Godmother came as a surprise, but the explanation gave credence to Kate’s underlying aggression toward Erica. “Kate’s phone call, the one she made in the garden yesterday, wasn’t made from her cell phone.”
It took a second before Erica’s eyes flickered. “Kate has a burner.”
“So it appears. We’re cleared for surveillance on the home phone and personal cell. But unless the family suddenly converts to Islam and Kate begins surfing the Internet for directions on bomb building, it’s not likely we’re going to get satellite.”
“If Kate’s using a burner to communicate with Calvin, and we can’t get satellite, we have no choice but to put a man on her full-time.” Erica made the statement like it was a novel idea.
“No one’s left.” A sore point Nathan didn’t mind thumping. On his first day with the team, Erica successfully argued that assigning a man to Kate was a waste of manpower. Not wishing to upend her authority, he’d conceded. He should’ve followed his gut.
“Kate must know where Calvin’s holed up. He’ll need money, food, human contact.” The new information worked like Adderall on Erica’s brain. Her pupils shrank, her speech turned rapid fire, her focus drilled on one limited idea. “She’ll lead us to him sooner or later. We’ve got to pull a man from the island detail.”
“Everything’s gone dark. We take someone off the island detail without eyes inside, we could miss a critical drop.” Nathan texted the agent posted outside Beth Thompson’s house and asked for an update. Nathan’s cell buzzed a reply. “Beth Thompson’s next on my list and she’s at home. We snag her husband’s location, I make him for a prime squeaker.”
Erica bounced on the balls of her feet. “Thompson will spill his guts inside thirty minutes.”
Nathan walked to the door swiping through the photos embedded in Beth’s surveillance update. “Thompsons live in a run-down house.” He pocketed his phone. “And they both keep a low profile. Wife has to know her husband’s drained his bank accounts and prepared for this run. Doubt she’ll be far behind.” Nathan removed his hat from the rack in the mudroom. “Smart move to live under the radar.”
“Wouldn’t give Cal that much credit,” Erica said. “Must’ve been Beth’s idea.”
“One other interesting item on Kate’s phone log. At six-thirty Monday morning she called a private investigator.”
Erica shrugged. “Probably something to do with your interview Sunday night.”
He held the door open and waited until she walked through. “That thought occurred. I went over my notes and nothing stood out except the Cabral connection.”
Erica walked to the driver’s side. Nathan grabbed her arm, pointed to the passenger door, and then slid into the driver’s seat. “Investigator’s name’s Ben Snider.”
“Could have something to do with selling the company. Rumor is Kate made a few inquiries with hedge fund managers.”
“Conducting legitimate business doesn’t require a burner.” He drove down the drive, wound through trees and pastureland, and waited for the front gates to open. “Innocent citizens don’t use throwaway phones to talk to private investigators.”
Erica drummed her fingers on her thigh. “I’m betting hiring Snider’s related to business. But the burner, now that’s all about Calvin.”
Nathan thought there were too many unanswered questions to let the Ben Snider angle slide.
“We find Calvin,” Erica said. “We need to hit hard and fast. Get the Mack Daddy name before Kate lawyers him up.”
They had a file full of evidence against Thompson. With Erica’s DEA future hanging on closing this case, refusing to push for the obvious and pass Calvin off as the ring’s leader spoke to her character.
Kate Landers might not fit the picture of a drug lord, but Nathan knew firsthand things weren’t always what they seemed. No matter what evidence the team unearthed, he was convinced Erica would never see Kate as their target. Erica had been assigned to the case because she was from the area and had contacts that would take another agent years to build. But in Nathan’s opinion, Erica’s past friendship with the Barry family was a hindrance and he’d stated as much in his morning report.
They turned off I-95 and onto Abercorn. He turned left at Memorial and took a back road into Thompson’s neighborhood. Spotting his surveillance team a half-block down, he parked in front of Beth Thompson’s driveway. Nathan nodded at a neighbor pruning her roses.
