over the last of the guy wires supporting the vendor tent, she idly peered inside the van at the stack of boxes in the cargo space. Tattoo Guy slid a stack of boxes onto a handcart.

  She moved out of the way, scooting behind the open door as he backed out of the van. Apparently oblivious to her presence, he bumped the cart off the bumper and rolled the stock toward the tent.

  Was he that focused on w
hat he was doing, or was it really that easy to overlook her?

  Like she needed another ego hit.

  With a sigh, she edged past the van and headed for the prep area beyond it. The logo on the stack of boxes registered. She stopped, stepped back and looked again. Cascade Precision. Huh. The van contained boxes of Tate and George’s suspension part.

  Smiling, she moved away from the van with a lighter step. In spite of the bad press, the part must be selling well if the vendor—the tent must be Mikhail’s booth—was restocking. She’d have to tell George and Tate the next time she saw them.

  Angry voices suddenly erupted from inside the tent that Tattoo Guy had entered. Instinctively—and a bit curious—she glanced over her shoulder.

  The sounds grew louder. Another quick look around showed her choices for staging a quick disappearance were limited—the back entrance to one of the other vendor tents, or another of the gaps between them. The next second, she felt foolish. Why should she hide?

  Maybe because the last thing she wanted was to get caught in the middle of another fistfight?

  Yeah. That.

  The canvas flap of Mikhail’s tent jerked aside and two men emerged.

  She froze.

  The loud voice gave way to a low, harsh, angry tone.

  She inched backward, grateful for the cover the van provided. If she could get past the van, she’d make a break for the next tent. If the men were caught up in their argument, they probably wouldn’t notice her.

  Even as she looked for a way out, curiosity got the better of her. Leaning forward, she peeked through the gap between the van’s back door and its side.

  Tattoo Guy dragged the handcart loaded with Cascade Precision parts behind him, head hanging, looking like a Doberman Pinscher puppy chastised for biting the neighbor. Potentially dangerous, but clearly not yet an alpha. A blond-haired man followed, his intense body language a further warning to stay away from their confrontation.

  With a start, Holly recognized his features. Mikhail. Right now, with his ice-cold expression and chiseled features, he definitely personified Laurie’s James Bond assassin lookalike fantasy.

  After a few more harsh words, Mikhail strode away, headed in the direction of the seating area. Tattoo Guy disappeared into the van. She heard banging noises as he apparently dumped the rejected stack of car parts.

  What was that about? And what was up with the major asshole impersonation? She didn’t know Mikhail well, but she’d never seen him act that way. Would the cold anger clinging like frost to his features melt as soon as he rejoined his colleagues?

  Wasn’t there a saying about the truth of a person residing in how they treated their dog and their underlings?

  She eased away from the van, slipped across the access road and slowly approached the prep area. Why wouldn’t Mikhail want Tattoo Guy to bring in more suspension parts? Was he concerned about the rumors? Downplaying the product’s launch as a result? Was he afraid there might be more defective parts in the shipment? Maybe that anger was directed at George—and Tate—for putting him in the awkward position of defending the new suspension.

  Today wasn’t the day to ask him.

  Today was about Tate and whatever the guys on the circuit could tell her. She squared her shoulders and tried to think pretty, feminine thoughts.

  Right. Because doing that could so transform her into a man-magnet.

  Not.

  Two guys bent over the hood of a rig at the closest prep station. Both were dark-haired, but one looked Hispanic while the other’s features were more Native. T-shirts, stained jeans riding low on their hips and hoodies completed their outfits. She drew in a deep breath and approached them. “Hi. How’s it going?”

  “Hi.” The man on her side of the rig, Native Guy, paused and gave her an up and down scan. His gaze hung for a second at chest level. Most likely it wasn’t because of her B-cups. The other guy gave her a one-second glance and returned his attention to the car engine.

  “You running later today?” She gestured at the truck they were working on.

  Hispanic Guy looked irritated, but Native Guy said, “This weekend. We’re tuning up.”

  She couldn’t see his face, but she caught the man’s head tilt and the subtle head turn, the sideways glance at her chest, or rather, at her badge. Her sponsor level badge. Sponsor, as in the people who offered employment—and blackballed uncooperative or rude people.

  Hispanic guy straightened and lowered the tool he held.

  Wiping the grease from his hands, Native Guy said, “I’m Mato Good Crow. That’s Nicolás Sanchez. Nick for short.”

  “I’m Holly. I won’t keep you. You’re busy. But we’re... I’m concerned about the fatal wreck last weekend and the events surrounding it. We hate to see competitors feel unsafe. I mean, I see how hard everyone works on their rigs, and all you guys practice so much. Are you concerned about being here? Running the courses?”

