The Kill

by Jan Neuharth

  He looked out the window at the house, rapping his knuckles against the glass. “Mother jumps down my throat.”

  “Go back inside and talk to her,” Abigale said softly. “Tell her what you just told me.”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  Manning shook his head. “I’ll get the financials from Thompson tomorrow and figure it out myself.”

  The light in the downstairs window clicked off, plunging the house into darkness.

  He turned to Abigale. “Let’s go home.”

  CHAPTER

  78

  Abigale spent most of the morning trying to stay out of Manning’s way while he alternated between staring at the computer screen and rifling through papers strewn across his desk, muttering things like “what the hell” and “this makes no sense.”

  She reluctantly uncurled herself from the couch in front of the smoldering fire and padded to the kitchen for more coffee, her bare feet whispering across the hardwood floor. She glanced through the rain-streaked window. The steel-bottomed clouds that had pressed down from the heavens all morning were still unleashing a steady torrent of rain.

  Sipping her coffee, Abigale checked her cell phone for what seemed like the hundredth time to make sure she hadn’t missed a call or text message from Miguel. Nothing. The landline rang, but Manning ignored it, so Abigale picked it up in the kitchen and carried the cordless phone to him, covering the mouthpiece with her hand.

  “It’s your mother,” she said, extending the phone to him.

  Manning’s face darkened. He shot her a look, mouthing a sarcastic “thanks” as he reached for the phone. “Hello?”

  The conversation lasted less than a minute. Manning disconnected the call and stared thoughtfully at the handset.

  “Everything okay?”

  “Yeah.” He frowned at her. “Mother is coming over here. She wants me to show her the financials that I have questions about.”

  “That’s great. What turned her around?”

  “I don’t know. She just said she’d been thinking about it overnight and wanted to get together with me before the meeting with Thompson this afternoon.”

  Abigale stroked the back of his neck. “Just keep your cool if she jumps down your throat again. Once she realizes you’re not criticizing the way things were done in the past, that you’re just asking questions in order to understand things, she’ll be on your side.”

  His broad shoulders expanded as he sucked in a deep breath, then let it escape. “I hope so. Because the more I look at these numbers, the less I know.”

  “You’ll figure it out.” Abigale pressed her lips to his forehead. “I’d better get dressed so I can get out of your hair before Margaret arrives.”

  She was wearing one of Manning’s dress shirts, and he grabbed a handful of blue cotton as she turned away. “Uh-uh. Not so fast.”

  Tension swept from Manning’s face as if washed away by the tide. His lips parted, curving into a smile. He reeled her back, his eyes dancing greedily up her thigh and across her abdomen, settling on her chest. He popped open a button and pulled her into a kiss.

  Abigale planted a hand on his shoulder as she tore her mouth away. “I’ve got to go, Manning. I still need to shower.”

  “Good idea. Me too,” he murmured, slipping his hands up inside the shirt. “We can save water.”

  “You have a one-track mind,” she said, gently shoving his hands away.

  A low chuckle rumbled in his throat. “Of course I do. I’m a guy.”

  Abigale’s cell phone buzzed in her breast pocket. She’d set it on vibrate so she’d be able to slip away to answer it if she got a call about a meeting with Dario. She snatched the phone and saw a number she didn’t recognize. The area code was 703. Virginia. She punched the call button. “Hello.”

  “It’s Miguel.”

  Abigale’s heart slammed in her chest. She turned away from Manning and walked over by the window. “Yes.”

  “Dario, he agree to talk.”

  Thank God. “Just tell me where and when.”

  “I take you to him. You know Big Lots?”

  “No.”

  “It’s a store in Sterling. I meet you in parking lot.”

  Abigale heard Manning shift in his chair. She felt his gaze on her. “Okay. I’ll find it. What time?” she said quietly.

  “Five o’clock today.”

  “I’ll be there.”