The Thompsons owned a thirty-year old, single blockhouse. From the appearance, not much of their expendable cash had gone into home maintenance. A yard, more brown than green, looked to be about a quarter acre in size. A hedge of overgrown azaleas stretched the length of the house and covered half the windows. Two scraggly potted palms flanked the front door and provided the only clue that the house was inhabited.
Erica pushed the doorbell. Thirty seconds later, she rang a second time. He took a step back and glanced left toward a double window. A vertical blind moved, and then the front door opened. Nathan searched his memory bank for images of Beth Thompson. None of the twenty or so photographs in his file matched the woman standing in the doorway.
Chapter Thirteen
I let my office blinds fall back in place and returned to my desk. Took a few deep breaths and tried tamping down my heart leaping like Mexican jumping beans. I decided my best option would be to keep busy until Ben and Cal arrived.
I scanned my messages and noted Joseph Lafferty hadn’t returned any of my four messages. Straightening a picture of Owen sitting on my desk, my fingers lingered on his sweet face. I missed that Owen, the little guy with the easy laugh and corny jokes. I squashed a smothering mom desire to call and assure myself he was really okay. Mom had scheduled a morning riding lesson, and Ben and Cal could walk-in any minute. I sent him a quick text instead.
—How did the riding lesson turn out? Are you doing any ring work? Miss you. Love, Mom—
The last phone message on my list was from Beth. She wanted to talk. Now. I dialed her home number, but she didn’t answer. I called the hospital, verified she wasn’t working, and left my name and number again.
I emptied my briefcase, removed the warehouse files I’d packed for my meeting with the appraiser, and began reviewing each record. I compared the report listing the improvements made to each of the six buildings over the past five years with the rental income report. I tried in vain to justify the appraiser’s anemic estimated values.
An odd mix of emotions not easily explained except as intuition had served me well over the years. After my first flash of insight, I could often go back and trace the trajectory—how this thought or that observation or idea fused together and formed insight that cleared my confusion. At other times, my premonition was more of a hunch, a brilliant jolt that reached beyond conscious reasoning. This morning, the latter was the case. All was not as it seemed in my world.
In each file, the original purchase price of the properties, coupled with subsequent renovations, was antithetical to the appraiser’s estimated value. And the amounts were far lower than could be waved away as a sloppy appraising job. None of the multitude of photos attached to the appraisals pictured new loading docks or showcased parking lots with state-of-the-art Neptune LED 680420 lighting packages. Millions of dollars of improvements charged to these properties were bogus. But the rents we charged for these same properties were at the top of the scale. Didn’t make sense.
I checked the back parking lot, verified mine was the only car taking up space, and walked across the hall to accounting.
Samantha, a tall redhead, ran the accounting department with proficiency and a confidence that tilted toward smug. She stood behind her desk clutching an impressive Brahmin purse I’d seen on sale at Saks for over four hundred dollars.
I stepped just inside the doorway. “I know you’re probably headed to lunch, but I need several reports for an afternoon meeting.”
She checked her watch. “What do you need?”
“Monthlies for the past
three years on the South Carolina properties.”
Her color faded and every freckle on her face flushed. Samantha being nervous didn’t sit well. She rested her Brahmin on her desk. “You cut your Charleston trip short?”
“Something came up.”
She stared at me as if she expected me to explain further.
I waited.
She ran her hand up and down the handle of her purse. “The year-end summaries I gave you last week won’t work?”
“No.” My tone left no room for debate. “I want the details listed in the monthlies.”
“Okay.” She replied with all the caution of someone who’s not quite comfortable with what she’s agreeing to. “That’s thirty-six reports. I’ll have to skip lunch.” Samantha appeared quite deft at using guilt to get her way, but then I recalled she had three teenagers.
“Perhaps you could order in.”
She gave me a look that might have been annoyance, but she was a hard woman to read.
