by Anita DeVito
“Thank you,” Tom said. “I appreciate you being good to her.”
The trunk was opened. The car rocked as men leaned against it, setting in the box.
“Jackson! Where are you?” A man in his mid-thirties hung out of the window of a big, black extended cab truck. The man was short of patience, big on volume. “Open this gate. Now.”
She recognized the voice. Michael Fabrini. Warning lights and sirens went off in her head. Fabrini knew Tom, but they were a distance from the gate. There was a chance he wouldn’t recognize him if got out of there now. She set the laptop on the floor and covered it with a floor mat. It wasn’t perfect but would pass a quick glance.
“Shit. It’s the little boss.” Jackson hurried across the dirty drive and keyed in the code. He waited next to the keypad and was powdered in the yellow dust when the truck rushed through the gate. Coughing, Jackson closed it again.
The badass truck came to a stop close to the trailer. Tom hunched into his coat and pulled the ball cap lower over his eyes.
“Who the hell are you?” the junior Fabrini barked.
“This is Morales’ niece and her husband. They came to pick up his things,” Jackson explained quickly.
Fabrini frowned and looked Tom over. “I have his last paycheck in the office. You might as well take it. With all the trouble that son of a bitch caused, if he comes back alive, his ass is fired.”
Tom knocked on the window, waiting until she lowered it. “Stay here. I don’t want him to get a good look at you.”
“He’ll recognize you.” The veil may look dark and solid from the outside, but she could see through her hair. It was nearly as effective as wearing reflecting sunglasses.
“Maybe. Maybe not.” A slow, cold grin grew. “Never underestimate the power of denial.” He held Peach’s hand through the window, turning back to Fabrini. “We’ll take his check and be on our way. My wife isn’t handling this all that well.” He spoke with a Tennessee accent that was every bit as thick and savory as Butch’s.
“Women. Come with me.” Fabrini narrowed his gaze. “Do I know you?”
Tom shook his head. “Don’t see how you could. My first trip up here.”
“You look like somebody.”
“That’s what she said. And for the record, I’m a married man.”
Fabrini frowned as he blushed from pasty white to sun-burned penguin. “That’s not what I meant.” He led the way on fast strides with Tom and Jackson in tow.
Leaving his truck just sitting there…again.
Decision time: passive or retribution?
She pulled on her gloves as she raced across the gravel parking area. The door opened silently. Sometimes things weren’t in the last place you looked; they were in the first. In the center console storage area, she found a brown bag half full with small clear bags. She pocketed it all and made her escape, wishing she could be a fly on the wall when the little shit answered to Drug Dealer. The last batch had been loose powder and was easily disposed of in the sand. She needed another solution. A storm drain sat near the gate, likely dry. Brush grasses still yellow with winter lay beyond the fence within easy toss. The portable toilet sat outside the trailer. Perfect.
As she stepped out of the nasty little shack, Tom came out of the trailer. He had a puzzled look on face and raised an eyebrow in question.
The guard’s voice came from behind. “I’ll get the gate open for you.”
She darted around the corner, turned around, and approached as through for the first time. Wrapping her arms around her stomach, she played the grieving niece. “There you are.”
“I’m sorry that took so long, honey. Let’s get you out of here.” Tom curled around her, protecting her from sight, then spoke over his shoulder. “Thank you, Mr. Jackson, for your help.”
“My pleasure, my pleasure. My regards, miss.”
They moved together, in stride. She felt his lips on her hair, and her heart ached. He played his role without hurry or nervousness, right down to the details. How she wished he meant that kiss.
“I should drive,” he said. “The guard would expect that, especially with you being upset.”
She took her place in the passenger seat, careful of the laptop beneath her feet. The gate was already rolling open. A moment later, they rolled through. A polite wave at the guard and then they were free.
“Take the ramp west,” she said. “Then take the first exit.”
“You want to go to the park? To the bluff?”
