“Why are you here?” she repeated.
“Is there a conference room or office we can use? What I need to tell you is confidential.”
For a long moment, she left him dangling. She considered telling him anything said anywhere in the office would be treated as privileged.
Then again, having Tracey—or any of the staff—witness whatever he wanted might be worse.
Best to hear him out and get rid of him.
Hopefully forever.
“In here.” Instead of her private office, she led the way to the small conference area off the lobby. There was no external window in the room. Instead, a full-length glass panel faced the lobby. Normally, the closed door assured privacy for meetings. Today, instead of feeling isolated and perhaps vulnerable, the internal window meant Tracey was in a position to see if Frank tried anything stupid.
As soon as the door closed, he gripped the top of a leather chair. “I thought you had a right to know. Based on your analysis, I watched the two dealers. One—we’ll call him Bob—has a constant stream of turnovers—and they tip extremely well.”
“So, Bob’s your primary focus?” She pulled out the chair opposite him, relieved he was talking about business. Well, the DEA’s business. “Sit down.”
He placed his cowboy hat on one side of the small table. “I went through the security tapes for the past months and isolated Bob. There’s a pattern there. A certain guy comes in, makes one bet, doesn’t tip, and leaves. For the next few days, there’s a surge of gamblers who stay a few minutes, tip and leave.”
“The upswing in the subpattern reflected in the regression analysis,” she said,
He nodded. “Those graphs gave me a pattern to focus on specific dates. I think the first guy is probably the supplier, letting Bob know he’s received a shipment. The rest are buyers.”
“Makes sense. Have you figured out how Bob delivers the drugs?”
“Not yet.”
She took a deep breath, incredulous that Frank was telling her about an active investigation—something JC would never do—and that she had helped him—which would probably send JC over the edge if he found out. But damn. The casino dealer was literally dealing. Selling bad drugs that killed people.
“I’ve thought about ways the delivery could be done,” she said. “Have you watched your food service people?”
“The taco truck scenario?” A brief smile lit Frank’s face.
“They’re outside vendors and the least regulated of anything happening at the casino.”
“I’m watching both the cooks and the servers now.” He shrugged. “No evidence yet, but I have noticed a lot of the short-time gamblers either order food service if they stay inside the casino or stop there on their way out.”
“Could be a coincidence.”
“Yeah, and you know how cops feel about that.” He seemed to realize his lapse and quickly added, “I thought about confronting the dealer. Firing him.”
“Wouldn’t that tip your hand?”
“Probably.”
“What did the DEA say when you told them what you’ve found?” There was no way Frank would inform her before he told the agents.
A wry smile twisted his lips. “They liked the analysis. Said it would look good if they ever needed it in court. Needless to say, they weren’t happy about me planning to fire Bob. They could give a shit about the local dealer. They want his supplier and then his supplier—the bigger fish.”
“Figures.” She fiddled with the box of loose notepaper in the center of the table. “What happens next?”
“The DEA wants to handle it. Officially, I’m out of it. I’ll keep watching the dealer—my dealer—and identify his contacts. Once the agents are gone, my friend on the Drug Task Force can use what I gathered to go after the locals.”
“So, the Super Agents are still hanging out at the casino?”
“They’re using the conference room as an office.” He shrugged again. “I don’t mind. They aren’t bad guys. I really can’t touch the dealer or whoever’s helping him in the food concession—if that’s who’s handling the delivery—until the agents make their move. The faster they can get what they need, the sooner they leave.”
“Thanks for letting me know.” She stood. “I can’t imagine you’ll need my help again, but let me know if there’s anything else I can do.”
“Thanks.” He rose, as well. “Holly, I don’t think I ever told you... I mean... Seattle... All that... I really am sorry.”
He jammed his hat on his head and walked out without waiting for a response.
She stared after him, hit once more by the irony that a guy who’d made her life miserable was going out of his way to include her in an investigation, when JC, the guy who was supposed to love and respect her, constantly made her feel utterly useless.
Or worse, a burden.
What was she supposed to do about that?
Chapter Twenty-Five
A Hard Day’s Night (The Beatles)
Holly stood on her front porch and twisted the last screw into her new wifi-connected doorbell. Setting up the app on her cell phone had taken longer than actually installing the unit. She closed her toolbox, gathered the trash, and headed for the garage and the circuit breaker panel.
With a flourish, she flipped the breaker switch to the on position.
Take that, crappy old doorbell. Item Number #7 on her To Do list done.
Boom.
She tossed the boxes and old bell unit into the trash and returned to the front door.
Her finger hovered over the doorbell.
Moment of truth.
She pressed the button.
Ding-dong chimed from the interior unit. Her cell phone pinged a second later and her face appeared on the cell phone screen.
Cool. It actually worked. Smiling, she closed the connection and deleted the call notification.
She scrolled through the app’s options and studied the ring tones. She was tempted to select Cowbell instead of Antique Ding Dong as the phone app’s ring tone. The cowbell might be a bit much if it went off during a client meeting. Then again, with some of her clients, a cowbell might be a good idea.
