Once Upon a Friendship

by Tara Taylor Quinn

  Unlike his father, he didn’t have anyone at home needing his time. Anyone he was ignoring.

  He spent hours going over Connelly accounts. And then looking at account numbers in correlation with the somewhat complicated trail of deposits and payables the FBI had presented as evidence that his dad was a crook. There were receivables that didn’t make sense to him, even understanding his father’s business as well as he did. Deposits made into accounts that shouldn’t exist, as far as Liam knew.

  Certainly there was information that had never been made available to him as a top-floor executive. What the others had known, and kept from him, he had no way of knowing. Not until Gabi questioned them—if she could figure out a way to get legal access to them, gaining testimony that would be admissible in court if the occasion arose.

  Numbers started blurring. His eyes grew weary of following supposed income that showed up as deposits and then disappeared into accounts that weren’t used for official Connelly Investments business. He switched gears.

  And focused on the work of his life.

  These were the hours that slid into oblivion as far as Liam was concerned. He was reading everything he could find on the Douglas case—the teenager who was suing his parents for the right to go off his antidepressants. While there was case history of children suing their parents, there was no case that he could find similar to this one.

  He wasn’t privy to the closed records, of course. To doctor testimony regarding the boy’s mental or physical health. His job would be only to report on the case as it unfolded, and only then on the parts of it that were open to the public.

  But as he read, questions formed in his mind. The opening of his article began to present itself.

  There’d been a case in Massachusetts not all that long ago. A Boston hospital had filed medical abuse charges against a couple, accusing them of not getting their daughter the medical attention she needed. The parents claimed that they were following the direction from the child’s original doctor, who worked for another, equally well-respected hospital. The doctors had differing diagnoses. And the child had spent more than a year in state custody, with her parents only being allowed to see her on supervised visits while the case was in court. In the end, the parents had won.

  But not before a nation had become aware of how easily a parent could be robbed of the right to raise his or her own child. For unfair and unproven cause.

  Liam’s story was the opposite of the Boston case—here, the parents were being taken to court in an attempt to take away their right to seek the medical attention they thought pertinent to their son’s health.

  Which brought him to yet another case. One of the most well-known, tragic cases in recent American history. A school shooter. One whose mother had allegedly not followed a doctor’s recommendation to medicate her son. With horrendous results.

  Determining the right or wrong in any of these cases wasn’t Liam’s job. But knowing the ramifications of both sides was paramount for thorough but impartial reporting.

  Finally, after years of slowly building a reputation with human interest travel pieces, he had a chance to write something substantial. For an editor who’d supported him for years and was finally breaking into the big time herself.

  Eventually he had to get back to Connelly Investments. Gabi had called a couple of times since her Friday visit to drop off files before Marie brought up dinner and the two of them left together. The first time she’d called had been to ask him to tell her everything he knew about the Grayson project. And then another time to ask about some of the companies that were in Connelly holdings. The FBI had identified a shell company among those holdings. That was already clear. What Gabrielle was looking for, he didn’t know. But he wanted her to be free to follow her suppositions and theories wherever they took her.

  As he was following his...

  The ringing of his cell phone interrupted his concentration sometime after noon on Sunday.

  “Yeah?” He picked up without looking at the caller ID.

  “I think I stumbled on a smurfing pattern.” Gabrielle didn’t bother with a greeting, either. He recognized her voice immediately, of course.

  What he didn’t recognize was the way it brought a flutter of life to his body.

  Smurfing. She’d said smurfing—a practice of deliberately making deposits smaller than ten thousand dollars, which was the amount banks were required by law to report to the government.

  Liam assumed if Gabrielle could find those transactions, the FBI already knew about them. But he asked, “What makes them stand out to you?”

  “They don’t point to your father. They are the only piece of evidence I’ve seen so far that doesn’t lead clearly to him.”

  “Meaning what?”

  “I’m not sure yet. I just wondered what you knew about them.” She named companies. Investors. Money paid into Connelly Investments for services rendered. And he began to see what had caught her attention.

  “These are all over the board,” he said, rubbing his hand through his hair and realizing he hadn’t showered. “Money comes into a company in various ways, but when you’re looking at a Ponzi scheme, you’re usually only looking at investment income.”

  “Right.”

  “Someone really is using Connelly Investments to launder money.”

  “It looks that way to me.”

  Thanking Gabi, Liam went back to work with more energy, looking at the facts and figures a little differently, open to seeing a new angle. He paid particular attention to any monies being moved, deposited, billed, paid out, loaned, written off and even claimed on expense reports in dollar amounts just less than ten thousand.

  His eyes were hurting when he realized it had grown dark outside and he hadn’t eaten since the cereal he’d had that morning. Looking at the pages of notes he’d compiled, the information collated in various ways, he sat back, discouraged. For all that he’d come up with, he’d wasted an entire afternoon.

