“That totally makes sense,” she said. “If Mazur is the supplier for the casino dealers—well, duh.” She spun back toward Frank. “Of course, he would be connected to whoever is bringing the drugs into town. Did you ask your friends at ABC Security if Mazur works at the Quality Distributing warehouse?”
Frank may be security now, but he’d been a cop for a long time. That automatic instinct to keep civilians out of an investigation immediately kicked in. “You need to stay away from Mazur. The DEA guys are looking at him for the drugs. You do not want to get in the middle of that.”
Damn, she hated being told what to do.
“Well, apparently I’m already in the middle,” she drawled.
Wait a minute. If Mazur was coming into the casino to notify the dealers, he had to have a connection to the warehouse, didn’t he?
Could they be talking about the same person? Tattoo Guy?
She pulled out her cell and scrolled through the photos. “Is this Mazur?”
Frank reached for her cell and studied the screen. “Crappy picture.”
“We were at the warehouse observing inventory when he came stomping in. I couldn’t exactly ask him to pose.”
If he was the drug connection, no wonder he’d gotten so pissed. Her being so close to his altered parts—if they were his parts and it sure looked that way—must have freaked him out. Or maybe he’d been there to remove the pallet. Or—
Frank flicked the picture to enlarge it. “It looks like him. The guy in your picture looks like he might have a tattoo.”
She retrieved her phone and studied the photo. She’d identified him on Saturday as the same Tattoo Guy from Boulder Bounders. Was he Mazur?
“Does Mazur have a tattoo?” she asked. “Where?”
Frank rounded his desk and tapped around on his computer. A minute later, he swiveled the screen toward her. A grainy picture—apparently a frozen still from a casino security camera—showed a guy in profile.
“That him? The guy you saw at the warehouse on Saturday?”
She squinted. “Maybe.”
He pointed at the computer screen, then tapped the guy’s collar. “Mazur has a snake tattoo around his neck.”
“I can’t say for one hundred percent sure that your drug supplier”—she gestured at Frank’s computer—”is the same guy I saw at the warehouse. If it is the same guy, it looks like he’s bringing in the drugs from Mexico using George’s truck parts. Instead of scrapping the altered parts he used to camouflage the drugs, it looks like he’s selling them. Double-dipping.”
“Holly, stay away from it. There are so many ways he’s going to get caught. I mean it. This investigation is out of your league. Let the DEA agents handle it.”
“But Mazur is setting Tate up to take the fall for him.”
And she couldn’t let that happen.
***
Holly sat in her office, thumbed through the messages Tracey had left on her desk, and tried to care about any of them. Ashiro had called twice. Her uncle was at the hospital and wanted to know if she could meet her mother and him for dinner. She set that message slip aside, and tossed the rest of the wad on her desk. The only good news in the stack was there was no word from her dad or any of the divorce lawyers.
She cradled her forehead in her hands. She had pieces of two puzzles that were starting to fit together and she didn’t know what to do next.
She couldn’t tell JC about the drugs because she’d been hired by the casino and DEA. As her client, the casino’s business was confidential and the DEA had made her sign that non-disclosure agreement. The casino was being used, but wasn’t actually running the drugs, so it wasn’t like she had an obligation to report the activity to the cops.
Then again, if the DEA was involved, JC should already know they had agents here. And of course he hadn’t mentioned that they were investigating the casino—her client—as the drug distribution site.
Now another client might be involved in bringing the drugs in.
A client where her cousin worked.
A client where her cousin was being set up for fraud and drug smuggling and God only knew what else.
She dropped her hands and slumped into her chair. Damn, she couldn’t tell JC anything.
Beyond being frustrating on so many levels, that really hurt.
***
Holly pulled out her cell phone and checked the time. She had about forty-five minutes before she was supposed to meet her uncle and mother for dinner. She tapped the casino’s phone number. At this rate, she should put Frank on speed dial.
“Are the DEA agents at the casino?” she asked when he picked up the call.
His voice held a reluctant note. “Penick is here.”
“You mean Super Special Agent Penick?”
“Yeah, him.”
Don’t ask permission, just say it. “I need to talk to him.”
“What did I tell you about staying away from Mazur?”
“I’m not going near him. I want to share some information with the nice agents.”
“Like you remotely think those guys are nice.” He hesitated. “Fine. If it’s just information, I’ll let Penick know you’re coming over.”
***
Holly parked near the entrance to the casino. Frank must have been watching for her, because he met her in the lobby area and immediately steered her to the casino’s conference room.
“You wanted to see me?” Penick rose from the conference room table. He didn’t offer her a seat.
“I think I know how they’re bringing in the drugs.”
The agent rolled his eyes and crossed the room to the window. “I really don’t care. I want this dirtbag Phalen’s identified, but I want his boss more. Only a small portion of the drugs stay here. The rest moves into wider distribution. I want to catch whoever’s in charge here in a compromising position—unloading or moving product, so we can push upstream after the bigger players.”