Whatever. She silenced her phone before a client meeting, anyway.
She stepped into the house and locked the door behind her. Locked it, not because JC fussed at her, but because she was getting into the shower and he’d made her paranoid.
Damn him.
Even if it was a good idea and for a good reason.
Ten minutes later, she stood in her closet and flipped through her dresses. A floaty skirt? What was she supposed to plan for? Dancing? She’d need a short, flirty skirt and heels. One of the wineries? Dinner? Something more relaxed?
What on earth had JC arranged?
Something different, he’d said.
She picked a bias-cut wool skirt, a blouse that enhanced her limited cleavage, and soft leather boots. Upswept hair and a sweep of makeup and she was good to go.
Tate walked in the front door as she opened a bottle of red wine. “Why’s the door locked?”
“Because I was in the shower.”
“Women are weird,” her cousin muttered. He tossed his keys into the bowl on the kitchen counter.
“Want a glass of wine?”
He dropped his jacket on a counter stool. “How about the whole bottle?”
“Sounds like you’ve had a wonderful day too. What happened?”
He stepped back and folded his arms. “I’ve had enough people asking me questions without adding you to the mix.”
“Oh, grow up. Who’s asking you questions?”
“Some asshole cop. Not your asshole,” he added when her head jerked up.
“What did he want?” She filled a glass and slid it across the countertop toward him.
One shoulder rose and fell. “Asking about the wreck. The new part.”
“What did the cop want?” She repeated, enunciating each word. She kept her gaze on her own wine glass
but she felt Tate’s immediate tension.
After a long pause, he said, “He asked a lot about making the parts. The Mexico deal. How we hooked up with the people down there for assembly.”
“How did that happen, anyway?”
“Mikhail. He’s used that company to assemble other parts he sells and recommended them.” Tate shrugged. “NAFTA made the Mexican connection economical. George’s company makes the complicated stuff up here. The outfit in Mexico take George’s pieces and the subcontracted bits, and puts it all together.” He lifted his glass. “Thank God it’s Friday. Guess that’s why you’re all dressed up. You have a date with the asshole?”
“Quit being a jerk. Why was the cop asking you about the Mexico stuff?”
Tate drank a good inch of wine. “No clue. He’d ask questions about the set-up and I kept telling him to talk to Mikhail. Who is going to be super thrilled to have more bad press and is probably going to fire my ass.”
She shoved the cork back into the wine bottle. “Mikhail isn’t going to fire you. You’re good at sales, and you’ll come up with more new parts to make him money. Plus, you’re too well liked on the circuit for him to dump you.” She moved the bottle aside. “Why ask about Mexico if only one part failed? If the cops are suddenly so interested in defective parts, why aren’t they following up on the substandard parts you were talking about originally? The other drivers said those bad parts were their biggest concern.”
“Mine, too.”
“Why can’t the cops focus on that?”
He shook his head. “None of the drivers will admit to buying off-brand parts. Anyway, I brought it up and the cop said it isn’t a crime to buy parts on the secondary market. Problem is, I don’t know about the other products, but there shouldn’t be any knockoffs of mine yet.”
“The drivers were upset about Shaw. When I talked to them, they thought his wreck was the result of another bad part.” She took a sip of wine, hesitating. She’d hoped Tate would mention it first. “George told me about the sabotage.”
Tate gave a heavy sigh. “That’s the other thing the cops crawled up my ass about.”
“What?” She slammed her glass onto the counter. “That’s ridiculous. Why are they still on your case about that?”
“They kept hammering at me about why I’d sabotaged the part installed in Shaw’s rig.”
“First, why in the hell did you talk to them without an attorney, and two, why would you install a defective suspension in Danny’s rig, knowing it would fail and screw up sales of your actual part? Not to mention hurt your friend?”
Tate glared at her. “Get off my case. The cops didn’t give me much choice about talking to them. Besides, that’s what I kept telling them. Why would I screw my own product?”
“You always have a choice, unless they’ve arrested you,” she ground out.
“They sure made it sound like I didn’t.”
“Next time—if there is a next time, and there better not be another next time—call Walt. He isn’t a criminal attorney, but he can still get you out of there.”
“Fine.” Tate knocked back the rest of his wine.
She grabbed the bottle and held it over his glass. “You staying home tonight?”
“After this week? I’m not going anywhere.”
“Okay.” She refilled his glass, then strode across the kitchen, grabbed a bag of chips, and shoved it across the counter. “Eat something.”
He opened the bag and pulled out a handful.
“Clearly, it didn’t make any sense for you to screw up Shaw’s rig. Why did the cops think you were involved?”
“Access.” He mumbled around a mouthful of chips.
“What’s your motive?” She recorked the bottle. “Damn. All that crap Randy has been saying to the newspapers. He’s trying to paste a motive on you.”
“Probably.”
She leaned against the counter. “So, no real motive. Although Randy does have one. He needs you and Shaw out of his way so he can snag a sponsor.”
“I don’t know if he did the sabotage or just started the rumors,” Tate said. “But, yeah, somebody pointed the cops at me. I’ve been a suspect since day one.”
