by Diane Kelly
“Okay,” he said. “CPA it is.”
The stadium loomed ahead and we pulled into the VIP parking lot. Brett rolled to a stop next to an attendant decked out head to toe in blue and red Rangers gear. He rolled down the window and handed the attendant a parking pass.
We found an open space a few lanes over. As we climbed out of the car, a couple walked by. Brett called after them.
The man and woman stopped and we caught up to them. I recognized the two as the couple Brett had been speaking with at the Arboretum’s charity fund-raiser. Stan Shelton was dressed in creased navy slacks and a gray knit shirt, his young wife in a skintight black miniskirt, black heels, and a sheer white blouse over a black bra.
Brett introduced me to Stan and we shook hands. When Stan turned to introduce his wife, I noticed a port-wine birthmark in the rough shape of a turtle on the back of his neck. He put a hand on his wife’s back. “This is Britney.”
I extended my hand to Britney then, noting the enormous diamond on her left hand, the gem the size of a thirty-eight-caliber bullet. “Nice to meet you, Britney.”
She took my hand, but instead of shaking it she turned my hand up and examined my nails. “Cute manicure. Love the baseballs.”
“Thanks.”
The four of us wove our way through incoming traffic and tailgate parties, Britney bringing up the rear since she could take only baby steps in her tight skirt and heels. Not that I had any room to call her trashy after the getup I’d worn most of the day.
I debated trying to wheedle information about the currency exchange seminar out of Stan on our way in, but decided it was too soon. I’d wait until he’d had a drink or two and was more relaxed, then I’d catch him with his guard down and grill him for information.
I glanced back at Britney. “Your lake house is beautiful. The stone and granite are a wonderful combination.”
Britney shrugged. “I’m not going out there until the wet bar and hot tub are up and running.”
We handed our tickets to the usher and proceeded through the turnstile. Inside, Brett purchased two programs, handing one to Stan, rolling up the other and tucking it under his arm. We made our way to the escalator to ride up to the box.
Teetering on her heels, Britney took hold of the escalator’s handrail and glanced at Stan. “You made sure they’re going to have Cuervo tequila, right? That cheap crap they served last time gave me a hell of a headache.”
“Sure it wasn’t the fact that you downed eight shots of it?” Stan skewered Britney with a look that said he was having second thoughts about his second wife.
We followed Stan and Britney through the special entrance to the skyboxes. First Dallas Bank’s box sat in a prime location behind home plate, next to the announcer’s booth, affording us a spectacular view of the field. At the back of the box was a bar, its surface covered with bottles in all shapes, sizes, and colors. A dark-haired woman dressed in a blue and red uniform stood at a buffet table, laying out a dainty spread of cocktail shrimp and crab-stuffed mushrooms, along with a heavier selection of bratwurst and sauerkraut. Something for everyone.
“This looks delicious,” I said to the attendant. She looked up and smiled.
Stan, Brett, and I loaded plates with food. Britney turned up her nose at the offerings. “Cuervo shots,” she barked at the server before wobbling her way down the steps to look out on the field.
Brett took my hand and helped me down the rows of padded seats. The box provided a much better view than the nosebleed section in which I usually sat. We were so close I could easily read the names on the backs of the players’ shirts. I took a seat, while Brett stood on the steps, talking with Stan. Britney flopped into the seat next to me, crossing her legs and swinging the top one impatiently.
I attempted conversation. “Do you work, Britney?”
Britney snorted. “Stan works me hard enough in the bedroom every night. That’s all the work I intend to do.”
Too much information. I choked down the bite of bratwurst lodged in my throat. “How did you and Stan meet?”
Britney flipped a lock of hair over her shoulder with a coral-tipped fingernail. “I used to do his first wife’s hair.” Then Britney started doing her client’s husband, apparently.
Britney glanced up at Brett and Stan, then leaned toward me. “You should dump your boyfriend and find an older man. They’ve got lots of money, their kids are grown, and the best part about it is their parents will either be dead or too embarrassed to acknowledge you. Either way, no in-laws to deal with.”