She continued as if he hadn’t dismissed her and her information. “They’re hiding the drugs inside car parts. If you want to catch them in the act, they should be unloading at my client’s warehouse. We had them hold a delivery truck offsite this weekend while we did inventory. I can find out exactly when that shipment of parts will be delivered, but it should be today or tomorrow.”
“You dragged us over here for that? We already knew about the truck parts. That the cartel was transporting drugs using Cascade Precision parts.”
She used every one of her diligence skills to keep her face blank while inside she seethed. “Thanks for sharing that with my client.”
Not.
“A man died because of those altered parts.” She poked a hard finger at Penick. “My cousin is in the hospital because of those damn parts. And you didn’t think it was worth mentioning?”
“Your car parts aren’t my problem. Do you know how many people died of a Fentanyl overdose this week? This month?”
She braced her hands on the conference table. “Taking illegal drugs is their responsibility. Knowingly selling dangerous, substandard parts is a whole different category. The family guy who innocently buys the part and endangers his entire family has no way of knowing—”
“Why are you yelling at me instead of Mikhail Petrov?” Penick crossed his arms and slouched against the wall.
“Why would I do that?”
The agent raised a sarcastic eyebrow.
“Mikhail knows?” She couldn’t keep the incredulous tone out of her voice.
“He knows about the drugs.” Penick seemed to be enjoying her shock.
Jerk.
And why would Mikhail know about the drugs and not say anything? Clearly, George didn’t know about them.
“How does Mikhail—?”
Penick smirked. “You’d have to ask him.”
“Does Mikhail know about the bad truck parts? That someone’s selling them as genuine?”
The agent shrugged. “No idea. Our only concern is the drugs. We can put a guy i
nside over there at the warehouse. He can tell us the shipment date. You stay out of it.”
That seemed to be a recurring theme from law enforcement.
An order she’d love to obey, but she had no intention of following.
Not when they were all ignoring everything she uncovered.
And she seemed to be the only person on the planet who gave a damn.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Special Delivery (The Offspring)
Holly noticed the glow from her mother’s office as soon as she entered Desert Accounting’s lobby the next morning. She followed the spill of light down the dim hallway.
“Are you here early or am I that late?” Holly asked.
Donna removed a pair of reading glasses as she turned toward the door. “I’m looking over resumes.”
“Oh?” Holly dropped into the visitor chair opposite her mother’s desk.
“Before we get into that, your Uncle Mark got a call early this morning. Tate is awake.”
“Awesome.” Relief lessened the tension cramping Holly’s shoulders. “Did—”
“Before you get too excited, he can’t remember the attack. The doctor said that’s normal and to give him time. Mark was pretty discouraged about his prognosis when we talked after dinner last night. The doctors had been talking about possible permanent effects of a long-term coma. Whoever hit Tate bashed in his skull pretty badly.”
Holly deflated, then rallied. “But he’s awake and talking. That’s good, right?”
Donna smiled. “It’s wonderful. Now.” She plucked papers from the printer on her desk. “I spoke with the accounting services placement agency. They offered three candidates for a short-term placement. I’ve ranked them according to my preference, but I’d like to go over them with you. Do you have time later today?”
“Not really.” Holly did a quick mental scroll of her calendar. “I have a break later this morning, but I wanted to go to the hospital and check on Tate. We have to think positive. He’ll get better.”
“You’re right. Go ahead to the hospital.” Donna slid her glasses onto her nose and clicked the computer mouse. “When can we discuss these candidates?”
“Send me a meeting request for tomorrow. I have some time in the afternoon.” Holly rose but stopped at the door. “Any word from Dad?”
“I believe the attorneys are still battling it out.”
“Let me know how it goes. Do I get any say in whether he gets alimony?”
“‘Fraid not, sweetie. Sorry you got dragged into this.”
For a moment, Holly wanted to tell her mother about Ashiro and the opportunity with Raintree. Instead, she rose and wandered down the hall.
Stay or go, Seattle or Desert Accounting—it was her decision.
Maybe it was time to go back to Seattle. Her parents’ crisis was coming to a head. Tate...
Tate would be okay. He’d get his memory back. They’d figure out who was behind the drug parts and clear Tate’s name.
JC.
What in the world was she going to do about JC? Sunday afternoon, he’d been supportive—after he questioned her—but their underlying issues hadn’t changed.
She walked into her office and dropped her purse and briefcase. A box with a Cascade car part label sat in the middle of her desk. She blinked. She certainly hadn’t ordered any car parts.
Marked “personal,” Tracey hadn’t opened the package. Holly eyed it as she slipped off her jacket and started her computer. Maybe Tate or George had sent over something over related to the altered parts?
She pulled a letter opener from her desk drawer, slit the tape and peeled back the flaps.
Her scream brought the entire office.
“What?” Rick scrambled through the door with Sammy right on his heels. Other people crowded in behind them.
Holly pointed, too stunned to speak.
A bloody rabbit glistened through a plastic covering. Its head had been crushed. Blackened blood matted the fur on its shoulders and back. As if she couldn’t get the message, holly leaves were scattered over its body.