He navigated like he knew where he was going. The park was busier with the warmer temperatures. Runners and dog walkers used the variety of paths, but the parking lot wasn’t full. He parked very close to the one she had chosen that Saturday.
“What are we doing here?” he asked.
She couldn’t look at him, so she studied her fingers. “I’m apologizing.” She took a deep breath. “What I said on the plane… Here’s the thing. I don’t have a lot of people who matter to me. There’s Poppy. Rico. My old roommate. My parents, well, we haven’t mattered to each other for a long time. Then, I had a guy…”
“Anderson?”
“Yeah. I lost him suddenly. One day we were together, the next day…we weren’t. So, anyway, there aren’t many people who matter, and that’s fine, you know? Life is not a popularity contest.” She rubbed her hands on her thighs. She’d seen Tom naked. Why was it so hard to talk to him? “Look, I know you aren’t predictable. I know you’re smart and resourceful and creative. I know you can handle yourself in different situations. Somehow, in these last few days, you started to matter to me.” She cleared her throat and looked at his face. “You matter to me, and I don’t want to see you end up dead. I said those things because I was afraid.”
He took her hands and pressed them to his lips. “I didn’t expect you to be happy to see me, but I didn’t expect you to shove me in a corner, either.”
“I was happy to see you. I hated arguing last night, and I nearly knocked on your door this morning to say I was sorry.”
“Last night was my fault. I said something that hurt you, and I didn’t mean to. You surprised me. You’re like no one I’ve ever met before.”
She winced and looked away. Being “different” was the bane of her existence.
“Hey.” His fingers brought her gaze back to his eyes, his voice soft. He leaned across the console and brushed a kiss on each cheek. “That’s not a bad thing. Not with me.”
She felt the truth in his words. “I’m sorry.”
“I’m sorry back.” They met halfway this time. She poured her feelings into the kiss and accepted his. His arms drew her in, and she crawled to her knees, needing to be closer.
Tap. Tap. Tap. The park ranger stood with a flashlight and a disapproving glare. “This is a family park. Move along.”
Tom rolled down the window. “Sorry, Officer. My girlfriend was just practicing CPR. She has a certification test today and is a little nervous.”
The officer bent down enough to see Peach.
“It’s the timing of the chest compressions.” Her hands went to Tom’s chest, miming the action. “Now I blow, right?”
The corner of the officer’s mouth curled. “It’s thirty compressions to two breaths. I suggest you find somewhere private to practice.”
Chapter Fourteen
Thursday, April 13 ten-thirty a.m.
Tom was once again impressed and a little turned on. Hawthorne’s computer sat on the coffee shop table, spewing secrets like Pandora’s box. Peach had gotten behind the scenes while it booted up, using a flash drive to open the system. Her nimble fingers tickled the plastic letters, and three images appeared one after the other, filling the screen.
“See there? On the invoice? I don’t think that’s right.”
Paying invoices was one of Tom’s least favorite jobs, but it was a necessary evil of business. He started doing it when he was just a teen. Since he and Katie opened their firm, they shared the responsibility, though she had a heavi
er load, generally working in the field on the projects.
“The invoices look tampered with. Not the itemized ones, just the lump payments. It’s harder to audit. This would have to go back to the purchase order.” He scratched his head, literally and figuratively, trying to see the scam. “Let’s say F&F issues a purchase order to company X for fifty-thousand dollars, but the order in the system says sixty-thousand. The invoice comes in, is altered, and is then sent for processing.”
“Someone in accounting has to be involved then. How else would the ten thousand be funneled out?”
“Does Hawthorne’s system have copies of the purchase orders?” Hawthorne’s files were neatly organized. A folder labeled PO contained a folder for each vendor with the executed purchase orders. Jack Hawthorne’s signature was on each. “Jack couldn’t be involved in something like that. He’s a good guy.”