  Abigale drew in a breath as she ended the call. She was actually going to meet with Dario Reyes. She itched to tell Manning, ached to let the whole story burst out—how Michelle had arranged for her to meet with Miguel, that Miguel was going to take her to Dario. Everything. But she fought the urge. She knew Manning would never let her meet with Dario alone. And if Miguel caught wind that anyone else was involved, he’d disappear like a scared rabbit. Her one chance to talk to Dario would vaporize. She couldn’t allow that to happen. This was something she had to do alone.

  CHAPTER

  79

  There were only a handful of cars in the parking area in front of Big Lots. No surprise. The pounding rain and relentless wind had probably kept all but those in need of absolute necessities hunkered down at home. Abigale glanced at the clock as she pulled the Subaru into a parking space a few rows away from the store entrance. She’d been slowed down by standing water on the roadways and a couple of intersections where the traffic signals were out, but had still managed to arrive with seven minutes to spare. She switched off the engine and eyed the other vehicles in the lot. None of them appeared to be occupied.

  Two entrances led to the parking lot, one directly in front of her off Sterling Boulevard and another that fed off an access road to her right. Her eyes flickered back and forth between the two. An occasional vehicle splashed by on Sterling Boulevard, spraying water in its wake, but none of them turned into the lot.

  Rain hammered the Subaru’s roof, blowing sideways in the neon glare of a nearby security light. A shopping cart skittered across the lot and slammed into the cart return area. Abigale had heard on the car radio that there was a flood watch in effect for the entire D.C. area throughout the night. And the forecast was no better for tomorrow. She shivered. It almost made her long for the unforgiving Afghan sun.

  The inside of the car windows were fogging up, and Abigale stretched forward to run her jacket sleeve across the front windshield. As she settled back in the seat, she caught the sweep of headlights to her left, then heard the growl of an engine as a truck glided into the spot next to her. She wiped a circle with her fist and saw Miguel peering at her from behind the wheel of a battered brown pickup truck. He had to have been parked at the far back of the lot, watching to make sure she was alone. Another man sat in the front seat beside him.

  The truck’s passenger door opened and the other man slid out. He wore jeans and a black hoodie pulled snug across a baseball cap with a broad rim that shadowed most of his face. Even without getting a good look at his face, she was sure the man was not Dario Reyes. She’d studied the photo of Dario released by the sheriff’s office, committing his description to memory. Dario was five foot eight and 145 pounds. This man had to be at least six feet tall and probably weighed close to 200 pounds.

  Miguel leaned across the seat, waving his hand impatiently for her to get into the truck. Abigale hesitated. The presence of the man with the hoodie bothered her. Who was he? A shiver crept up her spine, but she grabbed the handle. She hadn’t come this far to back down now. She shoved open the door and climbed out. A gust of wind knocked her back against the Subaru as fat raindrops splattered her face and trickled down her scalp.

  She motioned for the man with the cap to climb into the truck ahead of her, but he shook his head. He wanted her to sit in the middle. He gripped her arm, lifting her up as she climbed into the cab. As she slid across the bench seat toward Miguel, the man jumped onto the seat beside her and slammed the door. He thumped his fist against the dashboard. “Vayamos! Muévalo.”


  She understood enough Spanish to know what that meant. Let’s go. Move it.

  Miguel threw the gearshift into reverse and the truck jerked back out of the parking space. Neither man spoke as the truck lurched toward Sterling Boulevard. Abigale sucked in a deep breath, trying to assure herself these men were nothing compared to the informants she’d met with in the Middle East. But she couldn’t shake the fear that she’d just made the stupidest move of her life.

  CHAPTER

  80

  Moments after they’d settled in Richard’s study, Thompson ticked off Manning.

  “What do you mean you don’t have the most recent profit-and-loss statements?” Manning demanded.

  “That’s not exactly accurate,” Thompson replied. “I have them. Everything’s up to date. I just didn’t run printouts for you.”

  “Why not?” Manning asked.

