We crossed the street to BJ’s Restaurant. I’d been there a few times. The place had a real contemporary feel to it. We got a table on the patio. Candles flickered and heaters warmed the air. Ty ordered a beer and I got an iced tea since I was, technically, still on the clock.
I was afraid he might ask me about my make-believe puppy Pancake, or want to know about the confrontation I’d had with Jeanette that I’d mentioned at the store, and I was a little ticked off about being relegated to a “business” dinner with him, and twiddling my thumbs in the car while he spoke with Ms. Blondie, vice president of marketing, on the phone.
So I said, “Why am I here? Holt’s has got marketing people by the dozen who can tell you where to build your store. Why do you care what I think?”
Ty looked slightly shocked by my outburst—I get that a lot—then he said, “Because you’ll tell me the truth.”
I wasn’t prepared for that. It was true, but so few people appreciated it.
He rested his arm on the table and leaned forward a little.
“You’re right. I’ve got corporate people telling me how great the stores are doing, our projected, record-breaking profit, but not one of them has ever said that the inventory sucks. Which it does.” Ty sat back and shook his head. “I hadn’t been in one of the stores for years, until last year. And when I walked in and looked around, I couldn’t believe—”
“Hang on a second,” I said. “Your family has owned the Holt’s chain for five generations, but you hadn’t been into one of the stores for years?”
“I always knew what was expected of me, but I didn’t go down without a fight.” Ty gave a rueful grin. “I did the dutiful son, dutiful heir thing. Gave up ice hockey at Minnesota State for Harvard and an MBA. Managed to get in almost two years’ backpacking through Europe. Came home and went through the motions at the corporate office.”
“If you didn’t want to work for the company, why did you?” I asked.
He shrugged. “Five generations.”
It was a lot of weight to carry. I’d had it bad enough growing up in the shadow of Miss California, third runner-up for Miss America. I’d have felt more pressure to continue with dance lessons and pageants to please my mom if my younger sister hadn’t come along. She’d saved me too from Mom’s alma mater. Guess Ty didn’t have that luxury.
“About a year ago my dad had a triple bypass,” Ty said.
I thought about my own dad and got scared.
“Is he okay?” I asked.
Ty nodded. “He had to retire from running the stores.”
“And your fate was sealed.”
He nodded again, but this time, in the candlelight, I saw a toughness in his expression, a grit I’d never seen before.
“Five generations,” he said. “Holt’s isn’t going down. Not on my watch.”
My belly tingled a little at seeing him, hearing the strength of his conviction. He hadn’t wanted it, but appreciated everything those who’d come before him had accomplished. He’d stepped up. And he was going to win.
That’s so sexy.
“You’re right, most of the merchandise in the stores is awful,” Ty said, then paused while the waiter brought our meals. “That’s why I want to open a new chain of stores. Something smaller. Upscale, trendy. Clothes, shoes—”
“Designer handbags?” I asked, my heart racing.
Ty gestured toward the street. “I was looking at Pasadena for the flagship store, but I like this location better.”
So that’s why he was in Pasadena that night with Sarah. They were scouting locations. She really wasn’t his girlfriend. My heart raced faster.
“Which place do you think would be better?” he asked.
I didn’t even have to think about it.
“Pasadena is great, but it’s crowded there. A lot of competition,” I said. “Here, things are newer, they’re growing.”
Ty nodded. “The marketing people say the new store will work. You live near here. You know the people. What do you think?”
I thought I’d be perfect to run the store. My mind bloomed with visions of me buying the merchandise, deciding on the layout of the store. Negotiating the lease. Hiring, putting together benefit packages, supervising the clerks. Launching a terrific advertising campaign. Reporting to Ty on the astronomical profit I’d made.
Only…only I don’t really know how to do any of that.
A big knot landed in the pit of my stomach. Oh my God, I really don’t know how to do any of those things. Sarah Covington could do most of them. Detective Shuman’s lawyer girlfriend could too. Even Rita—Rita—could do some of them. But not me.
What have I been doing with my life for the past five years?
Now I felt really sick.
Ty talked about his plans for the store, naming it Wallace, Inc.—some sort of family thing—and his intentions for the future. He didn’t seem to notice that I was hardly listening.
When we got back to Holt’s, I expected Ty to say that he appreciated my going with him, my info, my opinion—something—but his cell phone rang as we got out of the car and he took the call. Sarah Covington again.
It irritated me to no end that she’d called once more, and plain old made me mad that Ty seemed to hang on her every word, ignoring me.
He went to the offices in the back of the store with Sarah’s voice and his cell phone stuck to his ear, and not even a glance at me.
I stowed my purse in my locker—Sarah Covington doesn’t have a locker, she has a desk—in the break room. When I came out, Jack Bishop waited near the customer service booth.
Another failure.
That’s what seeing Jack made me think of. My job at Pike Warner, the one thing I’d thought I’d succeeded at, was gone. Not just gone, but gone without even an investigation. They’d cast me aside, unimportant, worthless, expected to simply fade away.
I don’t hate my life now.
