by Diane Kelly
“What are you doing here?” she asked. “Weren’t you afraid you’d suffer posttraumatic stress disorder if you ever came back?”
“I had a battle with the cubicle this morning,” I admitted, “but I powered through it. I’m here to investigate Nathan Jamison.”
Her eyes grew wide and she emitted a sound that was a half snort, half laugh. “Wow. That’s not just justice, that’s poetic justice.”
Yep, Alicia knew all about the weeks of seduction that had led to my brief briefless encounter with Nathan.
I gave her the quick scoop on the case. “Nathan’s probably innocent,” I said, “but a girl can still dream, can’t she?”
“Sounds like an interesting investigation,” she said.
Did I detect a hint of jealousy? I couldn’t really blame her. The tax file she’d pulled from her cabinet belonged to Jeffrey Baumberg, a poor schmuck who’d tried every get-rich-quick scheme in the book and failed miserably at them all. He never learned his lesson. Though he considered himself an eternal optimist, everyone else considered him an infernal idiot. He was a problem client who never got his records in on time, yet expected his CPAs to make his tax return their top priority. He always complained about how much tax he owed, complained about the firm’s fees, too. He’d once tried to pay his bill in Amway products. If not for the fact that his uncle was a multimillionaire real estate developer and one of Martin and McGee’s biggest clients, Jeffrey would’ve been given the boot a long time ago.
“What’s Baumberg put his money into now?” I asked. “Earthworm farms? Space tourism? Solar-powered tanning beds?”
“Iraqi dinars,” Alicia replied. “He’s certain he’s going to become a billionaire when the currency is revalued.”
“When’s that going to happen?” I asked.
“Tomorrow,” Alicia replied with a heavy sigh. “Always tomorrow.”
“Want to do lunch?” I asked.
“I’d love to.” She dropped the file on her desk and grabbed her purse from the desk drawer. “How about the Fairmont? We can eat by the pool.”
“Perfect.”
We headed down in the elevator and walked across the street, chatting all the while. We greeted the uniformed doorman and entered the Fairmont Hotel, asking the hostess at the hotel’s restaurant to seat us poolside so we could enjoy the beautiful weather. We’d done just the same many a time when I’d still worked at Martin and McGee.
The pool was situated on a large rooftop patio on the third floor and afforded us an impressive view of downtown and relatively fresh air without the interruptions from panhandlers that lunching in one of the downtown green spaces guaranteed.
We took seats at a table near the railing, our butts sinking into the comfy red-cushioned chairs. The only other diners were a trio of older businessmen sitting on the far side of the pool, smoking cigars, and yukking it up over martinis, old-school style.
Alicia ordered the tropical fruit bowl, while I opted for the Greek salad. After the waitress left, Alicia turned to me. “Are you free Thursday night? The firm gave everyone tickets to the new art exhibit.”
“Count me in.” I’d always enjoyed the art shows. Not that I knew anything whatsoever about art, but the events were a good excuse to get dolled up, drink too much, and sample fancy froufrou food, like roasted artichokes with chipotle aioli dip or caramelized ostrich testicles with a garlic butter glaze.
As we waited for our food, we sipped our drinks and watched the pedestrian traffic on the sidewalks three stories below. Nathan emerged from the bank across the street and headed down the sidewalk. Alicia noticed him, too.
“What did I ever see in that guy?” I asked.
“Besides the good looks, fashion sense, and intelligence?” Alicia said, defending me against myself. “You really need to quit beating yourself up over what happened with him. He seemed like a good catch. You had no way of knowing he’d turn out to be a sleazeball.”
“He made a fool of me.”
“Get over it,” she said. “We’ve all been fools for love at one time or another.”
True. And, given that I’d been thinking about Nick Pratt all morning, I had to wonder whether I was being a fool once again to deny my feelings for him. Or was I being a fool to think of Nick when I already had a wonderful guy like Brett on the hook?
I fingered my knife and raised it into the air, closing one eye to get a sight on Nathan, wondering if I could hurl the knife all the way across the street and into his back.