A single piece of paper was taped to the plastic. One word—Run.
“Shit.” Rick slid the box away from her and picked up the phone. “You want me to call the cops or JC?”
She silently shook her head.
“We have to report it. This is clearly a message to back off.” He glanced over his shoulder at the curious staff. “Or something.”
“JC will overreact.”
“Can’t say I blame him.” Rick closed the flaps on the box. His thumb clicked over the phone screen. He identified himself, then said, “I want to report a threat made at Desert Accounting.”
He left her office with the box, still talking to the dispatcher.
Holly sat in stunned silence, wondering whose chain she’d rattled.
For the first time, she acknowledged the fear churning her stomach and squeezing her chest.
Was the person who’d killed Danny, who’d injured Tate, now focused on her?
Chapter Thirty-Five
Problems (Problem, the problem is you) (Sex Pistols)
A middle-aged Kennewick cop sat in Holly’s uncomfortable visitor chair asking questions about the rabbit package. He shifted as he scribbled in his notebook. “Any problems with clients?”
At least it was a local city cop—Desert Accounting was located in the Kennewick part of the Tri-Cities—and not the sheriff’s department asking the questions.
“You asked me that already. Twice.” Holly propped her elbows on her desk. Her fingers massaged small circles into her temples. There was no way she was going to explain the casino, DEA, messed up car parts and everything else in this disaster to a patrol officer.
“The package was addressed to you, specifically. Are you having problems with anyone?”
There were too many people to list that she had a “problem” with. “I don’t know who sent it.”
JC strode through her office door. “Thanks, Munsell. I’ll take it from here.”
She dropped her head and groaned. At some level she’d been expecting JC to show up. And of course, he knew all the cops in all the various city departments.
The patrol officer rose and pocketed his notebook. He cocked his head, as if wondering why a Franklin County detective was there, but dropped his card on Holly’s desk. “Call me if you think of anything.”
She leveled a stare at JC while he settled in the visitor chair. He looked entirely too comfortable. “You still have that flag on my driver’s license, don’t you?”
Or someone in the dispatcher’s department tipped him off.
“I knew you were super smart.” His dimple blinked in and out.
“JC.” She closed her eyes for a silent ten-count.
“Tell me about the package.”
She wiggled the mouse, woke up her computer and pretended to examine her calendar. “Someone has a sick sense of humor.”
“A crushed skull? Run? It isn’t a joke.”
“Do I look like I’m laughing?”
“Dammit, Holly. That could’ve been you with your head bashed in.”
She tamped down a shudder. “But it wasn’t.”
“No. This is related to Tate and whatever he’s gotten mixed up in.”
“Why would you go there? Tate is the victim in this mess.”
“Maybe.”
“I doubt he bashed in his own skull.”
“Where does that leave you? Hanging out in the wind? Vulnerable?”
“I’m not a victim. Not a suspect.” She slashed a hand to the side. “Look, you know I’ve got some stuff going on with a client that I can’t talk about, but I’m not in trouble. I’m not doing anything to provoke some obscure threat. No one’s really after me.”
“You’re involved,” JC said flatly. “Look, I know you idolized Tate when you were kids. I was prepared to like him before I met him. Still am. I mean, he’s a stand-up guy. He served in the military. Has an honorable discharge. He�
��s trying to make a name for himself with his car parts.”
“Where’s the great big ‘but?’“
JC rubbed his forehead. “But it looks like he’s taking short cuts. Going for the easy money instead of grinding away and doing the right thing.”
She shook her head, incredulous. “I get that you’re all about honor and integrity. But you keep talking about those tangible facts you can prove. Do you have a single fact that connects Tate to easy money?”
She couldn’t reveal what she knew, including the damning vendor file, and wondered if JC would actually tip his hand. As far as she knew, George hadn’t reported the hollowed-out car parts, but if the DEA knew the drugs came in with the Cascade parts, there was a good chance JC knew too. Which would put him in the uncomfortable position of withholding more information about her clients.
For the first time, she sympathized—at least a little bit—with his position of not being able to share confidential information.
“There is some evidence.” His gaze was level.
“Circumstantial evidence?” Her empathy went out the window. “Evidence that someone else could easily plant to make Tate look bad? Or is it just the coincidence that his part is being used by the actual bad guys? Without his knowledge, I might add.”
JC shifted, uncomfortable for the first time. A second later, he cocked his head. “You know about the doctored parts?”
“Of course I know. It’s my client.”
“And you didn’t tell me?”
She smiled without an ounce of humor. “Like you told me?” If only her efforts ‘til now had produced JC’s damned required cold, hard facts. “I realized a while ago you don’t trust my instincts. I’m convinced Tate is innocent. That he’s been set up. Give me time and I’ll prove it.”
JC’s voice hardened. “Did that package this morning not get through to you?”
“It sorta reeked of desperation. And before you say a word, I already told you I haven’t done enough to make someone desperate.”
JC raised a frustrated hand. “Clearly, whoever sent it thinks you have. Trust me on this, take it seriously.”
In It For the Money Page 24