Blind Trust

by Sandra Orchard

  She drew in a sudden breath.

  Realizing he’d dipped his head toward her, he straightened quickly and tore his gaze from her lips. He’d promised not to pressure her. She was a material witness in an ongoing investigation. Now was not the time to entertain thoughts of tasting her lips. “I’d better get back to work.”

  Her lips curved south, making his heart kick. Was she disappointed?

  Color bloomed in her cheeks as she shifted her attention to the cat. “Before you go, I need to give you something.”

  Tom followed her onto the porch and set down the cat food bag.

  She dropped the cat inside the door and retrieved her purse before rejoining him. “I tried to stall Lucetta and Pedro by asking for change for a twenty. Pedro seemed eager to oblige, but Lucetta—”

  “Wait a second. Pedro pulled out his wallet?” Tom clarified. A wallet that had been empty a few hours ago.

  “Yeah, looked like he had lots of cash. But Lucetta whipped out change for me first, not looking pleased with him at all. I think she’s covering for him.”

  Yeah, he’d thought the same when he interviewed her on Saturday.

  Kate gingerly lifted four five-dollar bills from her purse. “I thought you might want to check over the bills she gave me.”

  Tom studied each bill closely. “I’ll take them in for a closer inspection, but they all look legitimate.” He tucked them into the inside pocket of his sport jacket.

  “Hey, now I’m out twenty bucks.”

  “Don’t worry. I’m good for it.”

  “You’d better be, because I know where you live.” She gave him a playful nudge.

  “You’re welcome over any time.” He smiled to himself. Maybe he’d have to hold on to the money for a while.

  Clearly flustered, she turned her attention to the drooping flowers next to the porch. “Look at these. I keep forgetting to water them.”

  Tom mercifully let the change in subject slide without comment and started down the steps. “I’d better head out. I’m still on duty.”

  “Wait. Did you get the names of the officers who arrested my dad?”

  “Yeah, two guys. Unfortunately both have passed on.”

  Kate let out a disappointed sigh.

  “But I did find someone willing to search storage for the records. He said the original investigators both died soon after your father’s death.”

  “Really?” Kate’s eyes widened, lit with hope. “Do you think the deaths are connected?”

  “They died in the line of duty.”

  “But maybe Dad told them what he had on the pharmaceutical company and GPC found out.”

  Tom misstepped, sideswiped by the image of his former FBI partner’s car exploding. Yeah, bad guys thought nothing of offing an officer to kill an investigation.

  7

  The roar of an engine filtered through Kate’s mind. She shifted uncomfortably. Her neck muscles spasmed. Dragging open her eyes, she massaged out the kink. Swirling colors floated in front of her. She blinked a couple times. Oh, right, her computer. She must’ve fallen asleep.

  She tapped the computer mouse and the swirling colors disappeared from the screen, replaced by the webpage she’d been reading when she fell asleep.

  Bending her head from side to side, she tried to relax her bunched muscles. How long had—? The sunlight slanting past the edge of the drapes suddenly registered. Her gaze shot to the bottom corner of her computer screen. Oh no, she was late for work!

  She dashed to her bedroom. How could she have slept all night at her desk? She pushed a palm into the side of her back. Her body wasn’t about to let her forget how stupid she’d been to not go to bed. She’d never even pulled all-nighters when cramming for university exams.

  She’d just been so sure that if she pushed through the 213,632 matches the search engine spat out, she’d find some clue to what her father had discovered about GPC.

  The phone rang. Patti.

  “Are you okay?”

  “Yes, my alarm didn’t go off.” Not a lie. She didn’t mention that she forgot to set it because she never went to bed. “I’ll be there soon.”

  “Hurry. The director just called, wants you in the conference room ASAP.”

  Great, and no time for a shower.

  She twisted and squirmed, trying to reach the zipper on the back of her sundress. Every muscle screamed in protest. Giving up, she yanked it off and pulled on a skirt and blouse instead. She scrubbed at her eyes. They felt like she’d been plastered by a sandstorm.