“Let’s check his email.” She opened the program. “For your sake, I hope your friend wasn’t involved, but Tom, I’ve investigated a lot of good guys who did bad things.”
“Why did they do it? The people you investigated?”
The program loaded emails, some sent as recently as that morning. His emails were again neatly structured. “My job didn’t generally involve the why. I proved that people did things—cheating, lying, stealing. Sometimes, I recovered things or information. A few times, though, I did talk with them. For the pros, it was just a job. They took getting caught like a gambler takes a bad day at the tables, just part of the game. For the amateurs, drugs drove a lot of it. The public is only now getting an idea how big a problem prescription drugs are. Money is a big motivator, one that’s hard to turn your back on.”
“Let me drive,” he said, taking control of the mouse. “The ones tampered with were prepared by Joe Carter. See? There is no original paperwork directly to Jack. Some of the other ones, like North Coast Lumber, Jack handled himself. We need to compare the originals to the logs.” He glanced over his shoulder, where she dialed her phone. “Who are you calling?”
“Sylvie McKinley. Carter’s live-in.”
“How did you get her contact info?” Even as he asked, he knew the answer.
“From your files.” She pressed a finger to her lips and put the phone on speaker.
“H-Hello?” The answering voice was whiskey over gravel…over charcoal.
Peach raised a brow and glanced the computer clock. Someone wasn’t an early riser. “Is this Sylvie McKinley?”
“Yeah. Yeah, who is this?”
“My name is E.M. Morales. I am investigating the construction accident that occurred last Saturday on behalf of one of the families. Would you be available to meet with me?”
Heavy cloth shifted in the background. The woman on the other end coughed up whatever made her sound like a man. Tom pressed his hands to his stomach, pushing in and out before he mimed coughing up a fur ball. He nearly made Peach laugh. She swatted his arm playfully, a professional expression firmly in place.
“What do you want to talk to me about?”
“I understand that you were very close with Joseph Carter. The family I represent believes the accident was no accident and that someone needs to pay for the missing men.”
“Pay? Do you mean, like, insurance?”
Oh, yeah. That got her attention. Tom mimed reeling her in and got a thumbs up in return.
“I can come by in twenty minutes, if that is agreeable.”
“Yeah,” Sylvie said amid more shuffling of what had to be bed covers. “I’m staying at the condo. Twenty minutes?”
“See you then.” She finished the conversation and put the phone into her bag. “The grieving widow will be waiting for us. What did Carolina find on her?”
Tom flipped through screens on his tablet. “She is twenty-one and a former exotic dancer turned sales consultant for Unforgettable You. That’s a line of beauty products that they sell in home parties. Local girl. High school education. No marriages. Do you want a warm up on your coffee? We have a little time.”
“I guess. It’s not as good as the coffee at your house.” When Tom returned with the fresh cups, she started to laugh. “How did that loser Fabrini not recognize you? You were so cool, you were frosty.”
“I take that as a compliment. I was worried you were going to go after him when he blamed the trouble on your uncle.”
“I thought about it and might have if we hadn’t gotten the computer.” She blew on her coffee. “I found a better way. Paybacks are a bitch…and so am I.” She grinned, proud of the moniker.
Oh, he was in trouble. He liked that gleam in her eye. “What did you do?”
Peach danced in her seat. “I took a nice little bag out of his truck. He’s not just using, he’s selling. Or running. I was a fly on the wall when somebody meaner than Fabrini demanded delivery of the shit. He was less than impressed with Fabrini’s story of how twenty-five grand of goods ghosted on him. And guess what?”
“What?”
She danced in her chair. “He’s going to go bat shit crazy when he realized he lost another couple grand.”
“In the port-a-potty?”
“If he’s willing to go after there then… Ugh, I can’t think about that. I just threw up in my mouth a little.” She snapped her fingers. “That’s it! My brain must be running at half speed.”
“Care to share the thought?”
“The Drug Dealer met with Junior in F&F’s offices. On the third floor. I’ll bet anything he’s the guy in accounting.”