I hate me.
“You shouldn’t have waited around for me,” I said to Jack, as I headed toward the customer service booth.
“I didn’t wait,” Jack said. “I saw you leave earlier, with Cameron.”
“You followed me?” I asked.
I’d had no idea. Jack Bishop had tailed me from Holt’s to the restaurant by the mall, then back again, and I’d not noticed him, not suspected anything.
I didn’t know whether to think it was totally cool, or be annoyed.
“I found out what’s going on at Pike Warner,” Jack said.
My breath caught. Maybe tonight wouldn’t be the worst night of my life, after all. Maybe everything had—somehow—been resolved at Pike Warner. Maybe I could go back to work there, an integral member of the vibrant accounts payable unit, at the greatest law firm in the history of civilization.
“Their audit showed you embezzled funds,” Jack said.
“What?”
My thoughts scattered. Embezzlement? I wouldn’t know how to do that—even if I wanted to. Then I knew what it must be.
“It was those tricky accounting codes,” I realized. “I got them mixed up sometimes. Everybody did. Probably. Anyway, I’ll just explain that to them.”
“This isn’t about accounting codes,” Jack said.
“Okay, then,” I said, “I’ll pay back the missing money until it’s all straightened out.”
Jack shook his head.
“A hundred grand,” he said. “They claim you stole a hundred grand.”
Jack was in the parking lot when I got off from work. He followed me to my apartment and we went inside. He helped himself to a beer from my fridge, then brought one to me as I sat on my couch, frozen in a near trance.
I was sure Jack had not gotten this information from any official source at Pike Warner, but rather the friends in low places he’d spoken of before. But I knew, regardless of the source, that the info was accurate. Jack was good—very good—at what he did.
“Start at the beginning,” I said. “Maybe it will make sense.”
“All the accounts payable clerks were assigned specific companies to handle. Mine were mostly related to the upkeep of the firm. The janitor, carpet cleaners, the plant service, office furniture, supplies. Things like that,” I said.
“And you paid whatever invoice those companies sent in?” Jack asked.
“No way,” I said. “On my very first day of work, Mrs. Drexler showed me the files of vendors I was authorized to pay. All the companies I dealt with had been approved by the firm, long before I got there. I made sure every invoice that came in fit the predetermined parameters for each account. Then I assigned an accounting code, entered it in the computer, and sent it to cashiering for the check to be cut. It wasn’t a big deal.”
On my first day of work there, I’d gotten the idea Mrs. Drexler didn’t like me much. HR had assigned me to her department and she hadn’t interviewed me, or anything, so I guess she was annoyed by that. The “orientation” she’d provided was to pause by the desk I’d been assigned, point to the drawer with my account folders, and hand me a checklist I was supposed to follow when I authorized a payment.
“I followed all the procedures,” I said. “How could those auditors possibly think I embezzled a hundred thousand dollars? I just don’t get it.”
“Some of the invoices you paid weren’t for approved vendors,” Jack said.
“Yes, they were,” I insisted. “The folders were already in the cabinet when I went to work there.”
“The firm says no, and the auditors didn’t find any folders.”
“Of course the folders were there,” I said, coming to my feet. “Why else would I have written checks to those companies?”
“They were dummy companies,” Jack said. “Bank accounts were opened under those names.”
My heart jumped as I mentally saw a tiny ray of light beaming my way.
“Then find out who opened those accounts,” I said. “Those are the people responsible for this, not me.”
Jack hesitated for a moment, and the beam of light went out.
“You opened them,” he said. “The firm contacted the Golden State Bank and Trust and confirmed that—”
“The GSB&T?” I asked. No wonder they’d sent me a preapproved credit card and a vice president had talked to me on the phone that day. They thought I had a hundred grand in their bank.
“It wasn’t me,” I said. “I never opened those accounts.”
“No bank would open an account without seeing identification.”
“My purse was stolen a few months ago,” I suddenly remembered.
“Did you report it to the police?” Jack asked.
“I didn’t think it was a big deal,” I said, remembering how, at the time, I’d been more concerned about losing my D&G bag than my driver’s license.
What an idiot I’d been.
“As far as Pike Warner is concerned, you opened bank accounts using company names that you fabricated, then cut checks from Pike Warner as if you were paying bills, and deposited them into those accounts,” Jack said. “Fraud and embezzlement, plain and simple.”
“Pike Warner needs to talk to someone at GSB&T,” I said. “If they’ll just look at everything carefully, they have to realize that someone else opened those accounts using my ID.”
Jack drew a breath. I could tell he had more bad news.
“The bank isn’t cooperating. It will take subpoenas, lawsuits—all kinds of legal actions—to get anything out of them. Their reputation is on the line. The last thing they want is for the public to know something like this occurred at their bank.”
I shook my head. I couldn’t believe this was happening.
“They’ll let it go,” Jack said, after a moment. “You can walk away from this, Haley, and never look back. Pike Warner isn’t going to pursue you. They want you, and this situation, to disappear. They don’t care that the money is gone.”