  Leaning over her dresser, she peered into the mirror. Talk about bloodshot eyes. She dragged a comb through her hair, then yanked it into a ponytail. All she could say was, good thing she worked in a lab. Too bad the director picked today for a chat. Hopefully this meant he was finally taking her concerns about partnering with GPC seriously. She took an extra minute to add a little makeup. If she had something to show for the sleep deprivation, she wouldn’t care how she looked. But she was no closer to understanding what got Dad in trouble with GPC than she’d been yesterday morning.

  There’d been protests over clear-cutting the rainforest, a scandal over the United States selling weapons to a rebel group, and a ream of other disasters. But nothing she could tie to GPC. She’d nodded off somewhere around a catastrophic mudslide and a village-destroying fire.

  Grabbing her keys and purse, she eyed the kitchen. No time for breakfast. Her stomach grumbled. Okay, maybe just grab an apple. She snatched one from the crisper and headed out.

  As she pulled open the front door, the roar of a lawnmower—the engine that had awakened her—filled the air. Thank goodness for Vic’s Lawn Service. She waved to him as she rushed to the car.

  Vic saw her wave. She could tell by the way his lip curled before he reversed directions on Verna’s lawn. Apparently he was still sore that she hadn’t taken him up on his offer to mow her lawn every week too.

  She raced out of the driveway and reached the speed limit in record time.

  Maybe hiring Vic would be smart. Thirty dollars a week wasn’t a bad price. The dandelions turning to seed on her lawn certainly weren’t going to cut themselves. Besides, he was a nice enough guy once you got past his somewhat negative attitude. And he did a decent job—showed up at 8:00 a.m. sharp every Tuesday morning.

  Mrs. C had said he needed the work too, since he’d been laid off over a year and had a young daughter. Guess that would make anyone a little negative.

  As she turned onto the street leading out of town, her cell phone rang again. “Work” appeared on the screen. She fit her Bluetooth mic into her ear and tapped it on. “I’m on my way. Do you know what this is about?”

  “Not a clue. But he’s not happy.”

  “Great. I need twelve minutes.”

  “I’ll tell him, but Kate, make it eight.”

  She dreaded to think what the director wanted. The only times he summoned her to meetings were when funding was at stake. Would he cut her loose altogether because she wasn’t on board with the plans to partner with GPC?

  She prayed for calm, but peace eluded her. She eased her foot off the gas. Praying while breaking the speed limit wouldn’t earn her any heavenly favors. Sailing past the nursing home, she made a mental note to pop in and see Verna, reassure her that Whiskers was well taken—

  The air caught in Kate’s throat. She’d forgotten all about Whiskers this morning, couldn’t even remember if she’d let him in last night. “Please let him be okay,” she added to her prayer.

  A mile from the research facility, her yellow Bug sputtered. “No, not now.” Kate gave the car more gas, but she kept on sputtering. Kate’s gaze jerked to the fuel gauge. Way past empty. She’d just been too distracted with everything. She veered into the parking lot on fumes, parked in the nearest vacant spot, and dashed to the door closest to the conference room. At the sight of a black Cadillac, license plate KING 1, her heart jammed in her throat.

  The only reason the mayor would be here would be to mak
e sure the board didn’t thwart GPC Pharmaceuticals’ plans to move to town.

  Please, Lord, please don’t let this meeting include him.

  The sun slipped behind a cloud, casting a long shadow over the walk. Not good. Not good. Not good.

  This is what she got for skipping out on church on Sunday. She shook the silly notion from her head. Rationally, she knew God wasn’t vindictive. That he didn’t keep score of her failures and weigh them against her requests. It just felt that way sometimes.

  She slapped her fob over the lock and yanked open the door. Voices—plural—emanated from the conference room.

  “Where’s your associate, Peter Ratcher?” the director asked.

  “He had an urgent personal matter to attend to,” came another voice.

