by Anita DeVito
“I wouldn’t call her that unless you got your junk protected.”
Tom paused, leafing through the sheets as images of Jeb in the fetal position popped up. He didn’t hide the smile as he read the next page. “She’s a private investigator?”
“She’s licensed in Virginia. She worked for an agency until about a year ago then started drawing a paycheck from a D.C. law firm. That ended in January. The address on her license is an apartment in Virginia Beach. Your girl likes to move around.”
“She’s not my girl.”
Jeb leaned back in the guest chair and put his feet on Tom’s desk. “She’s an only child. Both of her parents are career military. Air Force. She moved around as a kid then went to live permanently with her grandfather when she was twelve. He had legal custody. She went to high school in Ohio, graduated with honors. Got in some trouble. Breaking and entering. Stealing.”
“She has a record? How did you get that? I thought juvenile records were sealed.”
“She doesn’t have a record. Barely. Poppy may just be a miracle worker. He doesn’t think much of the way his son and daughter-in-law raised Peach. He said they never understood her. They pushed her back and forth, from here to there. She never has friends. She never settles. That worries him.”
“Settles? What did he mean?”
Jeb shrugged. “Moves around a lot, I guess. One thing is clear: there is nothing easy about your woman.”
He had to ignore it. If he kept getting riled up, Jeb would keep poking. “You think the two of them are in any danger?”
“Hard to say. Until yesterday, whoever was gunning for you didn’t know they existed. I would expect that the interest in them is finding you. So who do you think you pissed off?”
“I’ve got somebody nervous, but the thing is, they think that I have more than I do. Sure, I’m going to be able to provide evidence the crane was compromised but not by who.” He stood and started to pace. “It’s not like you put the pieces back to together and there’s a big old sign saying, ‘Go arrest Joe Blow.’ I’m an engineer, not a detective.”
“Well, son. Maybe your—”
“—don’t say it.”
“—girlfriend will come up with something. Butch and Katie should be home soon. She’s on dinner tonight.”
“I wonder what kind of pizza she’ll order. I liked that taco one she got last time.”
Jeb pushed to his feet and patted his stomach. “No such thing as a bad pizza in my book. I’m gonna go see what the wife of mine is up to.”
“I think I’ll tag along.”
“This is incredible,” Peach said, standing in front of the bank of screens displaying financial history for her uncle, Jack Hawthorne, and Joe Carter. “How did you get this so fast?”
“Most of it’s public record. The rest I paid for,” Carolina said, her fingers flying over the keyboard. “You just have to know where to look. And, thanks to you, I did. I can follow most of this. I’ve read a few books on accounting and taxes. Where do you want to start?”
“My uncle. Let’s see what was to be gained by his death.”
Carolina’s fingers stopped, creating space between them. “You think he’s dead?” Compassion looked out through her blue eyes.
“I just can’t imagine how he’s not dead. If he were alive, he would have contacted Poppy. He would never have put him through this kind of heartbreak. If he were unconscious in a hospital within twenty miles, I would have found him by now. The only option left is a Misery scenario, and seeing as my uncle wasn’t famous, rich, or handsome, I’m out of options.”
The clicking of the keyboard was thick in the quiet room. Soon, the monitors flashed, and the screens featured enlargements of Rico Morales’s assets and debts, marriages and divorces.
“Nice car,” Tom said as he and Jeb entered. He stood close to Peach but not touching. “What are we looking at?”
“My uncle’s finances.” She moved closer with the excuse of pointing to the figures on the screen. “Not much in savings. His house is paid off.”
“Have you been to his house?” Carolina asked. “Would he keep his paperwork there? You know, a will or insurance papers?”
“Maybe Poppy knows. I visited about three years ago when I was in Atlanta for work. He lived on the outskirts. I think that was where his second wife lived. I vaguely remember her. I don’t know why he bought it. He worked all over the country. That must be where he left his car. He didn’t bring it to Cleveland. We shared my car and the Beast.”