“I’ll take that under advisement.”
Small talk with this small-minded woman had proved pointless. I turned my attention to the field below.
“Gawd, I hate sports,” Britney muttered. “The only way I can get through these games is by getting plastered.” She proceeded to do just that as quickly as possible, downing in rapid succession the three tequila shots handed to her by the server. Britney returned the empty shot glasses to the tray and snapped her fingers at the woman. “Keep them coming.”
The waitress glanced at me. I discreetly crossed my eyes and she discreetly smiled back.
By that time, a few other couples had entered the box. I wondered if any of them were involved in the Forex investment program. I also wondered if any of the men were Dave Edwards, the informant who’d been working with the OCC, the man I was scheduled to meet with the following night.
Stan introduced Brett and me to those in the box. Many were high-ranking bank employees and their spouses. A few others were clients, no doubt invited due to the substantial balances in their accounts judging from the Rolex and Piaget watches on their wrists. Edwards wasn’t here. Either he wasn’t high enough on the bank’s food chain to warrant an invitation or he was otherwise occupied.
We resumed our seats, standing when the national anthem began to play. Britney swayed, her bare shoulder bumping mine. At the rate she was putting away the liquor, Stan would be dragging her back to the car by her ankles at the end of the night.
When the anthem ended, we settled in for the game. From his seat on the other side of me, Brett draped an arm lightly around the back of my chair. He ran his thumb down my upper arm, leaned toward me, and stole a cheese-topped nacho from my plate. A devilish grin tugged at his lips as he whispered, “Too bad they’re not serving fondue.”
His touch and innuendo ignited a spark of desire in me, resurrecting that unsatisfied lust. I wanted Brett. I wanted to connect physically with him, enjoy the more primal side of the male-female relationship. With any luck, I’d be able to get the information I needed soon, free myself of my suspicions, and satisfy this sweet ache within me.
Halfway through the first inning, another couple walked in. The man was middle-aged with a double-breasted suit and the sleaziest shit-eating grin this side of the Red River. So much gel slicked back his hair it appeared to be made of plastic. The guy had salesman written all over him. Hanging on his shoulder was another young blonde, this one in skintight low-slung black jeans, a low-cut V-neck top in a zebra print, and high-heeled black leather ankle boots, her skank quotient rivaling that of Britney.
“Brit!” the woman squealed, clattering down the steps in her spike heels.
“Chelsea!” Britney shrieked, leaping from her seat. “Look at you!”
“Look at you!” Chelsea shrieked back.
Chelsea’s skin was even more tanned than Britney’s, though Chelsea’s tan appeared natural.
The two women hugged. “I’ve missed you,” Britney said, hanging on Chelsea’s shoulder, probably as much to maintain her balance as a gesture of friendship.
“Me, too,” Chelsea said. “I’m so glad to be back. San Jose is a total drag. Nothing to do but hang around by the pool and drink all day.”
Such torture. Sheez. I stuck out my hand. “Hi, I’m Tara Holloway.”
“Chelsea Gryder.” Chelsea’s fingers barely touched mine before she released my hand. Guess she didn’t find me all that interesting.
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“Did you say you’ve been in San Jose?” I asked. “I love California.” My family had driven to Disneyland once when I was six and I had fond memories of the costumed characters, the Dumbo ride, my oldest brother puking up funnel cake after riding the teacups.
“Not San Jose, California,” she said. “San Jose, Costa Rica.” She rolled her eyes. “Big difference.”
Costa Rica? Funny, I had never given much thought to Costa Rica until recently. For years, Switzerland and the Caribbean islands had been known as places where banks could be trusted to hide funds for customers all over the world. The IRS had caught many a tax evader who’d wired funds to Swiss or offshore banks and failed to disclose the income and transfers. The developing Third World countries in Latin America were joining the game now, wanting a piece of the action, and the profits, too. Costa Rica was a new blip on the IRS radar.