“I know what you’re thinking,” Alicia said, watching me from across the table. “I don’t think you can throw that far.”
“Too bad.” I set my knife down. “Watch this,” I told her. I cupped my hands around my mouth and hollered, “Hey, loser!”
As expected, Nathan didn’t miss a step, continuing down the sidewalk. I gave Alicia a knowing look, cupped my hands again, and hollered, “Yoo-hoo! Hey, sexy!”
Nathan came to an instant stop, his head turning as he sought the source of the shout.
I sat back and rolled my eyes. “What an ego.”
Our food arrived and we dug in. But no matter how much I ate, I couldn’t fill the hollow feeling inside me. I wasn’t sure whether the sense of emptiness had something to do with my unresolved feelings for Nick or my unfulfilled desire for revenge on Nathan, but either way, the void remained even after I’d gorged myself with a coconut panna cotta for dessert.
Chapter Four
Razzle Dazzle
When I returned from lunch, I attempted to enter the cubicle only to find that I couldn’t walk straight through the narrow opening. What the heck? I knew the panna cotta was laden with calories, but surely not enough to cause an immediate expansion in my girth. I turned sideways and squeezed through. The interior of the cubicle seemed much smaller, too. There was hardly enough room for the rolling chair, and I could touch both walls simply by lifting my elbows.
I began to hyperventilate and turned to exit the cube only to find the opening barricaded by another modular divider.
“What the hell?”
Panic kicked in as I tried to kick the partition down. My efforts were futile. The wall was held firmly in place.
Raucous laughter from the other side of the barrier caused me to grip the top of the cubicle walls and climb onto the rolling chair. I looked down to see two of my former coworkers, the office pranksters, giving each other a high-five on the other side of the wall. They hadn’t forgotten my cubicle phobia. They also hadn’t forgotten how I’d rearranged the keys on their keyboards to spell SPANK ME the day I left the firm, a small payback for a phone prank they’d played on me earlier.
“I carry a gun now,” I warned them as I climbed over the wall and slid down to freedom. “And I’m not afraid to use it.”
Still snickering, they lifted the outer wall, moving it back into place. They retrieved the modular set of drawers from behind a potted plant and shoved them back into place inside the box.
Returned to its original state, the cubicle was only marginally more spacious. I took a deep breath once again to fight my sense of entrapment and forced myself to sit down and get back to work.
Screeeeech.
Holy crap, the drawers were at it again! My nerves now completely frazzled, I yanked the drawers from their tracks and tossed them over the side of the cubicle, where they clanged to the floor.
“Keep it down!” someone hollered from another cube nearby.
“Bite me!” I hollered back. I’d never be a contender for a Miss Congeniality award.
While Sheila reviewed the income and equity accounts, I looked over the expenses, spending hours slogging through the accounts. Rent. Utilities. Depreciation. Office supplies.
Zzzzzzz. Somebody kill me now!
The final item on my plate that afternoon was the Hildebrands’ cell phone bills. The two had made hundreds of calls, the pages listing each number dialed. I gave the paperwork only a cursory look-over. No need to go through the bill entry by entry, w
as there? Still, a phone number at the bottom of one of the pages caught my eye. It seemed vaguely familiar, though I couldn’t quite place it.
Well, there was one way to find out whom the number belonged to, wasn’t there?
I dialed the number from my mobile. Surprisingly, the number was programmed into my contact list, and a name popped up on my cell phone’s screen: Daniel Blowitz work.
I realized now why the number seemed familiar. But why would the Hildebrand brothers have called Daniel?
The phone was answered by a female voice that said cheerily, “Gertz, Gertz, and Schwartz. How may I direct your call?”
I realized then their call may not have gone to Daniel. The number wasn’t Daniel’s direct line, but was merely the number for the firm’s main switchboard.
“Um…wrong number,” I said, ending the call.