  Thompson glanced at Margaret. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize you wanted to get into that kind of detail today. I thought Margaret just wanted me to give you a primer—hunt economics 101.”

  “Hunt economics 101?” Manning scoffed. “I’m not as ignorant as you think, Thompson.”

  “All right, both of you calm down,” Margaret said. “We’re all part of the same team. For the good of the hunt, the two of you need to put aside your differences and forge a solid working relationship.”

  “This is a waste of time,” Manning muttered.

  Margaret ignored the remark. “Thompson, Manning has been looking over the financials you handed out at last month’s board meeting and he has some questions. I’m sure you can answer many of them without having any printouts with you. Let’s start there.”

  “By all means,” Thompson said. “Ask away.”

  Manning wanted to start with the shoeing and vet expenses, but he figured Thompson would likely react the same way his mother had when he’d brought it up the night before. He splayed his hands across the stack of papers on his lap. He didn’t need to refer to them. Most of the numbers were already committed to memory. “Let’s start with the races,” he said. “I assume the hunt incurs much of the expense and receives a good portion of the revenue in advance of race day.”

  “Not necessarily,” Thompson replied. “Checks and invoices will trickle in for another month or so.”

  Manning nodded impatiently. “Sure, I can see that. Especially with race-day expenses that are invoiced. But let’s talk revenue. The race entries are paid in advance. So are program ad sales. I assume the sponsors pay in full up front.”

  “Don’t assume.” Thompson flashed a knowing smile at Margaret.

  “We give a little leeway to some of the regulars,” Margaret said. “We’ll collect it eventually. Always do.”

  “Okay. But most pay up front, right?” Manning said.

  Thompson rolled a shoulder. “Sure.”

  “Do the vendors pay up front?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you sell advance tickets online. So, other than the late payers, you basically receive all the revenue up front, except for the gate receipts on race day.”

  “And program sales. Souvenir items. Pony rides,” Thompson said.

  “Yeah, but that’s piddly stuff,” Manning said. “The bulk of the money is collected before race day.”

  “What’s your point?” Thompson asked.

  Manning feathered the stack of papers. “It doesn’t show up. I see lots of expenses, but little income.”

  “The financials Margaret gave you are from last month. Those numbers are old news.”

  “I’m not talking about last month’s financials,” Manning said. “I’m talking about deposits. I don’t see credits that reflect anywhere near the revenue that should have been received.”

  “What figures are you looking at?”

  “The bank account. Checks and deposits.”

  “Where did you see the bank records?” Thompson’s eyes darted to the papers in Manning’s hands. “I hope Richard didn’t leave old statements floating around for the world to see.”

  “I wasn’t looking at old bank statements. I’ve been going through the account online.”

  “Online!” Thompson exclaimed. “Who authorized access for you? It takes a board resolution to authorize a new signatory to the account.”

  “Not if you’re the master,” Manning replied, surprised by how good it felt to call himself that. He hadn’t said it to be arrogant, but he couldn’t deny the surge of pleasure he felt from the look of resentment on Thompson’s face. “The account was set up giving signatory to Richard and any subsequent master or masters. Doug produced the board resolution voting me in as master and Jay Barnsby had me authorized on the account.”

  “Well, I wish I’d been informed,” Thompson said, shooting a look at Margaret. “I’ve been the sole authorized user—Richard had no interest in online banking—so I’m not geared toward coordinating banking activities with anyone. There’s a risk for disaster if the right hand doesn’t know what the left hand is doing.”

  Manning said, “I haven’t been doing anything. I’ve just been observing.”

  “Okay,” Thompson said slowly.

  “So, back to the account. Why am I not seeing deposits for race revenue?”

  Thompson managed to look bored and irritated at the same time. “Do you really want me to go into detail? It’s far more complex than you probably care to know about.”

  “Try me.”

  “All right. There’s more than one bank account. I keep a separate account for the races.”