“The Beast?” Carolina said, looking at Jeb.
“Her grandfather’s pick-up truck. What are you looking for, Peach?”
“Money. The files I read showed accounting errors on the casino project. I think someone is skimming. I know someone is dealing drugs. I don’t have any proof the two are linked. Tom, you believe the accident wasn’t an accident. So what did our felon expect to happen?” She went to the dry erase board. “One: my uncle dies. Two: my uncle and Hawthorne die. Someone tricked him to climb into that crane—”
“Wait. What did you just say?” Tom held up his hands. “Nobody I talked to knows why Hawthorne went into the crane booth.”
“To bring Rico a new radio, but his was working.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I was on the phone with him. You knew that. He used a Bluetooth ear piece, but I could hear Hawthorne.”
Tom came to her now, rubbed her arms. “You said you saw him fall. I had no idea you were on the phone with him. I didn’t want to ask you too many questions. I know how hard this is. Well, I don’t, but I can imagine. I have to now. You may have heard something that fills in the gaps.”
She saw it in his face: he didn’t want to hurt her. By coming to his house, soliciting Carolina’s help, she’d joined his team. Or he joined hers. It was semantics, because now, they were working together. Of course, he’d want to know what she saw. “You’ll want to see the video.”
“Video? You have one?” She knew he fought back the thrill for her.
“Yeah, I, uh, I was recording him to show Poppy. He never saw Rico work.” Suddenly her mouth was dry. “I don’t know what’s on it. I…I’ve never watched it.” She took her phone from her pocket. “Here. Do me a favor? Wipe it off the phone?”
“I can do that.” Tom put the phone in his pocket and then pulled her under his shoulder. “Let’s go back to your list. What’s your third option?”
“Third option?” She cried inside, where no one could see, but it muddled her brain. The arm around her helped, but she wanted to turn to him, curl into that sweet spot on his neck and forget. Instead, she stepped away from him, returning to the board. “The, uh, third option is that it was a financial hit. This one makes the most and the least sense.”
“An accident like that costs a lot of people, a lot of money,” Carolina said, her voice thick with emotion. “It could bankrupt small companies.”
“Which makes sense if it’s somehow personal against F&F,” Peach said, “but not as a cover up for embezzlement and drug sales.”
“Who is selling drugs?” Tom asked.
“Michael Fabrini,” Jeb said immediately.
Peach nodded. “He’s got a dealer close by. I don’t have a name, but I would recognize the voice. I really pissed them off by stealing their stash.” Three pairs of eyes turned her way. “If you’re going to leave the door wide open, you’re just asking for someone to steal it.”
Jeb muttered under his breath, something like delinquent. “What about Jack Hawthorne?”
Carolina’s fingers tickled the keyboard again, and the screens shifted. “Ah. Jack is into boats. It’s easy to see where his money goes. The man has a house, a wife, two teenage boys, and boats. The house is close to Lake Erie. He buys and sells a boat every few years.”
“Boats are an expensive hobby.” Peach bit the inside of her cheek, thinking of the money Anderson dropped each weekend. Hawthorne wouldn’t have been at that level, but it would still be
an easy place to spend fast cash. “I wonder what happened to his laptop.” She turned to Carolina. “His office was locked, but the computer wasn’t there. The accident happened during the day. His computer should have been there. But who would take it and lock the door?”
“Maybe he hid it,” Tom said. “Did you search the office?”
“No,” she said, disappointed at the lost opportunity. “I ran out of time. You need to ask Fabrini about it. I need to spend time with his secretary’s files. I did a quick search, but there were no yellow sign saying ‘read me,’ just lots of spreadsheets and logs.”
“I’ll work on it later today,” Carolina said. “How about the last guy? Joe Carter.” The screens flickered again. “Condo, truck. Loans. I don’t see anything out of the ordinary here.”
“Can you enlarge his Facebook page?” Peach walked the length of the room, staring into the drunken eyes of a dead man. “Here, look at this picture. What do you see?”