“Then he’d work for Stinson. He’s tight with the senior Fabrini but didn’t impress me as a sharp crayon. I’ll call Carolina and see if she can get us a name.”
While he made the call, she transformed herself from devastated niece to authoritative investigator. She collected her thick hair and pulled it to a tail at the top of her head. With a deftness that came from experience, the band was transferred from wrist to hair. Then came twisting. Lots and lots of twisting. Another band locked the mass in place, and then an army of pins kept it there.
“Thank you, Carolina. Let me know when you have something.” Tom caught Peach’s chin and turned her head one way, then the other. “Impressive, but what’s the point?”
“Sylvie McKinley is younger than she thinks, weaker than she knows, and far too interested in money. She will tell E.M. Morales, the investigator who is promising green for her heartache, anything she wants to know. How much cash do you have on you?”
“Why?” He pulled out his wallet.
“We might need to prime the pump.”
“I have two hundred. Maybe a little more.”
“Good. Let’s get moving.”
The condominium overlooked the Rocky River valley. The building was new. Townhouse-style homes four stories tall stood shoulder to shoulder. The neighborhood around it was well established, with homey bars and restaurants crowding the busy road.
Peach pulled the car into one of the public parking spaces. She checked her face in the mirror, brushed back a hair, and then turned to him. “Lose the hat. It’s the wrong look.”
“How can there be a wrong look? We’re just going to talk to her.” Still, he took it off, combing his fingers through his hair.
“There is always a wrong look and a right look. The right look will get her to tell us all of Joe Carter’s secrets.” Her fingers fussed with his hair.
He didn’t consider curls to be masculine, but the ladies liked them. On the job, they went every which way. On his own time, he tamed them but hadn’t this morning.
“You have hat head.”
“That’s because I was wearing a hat.” He used the rearview mirror and tried to tame the curls that popped out around his ears. “There. That’s as good as it’s going to get.”
Peach walked in long strides across the sidewalk. Tom caught up, winked, and jumped a half step in front of her. She lengthened her stride, putting him solidly behind her. He growled and jogged after her. She glanced over her shoulder, saw him coming, and p
icked up her pace, and solidly occupied the middle of the narrow walk. He came up beside her and bumped her hip, nudging her over. By the time they were on the doorstep of unit 23, they were all but running. Both were breathing hard and denying they were sweating under the dark jackets.
She stepped decidedly in front, patted out any wrinkles, and rang the bell.
The door opened. The modern white of the foyer framed the grieving woman, who was a vision in black leather. The skirt was too short to call thigh length, and the top was bustier style that was straining to contain her girls. The long, shapely legs were finished in a strappy heel. The head of hair sitting on those bare shoulders had been dyed platinum blond. The layers of make up on the flawless skin failed to mask red and swollen eyes.
Tom’s gaze went to the ripe melons, ready to burst.
“Miss McKinley? I’m E.M. Morales. This is my partner, Harry Crankshaft.”
Tom flinched, her not-so-subtle dig dispelling the fog.
Sylvie McKinley giggled. “Ms. Morales. Mr., ur, Crankshaft. Come in, please.” She led them up a set of steps to the main floor. The floor wasn’t more than twenty-five feet wide and went from the windows overlooking the street to the windows overlooking the river. The space was divided into a sitting area, a dining area, and a kitchen by different floor covering. The sleek, modern room had been furnished jointly by IKEA and Harley Davidson.
Sylvie sank into a white leather chair, curling her feet under her. She picked up a mug from the end table and sipped. She closed her eyes as she swallowed.
“That’s not Seven Up she’s savoring,” Peach whispered. She lifted her chin, looking authoritative again. “Thank you again for meeting with us, Miss McKinley. As I said on the phone, we work for the family of one of the men harmed by this tragedy.”
“You think there could be money?” Sylvie said, cutting right through the bullshit.