  “I see. Well, I can’t imagine what’s keeping Miss Adams. She’s usually very punctual.”

  Kate swallowed hard and smoothed her skirt. Taking a deep breath, she lifted her chin and strode in. “Sorry I’m late, gentlemen.” The AC hit her like winter’s blast, equal in intensity to the stony nods of the men seated around the room’s long table. She made a point of making eye contact with each person—the director, three board members, a man she didn’t know but assumed was from GPC, the mayor, the police chief. She gulped. What was Hank doing here? And . . . the newspaper editor?

  She sank into the nearest empty chair. The cold hard plastic bit through her thin skirt, tripling the chill rattling her spine. She schooled her expression. “What can I do for you”—she focused on the director—“sir?”

  The chief slapped the table. “You can start by telling us what you’re trying to pull.”

  Her insides jumped at his outburst. All eyes focused on her. She felt like shrinking into the floor. Why hadn’t Tom warned her Brewster was on the warpath against her again?

  Her cell phone rang. “I’m sorry. Let me just turn that off.” She dug the phone out of her purse. Tom’s name appeared on the screen. Two minutes too late. She turned off the power and used the momentary distraction to gather her wits. “I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about, chief.”

  The director pushed a piece of paper across the table to her. “This letter you sent to the newspaper office.”

  “I didn’t send a letter.” She read the paper—a scathing diatribe on GPC and the mayor’s supposed ulterior motives for inviting them to locate a division here. If they were true, no wonder he looked as if his shorts had been invaded by army ants. She slid the letter back across the table. “That’s not my signature.” She lasered in on Chief Hank Brewster, who’d suddenly stopped smoothing his too-bushy mustache. “I don’t suppose you thought to check the paper for fingerprints before passing it around the table,” she said, her voice surprisingly steady considering the Mexican jumping bean dance her insides were doing.

  As Brewster stammered, she shifted her gaze to the man she presumed to be from GPC. The corner of his lip twitched up, but she didn’t know how to read his expression—impressed by her counterattack? Or pleased to see her rattled?

  Had the director—or Peter—filled the company in on her opinions? Was this their doing?

  She dug her fingers into the chair’s edge. Even if Harold had printed the article, the mayor’s spin doctors would have had him coming out smelling like roses . . . while grinding her career to dirt.

  “You didn’t send this?” the mayor said, his tone low and foreboding.

  “No.”

  “If Harold hadn’t called for a rebuttal before printing it, the damage to my office would’ve been irreparable.”

  “Then I trust the person responsible will be appropriately punished.” She swept invisible dust from the table in front of her—anything to mask the wave of jitters threatening to drown her. “Was there anything else, gentlemen?”

  With a single finger, King pushed his trendy, black-framed glasses to the bridge of his nose, and something about his crooked smile made it difficult to believe his concern about bringing jobs to their community was as altruistic as he wanted people to believe.

  “How do we know you didn’t just change your signature so you wouldn’t get in trouble?” Harold asked, waving his pen. Obviously he still hoped to wring a story out of this for his paper.

  “If I didn’t want to get in trouble, why would I sign my name at all?”

  “I think we’re done here, gentlemen,” the director said in a hushed yet authoritative tone.

  The police chief and Harold both rose and left without another word.

  “Miss Adams, you may go too,” the director said.

  As she rose, the stranger at the other end of the table drew a file folder from his briefcase. She dallied, pretending to have trouble untangling her purse strap from the chair arm. But the man merely leaned back in his chair, as if to wait her out, which made her all the more curious—and worried—about what he was up to.

  “Gentlemen.” She nodded to the table in general, then strode out.

  The instant the door closed, trembling overtook her limbs. She might have dodged today’s pruning, but clearly the weeding-out was far from over. She turned toward the lab and gasped. “How’d you get in here?”

  “I’m sorry, Detective. Mr. Ratcher isn’t here,” the receptionist behind the thick glass in the research center’s front lobby repeated.

  “But when I called, you said that the GPC reps were meeting with the board of directors.”