  Both shook their heads. “The course is great,” Mato said.

  “What about that man the paper mentioned? The one with the new part? Are you worried about him?”

  “Tate Price? Hell, no. That was total bullshit. I’ve known Price for years. He’s a stand-up guy.”

  She turned to Nick. “What about you?”

  Nick shrugged. “I never heard nothing bad ‘bout him ‘fore now.”

  She refocused on Mato, the chattier of the two. “What about the part that broke? I’ve heard there’s some concern there.”

  Lips pressed together, Mato seemed to think about it for a moment. “I’m running a Toyota”—he nodded at the rig in front of them—”so I can’t say for sure. The guys—other than Shaw—who ran that part this week like it. Ford’s stock suspension doesn’t have enough play for courses like this. Price’s part lets those guys move up.”

  “Move up?” She asked, confused.

  “Smaller events won’t have as tough a setup. Don’t pay as well. This weekend? Watch the main events. Betcha every Ford will be using that part.”

  She crossed her arms. Oops, defensive posture. She dropped them and debated what to do with her hands. “Wonder why the reporter made it sound dangerous?”

  “‘Cause Randy’s an ass,” muttered Nick, who was already bent back over the Toyota’s engine compartment.

  She lifted an eyebrow and exchanged glances with Mato.

  “His sponsor dumped him. He should know badmouthing doesn’t cut it.” Mato shrugged. “Maya owicha paka.”

  “I’m lousy with languages...” Well, at least whatever that language might be.

  Mato grinned. “Roughly translated, it means, ‘He who pushes you off a cliff.’”

  “Okay then.” That said it all. “Thanks for...uh...talking to me. Good luck this weekend.”

  Her cell phone buzzed. Mato turned back to his rig and she stepped away.

  A glance at the cell’s screen showed Unknown Caller. JC showed as Blocked if he forgot to change the setting when he called. Unknown was probably a wrong number or a telemarketer. She sent it to voice mail.

  She wandered down the row of rigs and talked to other men. Over the next few hours, she heard people speak highly of Tate and affirm his honesty. She also heard the stuff Tate hadn’t told her. That Randy Kapaska was in debt past his ass. That he’d gotten cut by his sponsor for drinking and crashing in a stock car event in Utah.

  “So, he’s desperate for a job—a ride—and a sponsor?” she asked one group of men.

  “He’d say or do anything to get one or the other.” Their disdain for Randy was as clear on their faces as it was in their words.

  “What about Shaw’s wreck?” She left out the smothered-in-the-hospital part. “The suspension part that failed?”

  With varying degrees of subtlety, this question inevitably drew exchanged glances among the men, but few responses beyond the new part being a good replacement for the Ford stock suspension.

  “I heard a few of you were concerned about possibly defective parts.”


  The men shifted, their body language shouting, “Uncomfortable.”

  She raised her hands, palms out. “Look, I’m not accusing anybody of anything. I’m concerned about you guys, the drivers. Your safety.” She smiled. “If that’s a fair comment, given the crazy stunts you do out there on the course.”

  No one smiled back.

  In for a penny... “My second concern is the effect of the crash on event attendance. Mikhail Petrov claims the fans like to see wrecks.”

  One of the men stiffened when she mentioned Mikhail. Questioning him in front of his friends most likely wouldn’t get her anywhere.

  She gestured toward the parking lot and the audience at the course. “It doesn’t seem to be impacting attendance in a bad way. But the sponsors have a big investment in this event. If there’s a problem, we need to know about it.”

  Finally, a guy named Jon pulled her aside. “I haven’t heard anything around here, but there were rumors in Utah.”

  “About?”

  “Some of the guys on the circuit…” He took a quick glance around, as if making sure he wouldn’t be overheard.

  She had a quick flash of Tate saying guys who complained about defective part lost their sponsors. She chewed her lower lip. She didn’t want to risk Jon’s position.

  “There was talk about street-level parts, knockoffs, being sold as competition grade. They fail under course conditions. Can’t handle the stress.”

  “Did the drivers know they were buying copies when they bought the parts?”

  “Maybe. Doubt it.” He shrugged. “Who’d risk the rig or his run on a crap part?”

  “So, the owner and/or driver thought he was buying legitimate parts.” She grimaced. “Someone’s making crap parts and selling them as genuine?’“

  Jon shrugged again. “That’s the rumor.”

  “Think Randy’s involved?” She kept her tone as neutral as she could.