  And proven nothing. The FBI’s evidence was legitimate. Money had come into Connelly Investments, been put into a series of investments in a supposed development community—Grayson Communities, phase two. A bit of the money had actually gone to the purchase of a piece of land—an impossible-to-develop piece of swamp. The rest had been dispersed through what had turned out to be fake records. Invoicing. Balance sheets. All fraudulent.

  Staring at the papers, he sat forward. He’d collected a series of deposit authorizations that held his father’s signature. They all pertained to deposits made into one particular offshore account. He found no record of any bills being paid out of that account.

  So was the money still sitting there?

  The FBI suspected there were more offshore accounts. Pieces of evidence that were still being sought. It was believed that information had been deleted from Connelly databases before the FBI’s warrant could be served.

  A computer forensic team was working on copies of confiscated hard drives, attempting to get the information back.

  Picking up his cell while he studied those deposits, all just under ten thousand dollars and made at regular intervals, he pushed speed dial number two—Marie was three—and waited for Gabrielle to answer.

  “Can we get access to statements from this offshore account?”

  “I’ve already put in a request,” Gabrielle told him. And Liam was glad he’d hired her. He also wished he could see her. Not her and Marie. Just her.

  And that’s when he knew for certain that something was really, really wrong.

  * * *

  “HE NEEDS TO EAT.”

  Gabrielle looked up from her papers when her roommate spoke. She’d spread them out all over the living room floor in her attempt to memorize as many of the intricate threads of investments and expenditures as she could.

  “Who does?” She knew.
She just didn’t want to think about him up there all alone. Dealing with all of this by himself. That’s why she was giving all of her time to helping sort things out.

  Downstairs. Where she could focus on the business at hand.

  “Liam, who else?” Marie’s tone of voice had a bit of an edge to it. As if she was hurt.

  “How do you know he hasn’t already?” Gabrielle pretended not to notice.

  “You know how Liam gets when he’s riled up and focused.”

  Yeah. He’d gone almost forty-eight hours without a proper meal during finals. More than once.

  And when he was on a road trip—at least on the two she and Marie had taken with him to Florida—he’d have driven straight through without stopping for anything but gas if she and Marie hadn’t ganged up on him.

  He was their friend. They had always taken care of him. “What time is it?” she asked. Marie was still wearing her coffeehouse apron. It couldn’t be that late.

  “Almost seven.”

  Oh. “And you’re just coming upstairs?”

  “I didn’t want to disturb you,” Marie said, her smile tinged with a bit of sadness. “You’re a lot like him, you know.” Maybe. Probably.

  “I have to work hard right now. I just invested most of my savings in this building.” Not to mention the call she’d had from her brother earlier that day, asking for a couple hundred dollars to get his car fixed. Again.

  “You’re going to work like a fiend to help him.”

  “Like I’d do for any client.”

  “If you say so.”

  “It’s true.”

  “What about your rule to quit by noon when you work on Sundays?” Marie sounded peevish. And Gabrielle knew what that meant. Her friend was bothered and wasn’t going to let it go.

  Because she couldn’t. When Marie’s heart hurt, she listened to it.

  And she was right. Gabrielle did have her Sunday rule. Everyone needed a time to refresh in order to be their most productive.

  “I’ve just taken on a rather large case, and I have very little time to get up to speed.”

  “Liam isn’t even a suspect. Technically there is no case.”

  Feeling tension build, Gabrielle figured maybe Marie was right. Maybe she’d worked too long for a Sunday.

  “What are you getting at?”

  “I don’t know. It’s just, you’ve been...different. With Liam.”

  “I have not! I’m helping him. Just like I’d help you.” She was lying to her best friend. She hated how that made her feel. “He’s our friend.” She continued on her collision course, an edge to her that didn’t pop up often with Marie. “You’d do the same.”

  “I’d be there for him.” Tendrils of Marie’s blond hair had escaped from her ponytail after a full day of working over steaming pots. “But...you’ve gone off alone with him, twice now, and in twelve years you’ve never done that before. Plus I’ve seen you look at him. It’s like...how a woman looks at a man. And your voice changes when you talk to him these past few days.”

  “I do not have a thing for Liam!” The idea was absolutely preposterous. “You’re imagining all of this.”

  “You’ve never lied to me before.” The disappointment in Marie’s voice was something she never wanted to hear again. Ever.

  Jumping up, Gabrielle walked right across the top of her piles of papers, regardless of any mess she might make, and helped herself to a diet cola from the refrigerator. Only then did she face her friend.

  “I am not falling for him,” she said. “I’m not going to risk us—the three of us—ever. And falling for Liam would do that. Big-time.”

  “You know I love him, too,” Marie said. “I’d give my life for him. He’s a great man. But we both know how he is with women. He’s monogamous, always faithful, but he moves on. Even with Jenna. He stuck with her longer than most, but...”

  “I know.”

  “But?”