Carolina rolled her eyes at the picture of Joe Carter in an F&F Construction shirt with his eyes half shut. His arms were around the necks of two buxom women, also with their eyes at half-mast. He held two bottles of beer by the neck in one hand and the breast of the brunette in the other. “A man with more bravado than brains.”
“Every man I’ve ever met does,” Peach said.
Jeb wrapped his arms around Carolina from behind and kissed her shoulder. “You hear what she said about you, Tom?”
Peach nearly sneered. She didn’t like Tom being slammed because of her.
Jeb wasn’t fazed. “Don’t worry. I’ll keep it between you, me, and the bed post.”
Bed post? Her temperature rose. He’d been in Tom’s room. Or Tom told him about last night. She glared at Tom, who was scowling at Jeb. No. No, it was the hotel. He knew they’d been together at the hotel. Peach lifted her chin, looking between the two of them, and pulled on her thick skin.
Carolina slapped playfully at her husband. “Jeb, behave.”
Peach stood directly in front of the monitor, ignoring the men in the room. “The kid was one year out of college making about fifty grand a year. He’s paying off thirty in student loans. He bought a new condo last fall, a new truck about the same time. His bank account has just over five grand in it.”
“Where does the rest of the money come from?” Jeb asked.
“The rest of what money?” Carolina asked.
Tom pointed at the screen. “The money that paid for the Rolex on his wrist.”
“He paid cash for the truck. There’s no loan on it,” Peach said. “Do we know who the woman is under his left hand? I’m betting he paid for those tits. He’s mighty proud of them.”
Jeb started to say something, but Carolina covered his mouth. “I’ll look for her,” she said and then eyed her husband. “Is there something you want?”
“Yes, but it would be indecent in front of company. Come upstairs and take a break with me.” He nuzzled Carolina’s neck, his arm under her breasts pulling her from the chair.
“You can use my office as long as you want, Peach.” Carolina made the offer, giggling under her husband’s assault.
“We can go to my lab,” Tom said, his attention still on the screen. “I have computers you can use, too. They’re just as fast. I can get more monitors.”
He tried to hide it, but Peach heard it, that little tinge of jealousy. She went to him, drawing her fingers across his forearm. Soothing the sting she heard because he wasn’t going to like her answer. “I’d like that, but…you’re going to watch the video, aren’t you?” His gaze flashed to hers. “I know you’re anxious to see it. I’m impressed you stayed here this long. I really hope it helps you find the answers, but I can’t…”
“Of course not.” He turned her until they were hip to hip. “I can wait until later.”
“You don’t have to.” She played with his shirt, smoothing the knit material over his stomach. Her emotions were running high and very close to the surface. There was an irony in things happening so fast and yet moving at glacial speed. She needed time to process. “I’m ready for a break myself. Is it safe to run on the road?”
He frowned, still holding her to him. “It’s safe enough, but there’s no need. There is a path around the farm that’s close to three miles, and we have a gym in the farm house with anything you could need.”
“I need to be outside.” She looked in his eyes, trying to be open and honest with him. “And I need a little time alone. Really, this is perfect. I’ll run while you watch the video.”
He sighed but didn’t argue. “Okay.” Taking her hand, he led her out of Jeb and Carolina’s wing and into his own. He stopped at the bottom of the stairs to his apartment. “I’ll be here when you need me.” Slowly, he lowered his head, breaching the distance between them inch by inch.
She rose to her toes, and then their lips were together. Softly. Gently. It wasn’t lust filled and passionate but was infinitely intimate. Her hand went to his neck, fingers playing in his short hair.
Her phone rang, the one in his hand. “Take the call. Whenever you’re finished, I’ll download the video.” He kissed her cheek, setting it in her hand.
She pressed answer before the phone number registered.
703 area code.
Peach looked beyond the ceiling. “You hate me. You truly hate me, don’t you?”
Chapter Eleven
Wednesday, April 12 four p.m.