That odd tingle started up again, my instincts kicking in, telling me something was up. Then again, Costa Rica was a popular tourist destination. The country’s beautiful beaches, lush rain forests, and low cost of living attracted quite a few travelers. Maybe Chelsea and her husband had been in Costa Rica on vacation. Just because I hadn’t had an urge to travel there didn’t mean that something was up. Maybe my instincts were wrong. Maybe that tingle was for naught.
Before I could inquire further, Chelsea Gryder summarily dismissed me. She and Britney launched into a mutual admiration session, complimenting each other’s clothing choices, jewelry, perfumes. There was no way I could ask Chelsea more questions now without seeming intrusive.
Brett and I gave up our front-row seats so the women could sit together. As we headed up the steps, I noticed Shelton standing by the bar at the back of the room with Chelsea’s husband. The two stood so close they could have been in a football huddle.
I looked up at Brett. “Do you know the guy who’s speaking with Stan? Chelsea’s husband?”
Brett glanced over at the men. “Yeah. That’s Michael Gryder. Let’s get another drink and I’ll introduce you.”
So Brett knew Chelsea’s husband. That didn’t necessarily mean anything, did it? I wondered if Chelsea and her husband were Shelton’s guests at the lake house, the ones who had sent the box of checks and cash back to Shelton. The ones with the luggage marked SJO.
Fresh drinks in hand, Brett led me over to Stan and Michael. They stopped speaking immediately. Brett put a hand on my back. “Michael, this is my girlfriend, Tara Holloway. Tara, this is Michael Gryder.”
I shook Gryder’s hand. “Pleasure to meet you. Are you a banker, also?”
Gryder shook his head, offering no further information, instead taking a huge bite of bratwurst.
As if that were going to stop me. “What line of work are you in?”
He glanced away, spent several moments carefully and thoroughly chewing the meat, then finally swallowed. My eyes were still on him, my expression expectant, when he turned back. Was it my imagination or did he seem to stiffen?
He wiped his mouth with his napkin. “Investments,” he said softly.
“Oh?” I tilted my head in a gesture of mock innocence. “What kind of investments?” Foreign currency, perhaps?
Gryder and Shelton exchanged glances, then Gryder forced a smile at me. “I focus on specialized investments designed exclusively for qualified, high-net-worth individuals.”
A vague answer with undertones of “butt out,” but, hey, I was always up for a challenge. “Sounds interesting. What investment firm are you with?”
“I have my own private firm.”
“Really? How fascinating.” I took a sip of my wine. “What’s the name of your company?” No way could he avoid such a direct question.
He tossed back his scotch on the rocks, ice and all. He eyed me as he crunched down hard on an ice cube. “XChange Investments.”
I ducked my chin. “Exchange? As in foreign currency exchange?”
Gryder gave a small nod.
“Foreign currency seems to be a popular investment trend. I’d love to hear more. Do you have a business card?”
“No,” Gryder said, much too quickly. As if realizing he’d sounded short he mumbled, “Sorry.”
What legitimate businessman doesn’t carry cards and jump at the chance to land a new client? Now my suspicions felt like more than a hunch. Something fishy was going on and it wasn’t just the cocktail shrimp. But my behavior was already bordering on pushy and rude. If I asked any more questions, the men might realize I was up to something. I’d have to find another way to obtain more information. A forced smile spread across my lips. “It was nice meeting you, Michael. I’ll leave you men to your guy talk.” I gave them a wink and left them at the bar, returning to my seat.
As the three men huddled, talking privately, I again had to wonder if Brett was somehow involved in a scam. But how could such a charming guy be a con artist? Then I remembered most successful con artists are charming. Acting like a boor didn’t exactly entice people to open their wallets.
I glanced back at them. Brett said something and Stan chuckled, giving Brett a friendly slap on the back, a gesture that seemed oddly comfortable and familiar for two men who shared only a business acquaintance. Was there more to their relationship than that of landscape architect and client?
A sick feeling invaded my stomach when I thought about Brett possibly being involved in something illegal. I felt even sicker when I realized I’d likely be the one to bust him if he were. I’d been looking forward to slapping my handcuffs on Brett, but not for an arrest. But if he were up to something, he’d be an idiot to date an IRS agent, and Brett was no idiot. Then again, he could be like Jack Battaglia. Underestimating me. And what was that old saying about keeping your friends close and your enemies closer? My head began to spin. It was too much to wrap my mind around.