I smiled. “I really appreciate the extra effort. And since you’re working overtime, be sure to pay for your lunch out of petty cash.” I walked back across the hall and shut my office door. I ignored an itching desire to plunder Joseph’s office. Decided to put it off until everyone left for the day. Until I could confirm my newfound suspicion that some in my employ had dirty hands, I didn’t plan to show my own.
The unaccounted millions dated back before Granddad’s stroke. On the surface, my grandfather embezzling money already his didn’t make sense. But I had a few ideas that Calvin could maybe corroborate.
Three years ago, right after Granddad’s stroke, I upgraded our company’s computer security. Joseph and I were the only employees with access to all files in every department. I entered my password, found and saved the same accounting reports I’d requested Samantha provide. I had no proof Samantha was involved in whatever was going on, but if she made any hurried accounting changes, I’d spot them. I couldn’t imagine Joseph pulling off a scheme this size for three years on his own. All of a sudden, my four unreturned phone calls made more sense.
I paced my new office. The entire room was shades of brown; heavy masculine furniture, mahogany plantation shutters, Frederick Remington bronzes, oak floors polished to a soft patina. Even the requisite Old World globe had turned to the color of murky swamp water. Ordinarily the room calmed my nerves, made me feel closer to my grandfather, a man who’d taken his inheritance, increased it threefold, and lived a full and interesting life. My aspirations had been to live up to his achievements. Now, I hoped I could find a way to dismantle his empire and stay out of jail.
My private line buzzed, and Cedar’s name appeared on the screen. “I need to call you back.” I hung up before he could say a word, grabbed a throwaway out of my case, and dialed. He answered on the first ring.
“Is Calvin with you?” I asked.
“No, why would he be? Is this a new cell number for you?”
“Yes.” I said. “Cal was on his way to visit you earlier this morning.”
“Been in court all morning. Haven’t seen Calvin.”
If Cal didn’t go to Cedar’s, he must’ve gone to his friend’s place. So, where was Ben? I checked my call log. I’d spoken to Ben over three hours ago. Three hours was enough time to get Calvin here.
I tuned back in to Cedar’s voice and caught the end of a story depicting a courtroom debacle. “I’m five minutes from your office,” he said. “Can I swing by?”
“Have you eaten lunch? I can order in.”
“My afternoon’s full, and I only need fifteen minutes.”
“Can you clear your afternoon appointments?” I couldn’t stop the rush of panic in my voice. “I need your advice.”
Silence. More silence. Did I lose the call?
“I’ll make some calls.” He disconnected. What was it with men and not saying goodbye?
****
Cedar breezed in without knocking, kicked the door closed, and plopped on the sofa. “It was too late to cancel my afternoon appointments.” He opened his briefcase. “But I can give you thirty minutes. And we already have a four o’clock on the books.”
Out of soft drinks, I took two waters from a bar hidden in the bookshelves. “What I need to discuss is going to take longer than thirty minutes. And I may need to cancel our four o’clock.”
“I have early court in the morning.” He checked his phone. “I can rearrange an appointment, cancel a lunch date and give you two hours tomorrow at eleven.”
Tomorrow morning seemed a long way off, but it’d give me time to snoop after everyone left today, and lay out my exact findings in a spreadsheet. I thought clearer when my numbers were in neat straight columns.
I handed Cedar his water and sat at the other end of the sofa. “One problem can’t be pushed to tomorrow. I have a private investigator looking for Calvin. He got a lead Cal was on his way to your house. That information turned out to be bogus, but when we find Cal, we have to make a deal with the DEA and keep him out of jail.”
Cedar twisted the cap off his water bottle and took a sip. “If your investigator locates Cal, we need to hear what he has to say before deciding whether to turn him over to the authorities. Might be better to keep Calvin tucked away while we work out a deal. But don’t bet on Cal slipping by with no jail time.”
“The Feds want to close their case,” I said. “If Cal cooperates, you should be able to negotiate no jail.”
“We’ll play our hand, but this isn’t a dime bag of coke. And don’t count on Calvin ponying up. The boy’s not stupid enough to turn on the cartel.” Cedar’s forlorn expression ignited the knot in my stomach.