“Do you think Randy could be behind the either those other knockoffs or the tampering with your part? You know that saying, ‘he who smelt it, dealt it?’”
Tate eyed her over his wine glass. “Have I told you lately, you’re nuts?”
“No, seriously. It means, somebody who keeps calling attention to a problem may actually be the source of the problem. If Randy tampered with a part and either sold it to Danny as the real deal, or helped him install it, Randy could undercut your product and cost Danny a win. At the same time, that would potentially threaten both of your jobs. Wouldn’t that solve Randy’s problems? Oh!” Finger shaking, she pointed at Tate. “What if someone paid him to do it? I heard he had major money problems. Think he could be that desperate?”
Tate gulped his wine, apparently thinking about the possibility. “Maybe.”
“Oh, that was helpful. Care to expand on it?”
He put down his glass and sank onto a counter stool. Elbows propped on the countertop, he folded his hands under his chin. “If Randy had access to the sabotaged part or tampered with one himself, he could’ve sold it to Shaw. It would be a risk because Shaw would name him as the source of the failed part.”
“But Danny’s dead.” She picked up her wine glass and narrowed her eyes. “Conveniently for Randy, since now he can’t name names.”
“Yeah. But even if he is an asshole, he doesn’t strike me as a killer. Too big a coward.”
“Any idea who might’ve killed him, then?”
Tate shook his head. “Everybody liked Shaw. I can’t think of any enemies.”
“Well, somebody didn’t like him. And since he’s dead, no one knows where he got the crap part. I’ll bet anything it’s all connected. Why aren’t the cops looking for the guy who actually killed him? They know you didn’t.” She never thought she’d be happy about the night Tate spent in jail.
“Who knows? They might be looking for the guy. They sure didn’t tell me anything. Just asked questions.” Tate tucked the wine bottle under his arm, then picked up his glass and the chips. “I’ll be downstairs. You look nice, by the way. Don’t do anything tonight that I wouldn’t do.”
“I wouldn’t do most of the things you have done,” she called after him.
His laughter floated up the stairs, a sound she was relieved to hear...even if it sounded more like a faint echo of her happy cousin than real mirth.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Slow Hand (The Pointer Sisters)
Ding. Dong.
Cell phone in her hand, Holly headed toward her front door. She tapped the app and opened a connection to the doorbell unit. Part of her wanted to do a Get off my front yard riff like on the commercial. She settled for, “Hi there, Just Crazy Dimitrak.”
She liked the grin on his face.
“When did you install that?” He pointed at the new doorbell as soon as she opened the door.
“Today. You like, Junior Cluemaster?”
“I like. I know you’re smart and you’ve done a lot on the house, but how did—?”
“YouTube and HowtoGeek videos. You can find anything on the internet.”
“I’m impressed. Want to help fix up my house?” He followed her to the kitchen.
“In case you missed it, I have a few more projects here. Want to help me install a hot water heater?”
“I’m looking at a tankless one for my place. Have you thought about one of those?”
“I’ll look into it.” She gestured at her half-full glass. “Want me to pry the wine away from Tate?”
JC shook his head. “I’m driving. I’d rather save my alcohol points for later.”
“Ooh. What do you have planned?”
“It’s a surprise.” He grinned and both dimples appeared in their full glory.
She picked up her pu
rse and coat. “Let’s get this party started. Thanks again for the lollipops this morning.”
One shoulder rose in a half-shrug. “I remembered how much you used to like them. Hoped you still do.” He waited while she locked the front door.
She smiled as he opened the door to his Jeep and offered her a hand. She’d told him they had to get to know each other. Not again, but as who they were now.
And he was trying.
He leaned in. “Do you know how much I want to kiss you right now?”
The gleam in his eyes drew her closer. So much had been right between them. In college, they’d clicked right from the beginning. His crazy antics had drawn her out of her shell. Her drive had pushed him to study as hard as she did.
“What’s stopping you?” She paused with her mouth an inch from his. “Worried about your reputation or mine?”
“Just wait. I plan to enjoy every minute tonight.” His lips grazed hers, then he strolled around the front of the Jeep.
In some ways, their current relationship felt like a role reversal—he was the one consumed by his job.
Though, wasn’t she doing the same thing? Striving to be the best? Only here, now, in Richland, who was she doing it for? Was she building a future—or marking time?
She shook her head. Tonight was about fun. That meant leaving the job, the investigation, everything at work and not overanalyzing every move.
“TGIF, right?” He flicked a glance at her as he backed out of her driveway. “What a week.”
“Ugh. No talking about work other than to warn you I have to meet Rick at some ungodly hour tomorrow morning.”
“Tell me about it. Ugh.”
She shifted in her seat. “Is that grumbling because I have to work on Saturday, because you haven’t found that guy from the security video, or literally, tell you about my week?”
He laughed. “Didn’t you just say no talking shop tonight?”
“I do have some good news. This is only kinda shoptalk. We’re hiring a temp. Hopefully, she’ll take some of the load off all of us.”
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