There was no sense in trying to speak to anyone at G, G, and S. The attorney–client privilege would prevent them from telling me anything useful. But why had the Hildebrands contacted Daniel’s law firm? They’d used a different firm to handle their IPO, the same firm their defense attorney worked for. Sheez. How many attorneys could the two brothers need? Then again, I hadn’t seen any payments to the Gertz firm in the files. The Hildebrands must have decided not to hire them, after all.
Despite our best efforts, neither Sheila nor I found any incriminating evidence in the audit files that afternoon. But we still had quite a few files left to review. We agreed to meet up again at nine the following morning.
I arrived home to find my dad’s pickup parked in the driveway of my two-story brown brick town house. Mom and Dad lived three hours east in Nacogdoches, my small hometown tucked away in the piney woods not far from the Louisiana border. Dad had ordered some pipe fencing from an outfit in Dallas and decided to save himself the delivery charge by picking up the materials himself. Of course, I think my mother may have had something to do with that decision. Though she enjoyed the peace and quiet of country living, Mom never passed up an opportunity to come to Dallas to visit her little girl—moi—and do some shopping at Neiman Marcus.
I pulled in behind my dad’s truck and cut the engine on my red BMW convertible, which I’d scored at a nice discount at a government auction. After retrieving my mail from the curbside box, I went inside. I was greeted by the smell of Dad’s homemade chili and the sight of my parents entangled in make-out session on my couch.
“Ew!” My mail fluttered to the floor as my hands fluttered likewise in disgust.
I suppose someone shouldn’t shriek at such a sight. After all, my parents’ mutual physical attraction was responsible for my very existence. But what child wants to see their parents engaged in foreplay? In theory, I was glad my parents still found each other desirable, but seeing them going at it like teenagers was a little too much reality. Even my oversized Maine coon, Henry, seemed disgusted. The furry cat lay on his usual perch atop the armoire that housed my TV, but he’d turned to face the wall so he wouldn’t have to watch the show my mom and dad were putting on. My creamy female cat, Annie, had hidden under the couch, but was now peeking out to see if it was safe to venture forth.
My parents sat up, my mother smoothing her chestnut hair before standing and coming at me with open arms. “Tara, honey, we’re so happy to see you.”
“Speak for yourself,” my father told her.
I put my hands on my hips. “You’re not happy to see me, Dad?”
“Well, sure I am. But I’d have been much more happy to see you in another ten minutes.” He slid my mother a wink and she swatted him playfully with her hand.
If Dad was going to give me crap, it was only right for me to return the favor, right? “Only ten minutes?” I said. “That’s pitiful.”
Dad shrugged his broad shoulders. “I’m on the backside of fifty. My staying power ain’t what it used to be.”
“Too much information.” I raised a palm to stop him from elaborating. “Waaay too much information.”
After I gave my dad a hug, the three of us gathered up my scattered mail and I stashed it on the table in my entryway.
“Come with me, sweetie. I’ve got some surprises for you.” My mother put a hand on my back and guided me into the kitchen. Annie decided the coast was clear and wriggled out from under the sofa, trotting along with us.
Lying on the table were the BeDazzler I’d bought Mom for Mother’s Day, along with a tiny pair of blue jeans sporting rhinestone appliqués in the shape of stars on the back pockets. A line of rhinestones rimmed the front pockets, too.
“What do you think?” Mom asked as I picked up the jeans for closer inspection. “I made them for Jesse.”
The bling made the relatively plain pair of jeans much more fun. My five-year-old niece would love them. I declared them “So cute!”
“I made this for you, too.” She held out a black satin clutch that she’d BeDazzled with red and white sequins in a bull’s-eye pattern. Appropriate, given that I was a virtual sharpshooter. The purse not only fit my personality, but it would also be the perfect thing to complement the red sequined dress I planned to wear to the art exhibit on Thursday.
“I love it, Mom. Thanks.”
She handed me another clutch, also black, but this one was decorated more simply, with a single line of silver sequins outlining the flap. “This one’s for Alicia.”
Dad leaned against the doorframe. “Your mother BeDazzled my boxer shorts, too.”
“She did?” I had a hard time picturing my father, a former high school football player and die-hard country boy, in rhinestones or sequins.