Peach wasn’t a coward. She could handle this. He got all he was going to get from her. If he kept pressing, he was going to find out why hell hath no fury like a woman scorned. “Morales,” she said. Her voice was all hard edges professional.
“Em. Thank God. When you didn’t call back, I worried something happened.”
“Anderson.”
“Baby, we need to talk.” His voice was seduction. That was Anderson. He’d perfected the “you catch more flies with honey than vinegar” tactic.
“Five hundred an hour. I’m starting the meter now. Talk.”
He let out a exasperated sigh. “Don’t be like that, baby. Em, honey, you know how I feel about you.”
She hated this—the repeated rehashing of history. “What do you want, Anderson?” Her voice broke. She hated that even more.
“I don’t want to do this over the phone. Come to my apartment where we can talk in private. I want to see you.”
“I’m in Tennessee, Anderson. There is no coming to your apartment. There is nothing talk to about.”
“Now, Em.” His voice fell in that way he had of telling her she was being unreasonable. “That’s just not true, and you know it. We have unfinished business.”
“As far as I’m concerned, we finished everything there was to finish on New Year’s Eve. Good bye, Anderson.”
“This isn’t the end—”
There was some satisfaction in hanging up. Still, it paled compared to the way her hands shook. And the crying. What was with that? Emotion overload. That had to be it. Once they had her uncle back, she’d be back to her normal, sane self.
She knocked once and went into Tom’s office. Office was the wrong word. On the other side of the closed door was a modern-day take on Frankenstein’s laboratory. Big equipment filled the room that was as large as the entire upstairs. The mad doctor sat in the center, where tables fashioned into a large square made up the actual office.
Tom was on the phone. Perfect, as she didn’t want conversation. She hurried to the nearest table, set her phone on it, and left, pretending not to see him gesturing for her to wait.
With no time to lose, she ran to the princess room and changed. She wanted to be out of the house before Tom finished his call, just in case he came looking.
She didn’t take her watch. She would run until she ran it out.
She didn’t take her music. She wouldn’t hear anything over the noise in her head.
The temperature was thirty—count them—thirty degrees warmer than when they left Greater Cleveland. It felt goo
d to wear so little. She slid on sunglasses and jogged to the two dirt ruts separated by a raised line of stubborn grass.
The first few minutes were easy, just to warm up. Then things got hard. She didn’t want comfort; she wanted pain. She wanted to drive her body until her feet were as numb as her soul. Until her legs ached as much as her heart. He had lied to her.
Anderson Bingham on New Year’s Eve, with his styled hair and designer suit, stood beside her with the gin and tonic in his hand, laughing as his mother called her a mix-blooded child with more taste than talent. When she begged her son to get through this “little phase” and find a proper wife, he’d pet her hand, soothing her.
The image of herself that evening was branded in her mind. The fitted sequined dress she spent too much on and her hair so full of product it hung straight, nearly reaching her bottom. A ruby necklace rested on her décolletage, a loan from her widowed neighbor. It had been an anniversary present from her husband, and she’d been proud to have Peach wear it to such a sophisticated party. Despite everything she did, or maybe because of, she would never fit in there. No matter what Anderson whispered in the dark of night, he would never openly claim her to be his.
Embarrassment and humiliation fueled her legs. She, who laughed at the drama in which other women seemed to perpetually lived, had thrown her glass of red wine on Mommy Dearest and walked out.
Anderson hadn’t followed.
That was what hurt.
She rounded the corner at the front of the house, running along the endless line of black fence. A massive black dog with a lolling tongue leaped off the porch and sprinted across the lawn. He turned and ran with her a stride or two and then pulled away. She pushed harder, using the dog for pacing. Lengthening her stride, she tried to outrun the dog, tried to outrun the pain.
She followed the dog onto a narrower footpath. Tall scrub brush reached into the thin path, talon-like thorns ripping at the dog and woman alike. She let out an anguished cry. The more she demanded, the more her body gave. Her lungs weren’t burning. Her legs weren’t screaming.
This wasn’t working.