  “Why’s that?” Manning asked.

  “For one thing, I decided to set up an online merchant services account for ticket sales for the races this year. I thought it would be a good trial. If we’re happy with the process, we can use it in the future for members to purchase tickets to the hunt ball, even pay their membership dues online.”

  “You couldn’t set that up with the hunt account?” Manning asked.

  “I could. But we needed a separate race account anyway in order to get the ABC license to sell liquor.” Thompson wet his lips, looked at Margaret. “You remember how we went round and round about that at the board meeting and I finally discovered that we could get the license if we set up a separate nonprofit LLC for the races?”

  Margaret nodded. “I remember it seemed like a convoluted process, but the bottom line was you came up with some way for us to be able to sell booze.”

  “That’s right.” A slight smile lit Thompson’s eyes. “As Richard used to say, ‘There’s more than one way to skin a cat.’ Anyway, the merchant account dumps the online payments into the race account, not the hunt account. That’s why you didn’t see many deposits.”

  “But I saw checks for race expenses written on the hunt account,” Manning said. “If the race revenue flows into a separate account, shouldn’t the expenses be paid from the same account?”

  Thompson smirked at him, as if he were a naïve child. “Sure, in an ideal world. But at the time I wrote the checks we didn’t have sufficient funds in the race account to cover them, so I used the hunt account. If you’ve been online, you probably saw that I used the hunt account for the donation check to the environmental council. Once all the online payments process through the race account, I’ll transfer funds to the hunt account.”

  Manning frowned. “No, I didn’t see the donation check. Which means it hasn’t cleared the account. You wrote the check for ten thousand, right?”

  “You know I did,” Thompson replied.

  “Then the donation check will bounce. The hunt account has a balance of less than ten thousand dollars.”

  “Bounce! What in God’s name are you talking about?” Margaret demanded.

  “Manning’s making this more complicated than it has to be,” Thompson said, flapping his hand dismissively at Manning. “We have overdraft protection on the hunt account. The check won’t bounce, but you’ll recall, Margaret, I was against the idea of presenting the check at the races and you overruled me.�
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  “That’s true,” Margaret said.

  “Well, no harm done,” Thompson said. “I knew how important it was for you to honor Richard that way. If we didn’t have overdraft protection I wouldn’t have gone along with it, but I knew it was just a temporary cash-flow problem. Trust me, it will all sort out in the end.”

  Trust him? Far from it. An uneasy feeling crept over Manning. Maybe his judgment was colored by his aversion to Thompson, but there was too much smoke and mirrors for his liking. Two accounts, with a line so blurred it might as well not exist.

  “Why doesn’t the race account show up in online banking?” Manning asked.

  “You have to log in to each account separately,” Thompson replied. “They’re different LLCs with different tax ID numbers. You probably didn’t request online access to the race account.”

  Manning went on full alert, confusion rocketing to distrust. How could he request access when he didn’t know the account existed? “Was Richard authorized on the race account?”

  “I honestly don’t recall. Possibly not. There would have been no need. Richard never wrote checks. I handled everything.” Thompson glared at him. “Look, Manning, I don’t like where this conversation is heading. I’ve busted my ass—sorry, Margaret—for this hunt, and I resent you marching in and questioning how I operate. If you want to deal with the finances by yourself, be my guest. I guarantee you’ll end up appreciating the way I’ve managed things. It’s not easy handling the books for an outfit that operates in the red. I pride myself on the fact that the bills always get paid on time.”

  How hard is that when all you’ve had to do is tell Richard to deposit more money in the account? Manning thought. But he refrained from saying it.

  “We all appreciate your efforts on behalf of the hunt, Thompson,” Margaret said. “But I think with Richard’s passing and Manning taking afresh look at things, it has spotlighted how you were single-handedly managing the hunt finances. Not only does that put a big burden on you, it’s not good business practice. This seems like a good opportunity for us to spread out the responsibilities, relieve some of your burden.”