“I sure did,” Mom said. “But I used silver studs instead of rhinestones.” She gave Dad a flirtatious smile. “Studs for my stud.”
I rolled my eyes. “You two are making me lose my appetite.”
“Well, now, we can’t have that,” Dad said, stepping forward into the kitchen. “I’ve been slaving over that pot of chili for hours.”
Dad’s chili came in three varieties—kick-ass, hotter-than-hell, and killer. Each one was hotter than the next.
“Which recipe did you use today?” I asked.
“Killer,” Dad said.
I groaned. To many Southerners, chili was a comfort food. In the case of Dad’s killer chili, it was more of a discomfort. His recipe included not only beans, ground beef, garlic, onions, and chili powder, but also six types of fresh peppers—jalapeño, habanero, green, cayenne, poblano, and serrano. The stuff burned like lava going in and burned just as bad when…well, you get the picture.
I stepped over to the stove, lifted the lid off the stainless steel stockpot, and peeked inside at the bubbling reddish brown liquid. The concoction in the pot looked like Dad’s chili, but it lacked the shiny layer of grease floating on top.
“Something’s different,” I said.
Dad walked over and stuck a ladle into the pot, stirring the contents. “Your mother made me leave out the meat.” He sounded none too happy about it.
My mother crossed her arms over her chest. “Now, Harlan. You know what the doctor said. Your cholesterol is through the roof. You’ve got to start watching what you eat or you could have a heart attack.”
Vegetarian chili didn’t sound all that great, but hearing about my father’s risk for cardiac arrest sounded far worse. “Maybe the vegetarian chili will help clear your arteries,” I suggested. “And give you more staying power.” I gave him a nudge with my elbow.
Dad gave me a grin in return. “Now, there’s a thought.” He set the ladle in the spoon rest, then took the lid from me and returned it to the pot. He turned and gave me a serious look now. “Think Brett’s man enough to eat my killer chili?”
I felt my emotions heat up now, too, though they only reached a simmering level. I didn’t like my father’s implication that Brett was somehow inadequate. Still, I knew he was only using his chili as a metaphor. Not long ago, my parents had met Nick and both took an instant liking to him. Though Brett got along fine with my family, the
re was no denying Nick was more our type of people. Heck, he was in many respects a younger version of my father. Both were country boys who’d played high school football. Both were die-hard Dallas Cowboys fans. Both had zero tolerance for bullshit. Nick’s sex appeal had sent my mother into a series of hot flashes. She couldn’t see why I was denying myself the chance to dally with a good-looking cowboy. But just because my parents thought Nick might be better suited for me than Brett didn’t mean they were right.
Did it?
Sheesh, what was I thinking? Of course it didn’t!
Brett might not have Nick’s alpha male machismo, but he was nonetheless masculine. He was less intense than Nick, less volatile, and more predictable, all of which made him an easy man to be with.
Dad grabbed a beer from my fridge and headed back to the couch to watch the sports segment of the six o’clock news. My mother poured us each a glass of sweet moscato wine. Probably not the proper pairing for spicy chili, but we Holloway women didn’t stand on tradition.
“How was work?” my mother asked.
I told her about my new assignment. “We’re reviewing the audit files at Martin and McGee for evidence that H2 and its owners had something to hide.” I also told her that we were trying to determine whether the auditors were complicit in the suspected pump and dump scheme. “Nathan Jamison was the partner in charge of the audit.”
“Is he that skirt chaser who led you on for months, then turned tail without explanation?” My mother was usually the epitome of Southern graciousness, but treat a member of her family wrong, and she’d show just what Southern women were made of. If Mom knew the full extent of Nathan’s transgressions, she’d go after the bastard with one of my dad’s shotguns and fill his ass with lead.
“Yep. He’s the one.”
She pointed a finger at me. “You’ve been handed quite an opportunity, hon. I trust you’ll make the most of it.”
I might have missed my chance with Nick, but I wasn’t about to miss my chance to put Nathan in his place. One way or another, I’d even the score.