I watched them as discreetly as I could. The three stood close, their expressions intent now. Whatever they were discussing, it seemed serious. After a few moments, their little powwow broke up. Brett took a seat next to me, while Shelton and Gryder settled on his other side. I tried to eavesdrop on their conversation without being obvious. The two had turned their topic to their wives.
“Chelsea’s insisting I buy her a Hummer,” Gryder said. “Damn thing’s more tank than car. I asked her what the hell she needed one for and she said it would be useful for hauling things. The only thing she ever hauls is ass. She’s cost me over two grand in speeding tickets this year alone.” Gryder took a sip of his drink and glanced down at Chelsea as if mentally comparing her value to the sticker price of a Hummer. His frown said things weren’t looking good for her.
Everyone turned their attention to the game as Derek Jeter came up to bat. The Rangers’ pitcher threw a fastball that Jeter sent screaming toward the outfield. It was nothing short of a miracle when the second baseman somehow yanked the ball out of the air. Jeter was out. Without thinking, I jumped out of my seat and threw a fist in the air. “Boo-yah!”
Uh-oh. My inner redneck had reared its head.
Brett looked up at me, a grin tugging at his lips. A blush crept up my cheeks as Shelton, Gryder, and a few others in the room eyed me, too.
“Sorry,” I whispered to Brett as I sat down. “Don’t know what got into me.”
Brett chuckled, unfazed, an amused glint in his eye. He seemed to find my wild, uninhibited side attractive. Thank goodness. It wasn’t always easy keeping myself in check.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
A Case of Bad Bratwurst
During the seventh inning stretch when Gryder excused himself to visit the men’s room and Brett returned to the bar to get us fresh drinks, I slipped back down to the front row and slid into the seat next to Chelsea. Gryder’d been evasive, but I’d been keeping an eye on his wife. A half-dozen drinks had made their way past Chelsea’s glossy lips and they were likely to be loose.
Chelsea and Britney wore equally vacuous expressions, droopy red-rimmed eyes, and inebriated flushes. I made small talk for a f
ew seconds to put them at ease before getting down to the nitty-gritty.
“Michael seems like a great guy. How long have you two been married?”
She glanced up, as if mentally calculating. “’Bout six months.”
Not long. Not surprising. “How’d you meet?”
“I used to work the front desk in a hotel. The La Paloma in Tucson. Michael stayed there for a few nights. Said I was the most beautiful girl he’d ever seen. You know, love at first sight.”
Love. Right. What in the world could Chelsea and Michael have in common?
“Three weeks later, he gave me this.” She held up her hand. The rock on her ring finger was even larger than Britney’s.
“Wow,” I said. “Who could say no to that?” A woman looking for something more than a sugar daddy, perhaps? I forced a smile. “Did you two have a big wedding?”
“No.” Chelsea shook her head. “We eloped a few days later. Got married in Cancún.”
“How romantic.” How interesting. A convenient meeting. A short courtship. A quickie Mexican wedding ceremony, their marital status not on record in the U.S. Still, this could all mean nothing. I could simply have an overactive imagination. Then again, I’d be a fool to ignore my instincts, right? And what could it hurt for me to dig a little deeper? I leaned closer to Chelsea. “I’ve got some funds to invest and I’d love to make us both some money. Your husband’s foreign currency program sounds great. How does it work?”
Chelsea’s face contorted in confusion, as if I’d just spoken Swahili. “Hell-if-I-know.” It came out as one word. She tossed back the remaining white wine in her glass. Her head lolled slightly, like a bobblehead doll’s.
“Does he have an office here in Dallas?”
She shook her head.
“Somewhere else, then?”
“Look,” she said, an ironic choice of words since she was having trouble focusing on my face. “All I know is that he spends all day at the bank or on his cell phone.” She shrugged, telling me that was all she knew about his business. Somehow that didn’t surprise me.