  “Yes, but Peter Ratcher wasn’t with them.”

  Kate, escorting Lucetta Lopez, came through the security door that separated the lobby from the labs. “Tom! What are you doing here?”

  Lucetta’s gaze dove to the floor. Clearly she still felt intimidated by him—or was trying to hide a guilty conscience. The money she’d switched with Kate had been legal tender, so he didn’t have anything but circumstantial evidence to back up his suspicions. The moment he stepped away from the small window that allowed visitors to speak to the receptionist, Lucetta slipped past him and took his place.

  He pulled Kate aside and lowered his voice. “Can we speak in private?”

  “Of course.” She waved to Lucetta as she swiped her card through the security slot. “Good luck. I’ll see you this evening.”

  Tom followed Kate down the hall. “You’re having her clean for you?”

  “She’s going to help me scrub walls and ceilings so I can paint.”

  “Since when have you been planning to paint?”

  “Uh . . . I’ve been thinking about it for a while.”

  “A while?” he said skeptically.

  “Okay, I thought if she worked with me, she might tell me what she knows.”

  “You think she’s just going to admit to counterfeiting?”

  “No, of course not.” Kate lowered her voice. “But she might let something slip.”

  He blew out a breath. “I wish you’d leave the detective work to me.” He cut off her argument by motioning to the lab doors. “You have enough on your plate. What was she doing here anyway?”

  “Applying for a janitorial position. I ran into her outside the conference room.”

  “Unescorted?”

  Kate grimaced. “Yes.”

  “How’d she get past the front door security?”

  “Said she grabbed the side door as someone was coming out. Probably Hank and Harold. They would’ve assumed she was an employee. Anyone who works here is more diligent about controlling access.”

  Tom flexed his fingers, drew them into fists. If Lucetta could slip in here, anyone could. And after what he’d just learned about the fate of Kate’s father’s arresting officers . . .

  Kate directed him into an empty break room. “Okay, so why are you here?”

  His mind replayed what else she’d just said. “Wait a second. Hank was here? As in Chief Brewster—Hank?”

  “You didn’t know? I thought that’s why you called. To warn me.”

  “No, I didn’t know.” He closed the door to the room. “What did he want?”


  “He was trying to get me in trouble for some letter to the newspaper I didn’t write that exposed the mayor’s supposed secret deals.”

  “Why would he think you wrote it?”

  “My name was at the bottom!”

  “What?” His concern escalated as she recounted a play-by-play of the morning meeting. Her being incriminated for counterfeiting could have been inadvertent, but this was deliberate. “Any idea who would do this? Or why?”

  “To get me in hot water with the mayor, apparently, and with half the town who would never have believed a bad word about him if it’d been printed. Not to mention with my employer. Which makes me wonder if GPC was behind the letter. Peter knows I don’t want GPC here. If he told his bosses . . .”

  Tom shook his head. “Too big a risk that Harold would go straight to press without checking facts. A story like this could taint their credibility as much as the mayor’s.” Tom paced the small, windowless room. “Could be someone inside city hall who wanted to expose the mayor but feared for his own job. Your working here, coupled with your recent notoriety, makes you a convenient scapegoat.”

  “They’d have to know I’d deny it.”

  “Yeah, but after the letter’s been printed, the damage to the mayor would already be done.” It made sense, even if he didn’t believe it.

  She shrugged. “I suppose. It’s less scary than thinking GPC has launched a campaign to derail me.”

  The door burst open. A young woman in a lab coat, carrying a mug, glanced from Tom to Kate to the coffeepot on the narrow counter behind them and then backed out of the room. “Sorry.”

  Kate moaned.

  Tom brushed a tendril of hair from her eyes. “What’s wrong?”

  Her look turned sheepish. “Last time you showed up at my work, it was to arrest me.”

  He winced. Not his finest moment.

  “If that lab tech, or Marjorie at reception, spreads the word that you came looking for me again, I can just imagine the rumors that will start flying.”