“Pike Warner is okay with losing a hundred grand?” I asked, stunned.
“That’s their bar tab for their spring retreat in Maui,” Jack said. “It’s nothing to them, compared to their reputation.”
“Just like GSB&T,” I realized.
“You can walk away from this, no harm, no foul. Get a job at another attorney firm—any company—and Pike Warner will give you a glowing reference.”
I was sure this wasn’t anything official he’d heard from Pike Warner, just more inside info from his source. But it made sense.
“They want this kept quiet,” Jack said.
“But they still think I did it,” I said.
He nodded. “Yes, they do.”
Jack finished his beer and I walked with him to the door.
“I owe you big time,” I said.
“I’ll let you know what I want, and when I want it.” He said it with a tiny grin and I knew he wouldn’t want to collect on his debt any time soon, though it might be nice tonight. I could stand to be mindless for a while.
Jack left and I wandered through my apartment. Even thoughts of my red Notorious bag and those purses Craig had given me at cost didn’t cheer me up.
I wasn’t surprised that Pike Warner was willing to write off that big chunk of money to save their reputation, or that GSB&T wouldn’t cooperate for the same reason. Appearance was everything to firms like theirs. And it was good to know that, as Jack had said, I could get a good-paying job at another law firm, no problem.
I envisioned Mrs. Drexler on the phone, giving me a glowing recommendation, and that cheered me up a little. I could get another high-paying job, wear great clothes, buy designer handbags at retail without a thought or a care.
All I had to do was let it go.
But then I started to get mad. I’d let a lot of things go. The job at Pike Warner that I’d breezed through. My finances. College. A chance at a real career. My whole future, really.
And look where I’d ended up.
No more. No more letting things go. I felt that sickly knot in my stomach harden into something new, something I’d never experienced before. Determination bloomed inside me, filling me with a weird kind of rage.
I was clearing my name at Pike Warner. And I was clearing myself of murder charges too. I wasn’t going to let those attorneys, or those homicide detectives, treat me this way. I was getting out from under all of this, and then I’d—I’d—
Well, I didn’t know exactly what I’d do after that. I could figure that out later. Right now, I had two crimes to solve.
CHAPTER 23
“Do you have layaway?”
“No,” I said to the customer across the counter from me at the customer service booth.
She huffed irritably. I didn’t know what she was so upset about. I’m the one who had to answer that question a hundred times a day.
“Well, you should,” she snapped.
“Would you like to complete a customer comment card?” I asked.
I love it when they complete a comment card.
“Yes, I would,” she declared.
I shared a quick smirk with Grace at the inventory computer, as I handed the woman a card.
The next customer in line came forward, a woman in her forties with a unibrow.
“Those automatic faucets in your restrooms run too long,” she said. “You’re wasting water.”
I just looked at her for a moment, then said, “Okay.”
She left.
Another customer came forward, a young mom pushing a baby stroller. She held up a tiny bag, probably from the jewelry department.
“Can I get a gift box?” she asked.
For absolutely no reason that made good sense, the gift boxes were kept here at the customer service booth. That meant, after customers trudged through the store selecting gifts, then stood in our long lines, they had to walk all the way to the back of the store, stand in line yet again, and present their receipt. We were supposed to give them one box for each gift
purchased, then stamp their receipt accordingly.
All this for boxes.
“How many do you need?” I asked.
She held up the bag. “Well, I only bought this one thing.”
“Do you need boxes?” I asked. I’d been handing these things out like candy for days now.
Her eyes grew bigger—which was sort of sad—and she said, “Sure, if it’s okay.”
“No problem.”
She told me what she needed and I slid them into a bag. She thanked me and left, a happy, satisfied Holt’s shopper—and I didn’t even have to give her an of-course-you-can smile.
The next customer in line came to the counter. “You should install hand dryers in your restrooms,” she said, and walked away.
The woman who’d complained about our no-layaway policy pushed in front of the next customer and slapped her comment card down in front of me. With a triumphant head toss, she left.
I took it to Grace. “You want to process this one?”
She grinned, took the card, tore it in half, and dropped it in the trash.
The door to the customer service booth opened and in walked Rita, as I finished up with the next customer in line. She was really in the Christmas spirit today, wearing red stretch pants and a knit top with a goat in a Santa hat on the front.
“Are you offering credit?” she barked.
I hadn’t done it once.
“Of course,” I said. Grace nodded in agreement.
“You’re supposed to be marking receipts when you give out boxes,” Rita said. “You’d better be doing that.”
“Yeah, Rita, that gift-box fraud ring is in full swing again this Christmas, but we’re holding a lid on it,” I said.
A woman approached the counter. “The water in your restroom sinks isn’t hot enough.”
“Okay,” I said, and she walked away.
“What’s with all the bathroom comments today?” Grace asked, and rolled her eyes.
“My suggestion,” Rita announced. “When Mr. Cameron asked for suggestions, I said that we should post a sign in our restrooms advising customers to tell the customer service booth employees if there were any problems.”
Handbags and Homicide Page 21