by Meryl Sawyer
“Ryan went to a Realtor and found out about the problems.”
“Realtors often know—”
“Whitney,” Trish Bowrather called from a few feet away.
“This is my friend,” Whitney managed to tell Rod, even though she was surprised to see Trish. “I left a message that I would be here. She has an art gallery nearby.”
Trish stopped beside Whitney. Today the gallery owner was dressed in coffee-colored linen with gleaming black onyx accessories. “I heard about the fire and I was so upset.”
“I’m okay. I was out with the dogs. They were safe. That’s all that matters.”
“That’s why I trust my Brandy to her,” Trish told Rod as she turned and offered him her hand. “I’m Trish Bowrather.”
“Rod Babcock,” the attorney replied, rising. “Join us. We’ve just ordered.”
Trish shook her head. “I didn’t mean to interrupt. I just wanted to see for myself that Whitney was okay.”
Whitney had the impression that the lawyer was intrigued by Trish. “You’re not interrupting. I think we’re finished with business.”
“Yes.” Rod pulled out a chair for Trish while telling Whitney, “I’ll need to check a few more things before I’ll allow you to sign the papers.”
Whitney hid her disappointment. She wanted to put the past where it belonged—behind her.
“Do you have a place to stay?” Trish asked as soon as she was seated.
“In the maid’s quarters at the main house.” Whitney knew she didn’t blush, but she hoped her face didn’t give away how she felt about Adam.
“Sounds small,” Trish said. “I have a client who’s going to be in the south of France for at least six months. He’s looking for someone to take care of his place.”
“Thanks,” Whitney replied with as much enthusiasm as she could muster. Adam cared about her, and Whitney liked knowing he was close by. She didn’t want to move, but it might be for the best.
Rod waved over their server and Trish quickly ordered a salad. “I hope you’re still coming to my opening Friday night.”
Whitney nodded without enthusiasm. She’d forgotten all about the showing of the Russian’s works.
Trish turned to Rod. “I own the Ravissant Gallery on Prospect Street. I’m showing Vladimir’s works Friday night. He’s the hottest artist on the local scene. Why don’t you come?”
“Well, I…” Rod hesitated. Whitney had the distinct impression he was charmed by Trish but wanted to be persuaded.
“It’ll be a lot of fun. Liquid Cowboy is catering the food.” Trish produced an invitation from the elegant black bag she’d deposited beside her chair.
“How can I refuse?” Rod asked with a smile.
He was too sharp an attorney not to be able to slither out of this if he’d wanted, Whitney decided. She wondered if Trish had really dropped by to check on her or if she’d come because she knew it was an opportunity to meet a wealthy prospective client.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
IT WAS LATE afternoon before Whitney could get an appointment with Jasper’s vet. Dr. Robinson specialized in small breeds like Chinese cresteds.
The little guy squirmed as the vet ran her forefinger over the bump. “This is right where we implanted his ID chip. According to the records that was almost three years ago when Throckmorton—”
“He answers to Jasper. His ridiculous AKC name is Sir Throckmorton VonJasperhoven.” Whitney realized the vet was about her age. She would be working with animals, too, if she hadn’t set aside her aspirations for Ryan’s career.
The vet consulted her chart. “Jasper was chipped at eight weeks. That was right after Mr. Hunter purchased him. I didn’t insert the chip, but I’m sure our records are correct.”
“It’s odd that it would be infected now, isn’t it?”
Dr. Robinson shook her head. “It isn’t infected. It’s just irritated.”
“Do you think they rechipped him for some reason? He was flown internationally a lot. He recently won best in show at the Frankfurt International Dog Show.”
“I’m not familiar with international regulations. It’s possible he received a new chip, but I think it’s more likely that this is a skin irritation typical of Chinese crested dogs.”
Whitney nodded, thinking she’d overreacted by bringing in Jasper. “This breed is prone to skin problems, right?”
“You’re right.”
“Aren’t many of them on special diets because of allergies?”
“Yes.” The vet consulted the chart.
“Jasper’s on a lamb-based kibble diet,” Whitney told her. “No herring meal or fish by-products, which might cause allergies.”
The vet studied her for a moment. “It’s good to hear you know all this since you’re taking care of dogs. Most people don’t realize a number of dogs are allergic to fish by-products.”
“They’re in most commercial dog foods.”
“Absolutely.” She smiled at Whitney.
“Chinese cresteds sunburn easily because they’re not covered with fur like other dogs. I keep Jasper out of direct sunlight.”
“You’re doing all the right things,” the vet responded. “You’re a much better caretaker than most pet owners I meet.”
“Thanks. I try.”
The vet patted Jasper’s head. “I’ll give you some ointment to put on the lesion. If the redness doesn’t go away, bring him back in a week.”
“You know, I almost went to veterinary school,” Whitney blurted out. “I was accepted at Davis—”
“Really? It’s tough to get in there. Why didn’t you go?”
“I was sidetracked. But I was thinking of reapplying next fall. I’d need to take a few courses first to brush up.”
The vet touched Whitney’s arm. “Do it. You seem to love working with animals. It’s a great career.”
“I’ll go online as soon as I can and find out what classes I need,” Whitney replied.
Dr. Robinson studied her a moment. “Next month one of our techs is leaving. You could take the job and see if you like working in a clinic before you go back to school.”
“I’d love to, I really would, but I don’t have any experience.”