He leaned forward as if sharing a secret. “If Cal’s involved with the cartel and spills his guts—well, I wouldn’t want to take bets on him living through a trial.”
The dread circling me for the past twenty-four hours took root in my head and wrapped around my spine. “I never considered that possibility.”
“Calvin will never get away without jail time, so put that thought out of your mind.”
I managed to take a breath. “And if he’s indicted, what would that mean for the company? Will the Feds tie up his business assets?”
Cedar slipped on his glasses. “Could happen. Which means the Atlanta contracts could stay in limbo.”
Stunned, I waited for his guidance, an idea, something. “We have to close those properties. A balloon payment’s due in ninety days.” According to the appraisals, the South Carolina warehouses were all but worthless. The Atlanta office buildings were the only valuable properties Barry Real Estate and Development owned. I imagined my mother’s shock when I announced half of Granddad’s business was a sham.
“We can discuss all of this tomorrow,” he said. “Right now, I need to go over something more urgent.”
More urgent than filing bankruptcy and me signing three years of fictitious financials? Facing charges of bank fraud? My banking career flushing into Neverland? Nathan’s last words whispered in my ear. “Help us put a criminal behind bars.” Did that include me?
I inhaled a calming breath. Take it one step at a time, Kate.
Cedar handed me a book and tapped the cover with his finger.
I read the title. “What Every Body Is Saying?”
He peered over his glasses. “My advice is to read, study, and memorize.” He used his lecturing courtroom voice. “I did some checking. Nathan Parsi is ex-Special Intelligence and an accomplished linguist. But more important to you, he has a PhD in behavioral science.”
I swallowed dry spit. “Cedar, I need those properties in Atlanta to close. We have to find Calvin and you have to do your magic.”
“We’ll work something out.” He peered at me over his glasses. “Stay with me, this is important. The marshal has a PhD in behavioral science.”
“Why’s that important?”
“Before Parsi joined the US Marshal Service, he had top security clearance, probably worked undercover. I figure he chased
terrorists.”
“You figure?”
“File’s sealed. My guy at GBI couldn’t get past the first layer.”
I wasn’t surprised Cedar had inside contacts in Georgia’s investigating bureau, just that he’d run a check on Nathan. “I don’t see the importance of the marshal’s service history.”
“That’s what I’m telling you. He’s more than a US Marshal. He’s a behavioral analyst.”
I scanned the chapter titles in the book: Mastering the Secrets of Nonverbal Communication. Detecting Deception. The Mind’s Canvas. I snapped the cover closed. “A behavioral analyst—isn’t that like a psychologist?”
“You should be so lucky. This guy can read a minute flinch of your eyelids. Determine if you’re lying, hiding something, or in the least bit uncomfortable. None of your secrets are safe.”
“I don’t have secrets.” I flashed on the image of Mom’s face when Nathan questioned her about the stolen box of letters and jewels, and Ben’s description of Calvin ducking out of the diner. Evidently, I was the only one in my family who didn’t have something to hide. I glanced at the side pocket of my purse, Granddad’s alias passport practically flashing neon through the leather pocket—until now!
I placed the book on the table, went to the window, and took another glance at the Explorer. “No offense, but I don’t believe in hocus pocus.”
“Hocus pocus?” Cedar’s condescending scoff boomed off the ceiling. “Hocus pocus doesn’t cost three hundred bucks an hour, which is the going rate for a BA.”
I picked up my bottle of water and took a long, cold swig. The cool liquid squelched my growing desire to snap a zippy comeback. Cedar took this stuff seriously, and he was trying to share his concern. Being wound spring tight was no reason to be rude. “Okay. Explain.”
“You’re aware of my winning record in court, right?”
Hard not to be when he mentioned it every time we met. “Your record is exemplary,” I said. “You’ve won thirty-seven of your last forty-two cases.”
“Right.” Cedar flashed the smile of a proud teacher to his star student. “And you know why?”
Changing Tides Page 11