  “But nothing.” In the years they’d all been friends, Marie had never even intimated that she thought there was anything other than friendship between Liam and either one of them. “It’s just...”

  Marie’s face fell, her gaze filled with worry. “It’s happening, isn’t it?”

  “No.” She wasn’t going to let it happen. “I just... He’s changing,” she said. “Haven’t you noticed?”

  “He’s finally standing up to his old man, if that’s what you mean.”

  “And carving a life for himself. By his own sweat and blood.”

  “And the help of his trust. None of which has anything to do with what we’re talking about. You’re attracted to him, aren’t you?”

  Gabrielle tried to deny the charge. But this was Marie. And she’d just told herself she wasn’t going to lie again. “I don’t know. Maybe. But it will pass.”

  Shaking her head, Marie looked as if she might cry. “I sure hope so. He’ll break your heart, Gabi. And then where will we be?”

  The threesome. Their family.

  “I know.”

  “Does he know? Has he said anything to you?”

  “No! Of course he doesn’t know. And even if he did, Liam wouldn’t ever do anything about it. He’s our protector. The older brother neither of us had.”

  “Except he’s our same age.”

  “You know what I mean. And no. He has no idea that...well, anyway. It doesn’t matter. It’s going to go away as quickly as it came. Don’t worry. Nothing’s going to change as far as the three of us are concerned.”

  Marie studied her a minute more and then said, “So how about we make a grilled chicken salad and take it upstairs?”

  She’d never have suggested it herself. Not after the conversation they’d just had. But with Marie at the helm—Marie, who always had her back and didn’t want anything between her and Liam any more than Gabrielle did—she didn’t mind chopping veggies and making her honey mustard dressing. And she was perfectly happy to take the flight of stairs up to his apartment to spend an hour sharing a single glass of wine and a salad with Liam Connelly. Just as friends.

  And with Marie at the helm.

  * * *

  BASED ON THE number of times Marie had asked him how he was really doing, she wanted him to spill his guts. Liam couldn’t blame her. He’d been doing so since the night they’d all met. Had established a pattern—one upon which their friendship was based. And she knew he had more to spill now than ever before.

  In a weird kind of way, he owed her that.

  But as he sat in his apartment Sunday evening, enjoying the fresh salad and bread they’d brought, Liam couldn’t find words to convey what was going on inside of him.

  Truth was, he didn’t want to find the words.

  He wasn’t a kid anymore. Didn’t need to spill his guts.

  He was glad Marie was there. That both of his friends were there. Was very glad for their company. The three of them. Together. Just like always.

  Glad that he didn’t have to spend time alone with Gabrielle while he was so tired.

  What he needed was a few hours supine in his new master suite. Which, while not as roomy as any he’d had before, had turned out quite nicely after he’d had three rooms—two beds and a bath—joined as one.

  “What do you make of that one offshore account?” he asked Gabrielle, as they sat at his solid cherry dining room table and listened to pipes groaning as they ate. “Why wasn’t it deleted with the rest of them?” Between the two of them, they’d brought Marie up-to-date regarding the case.

  “According to Gwen Menard, the FBI’s theory is that they got there with their warrant before whoever was doing the erasing had a chance to finish, so that one account was still there for the FBI to find.”

  Made sense. But the girls hadn’t brought food up for a business meeti
ng. “You and Gwen are getting pretty tight, huh?” he asked in his attempt to not talk business.

  “She’s willing to share information with me as long as I do the same with her.”

  “But you can’t, really, can you? If you were to find something that would incriminate me, you can’t pass it on to her.”

  “Correct, but I can share anything else we find. With your permission, of course. I took for granted I had your permission, as it was the only way to get what we needed.”

  “I gave you carte blanche. You know that.”

  Marie tapped her knife on the table. “Hello! Did you two forget we’re all friends here? What’s with all this ‘correct’ and ‘your permission, of course’? Since when do we talk like that?”

  “Sorry,” they both said at once. Liam looked at Gabi. Her head was bent. Which was just as well. For a second there he’d forgotten that Marie was at the table. An unforgivably selfish act on his part. She was as much his friend as Gabrielle was. The only good meal he’d had that weekend, the one they were sharing, had been Marie’s idea.

  A particularly loud thump, squeal, hiss and bump came from a pipe beneath them, distracting him from his guilt. They spent the next couple of minutes talking about the building. Men had been working on the elevator all week. It was still slow. Still jerked to a halt on some floors. But it was safe and reliable. The heating system was next on the list.

  Liam agreed to start calling around for quotes. And his phone rang.

  He recognized the number, a new one on his caller ID, and glanced at Gabrielle again as he answered. “Tanner, what’s up?”

  He’d wanted to ignore the call. Not a prudent or responsible thing to do under the circumstances.

  “You haven’t left your building all weekend.”

  “I know.”

  “I just want to be clear that you don’t have to fear going out.”

  What kind of a wimp did this guy think he was? He’d grown up rich. Not soft.