“You won’t need any. Our head tech will train you.”
She couldn’t believe her luck. “When do I start?”
It was two hours later when Whitney finally left. She’d met the head tech and had been given a tour of the facility. Her life was moving in a new direction, she decided. If the house-sitting job Trish mentioned worked out, Whitney would have a rent-free place to stay. And a fresh start on a new career. She kissed the tip of Jasper’s nose, then put him in the back of the SUV with the other dogs. It was funny, she mused. A little thing like a bump on a dog’s neck could change the direction of her life.
ADAM PUT THE SHOPPING BAGS filled with women’s clothes on the floor in the maid’s room. Someone had left the bags on the front porch. The television coverage had gotten them a lot of attention. Evidently, one of Whitney’s friends had seen a newscast about the fire and brought over the clothes.
He heard the telephone ring upstairs in his uncle’s office. After the second ring the fax machine kicked in. He hoped it was copies of Miranda Marshall’s telephone records and credit card purchases. He’d leaned on a detective he used to work with to sneak him the records when Dudley Romberg wasn’t around. He had no history with “The Dud” and couldn’t ask him to bend the rules.
He raced upstairs and scanned the cover sheet the machine spit out. Miranda’s records were coming through. He sat at the desk and waited. He’d systematically put the office back together as Quinten Foley checked all the software discs Calvin Hunter had stored in the wall rack. Then Foley had gone through every book on the shelves lining the walls to see if the disc had been hidden in one of them. He’d even checked behind the pictures on the wall.
Nothing.
Adam could have told Quinten Foley that he wouldn’t find a damn thing. But
Foley needed to see for himself.
Adam gazed at the framed awards and photographs on the walls. Most were service commendations. Three were of Uncle Calvin fishing. Several years back, Calvin Hunter had won Bisbee’s Black and Blue Marlin Fishing Tournament. The photo showed a sunburned but smiling man proudly standing beside a marlin twice his height.
Deep-sea fishing and dog shows had been his uncle’s passions. Interesting. You wouldn’t think the two would appeal to the same person. While he couldn’t see his uncle being so involved in those two different pursuits, Adam could believe his uncle was involved in some black ops deal with Quinten Foley. Uncle Calvin had spent his career in the naval intelligence division. He knew secrets and had access to things others didn’t.
This knowledge would be very lucrative on the black market. Adam stared at another picture of Uncle Calvin on a fishing boat. Radiant sunshine, crystal blue water, a smiling Calvin Hunter standing on the swim step and wearing a baseball cap. The photo was so sharp that Adam could almost read the printing on the hat.
The third photo was of his uncle on the sundeck of a home somewhere. He was holding a platter with a large cooked fish. By the smile on his uncle’s face, Adam decided this was one of his uncle’s catches.
From what Adam knew about weapons deals, Foley and his uncle were brokers. They were middlemen who arranged the transactions and cut a huge profit out of each deal. They didn’t handle weapons themselves. But money, contracts, lists of weapons and God-only-knew-what-else had to be exchanged.
The fax machine stopped churning out papers, and Adam left the window. Noises came from downstairs. Whitney was home.
His pulse kicked into high gear. He’d been looking forward to seeing Whitney since this morning when he’d discovered she’d left early. He stuck his head out the door, calling, “Whitney, please come up here.”
Scampering, scratching sounds came from the stairway. Jasper was on his way upstairs to find him. The dog bounded up the last few stairs, spotted Adam and sprinted toward him. Adam hunkered down and Jasper took a flying leap into his arms and began licking his face.
“Hey, dude, how was your first hookup?”
“He rose to the occasion—finally,” Whitney said as she reached the top of the stairs, the other dogs at her heels.
Adam stood up, Jasper in his arms. He wanted to pull Whitney flush against his chest, then drag her across the hall into his bedroom. He was reasonably sure the killer had been after Miranda, but you never knew. He warned himself that becoming distracted could cost Whitney her life.
“Did you spot anyone following you?” he asked. “Or notice anything suspicious.”
“Nope, and I was careful.”
“That’s good. Don’t let down your guard.”
“The vet says the bump on Jasper’s neck isn’t infected. It just needs ointment put on it twice a day.”
“Great.” Adam held out the little guy to check. Jasper was still furiously licking but getting nothing but air. He was a goofy dog, yet Adam couldn’t help being drawn to him. He remembered how Uncle Calvin had cradled the dog in his arms when they’d been in Greece. The dog craved affection.
“I have Miranda’s phone records as well as her charge card bills. The police are going over them, but I thought we should take a look.”
“How did you get them?”
“That’s confidential. Don’t mention to anyone that you’ve seen them. I don’t want to get my source into trouble.”
“Of course.” She sat in the chair on the other side of his desk, Lexi and the two little dogs plopped down at her feet.
“Women are better at shopping than men. Go over the credit card bills and see if anything jumps out at you.” He handed her a pencil and a pad. “Write down the purchase and date of anything suspicious so I can take a look.”
Adam settled into the chair that had once belonged to his uncle. Jasper immediately hopped up into his lap. “Didn’t Miranda put the utilities into your name?”
“No. We discussed it but decided to wait. I would have to come up with deposits. I didn’t have the money. I had new business cards made up, and Miranda notified all her clients that I would be taking over. She gave them my cell phone number but her home number is still the one listed on the cards.”
“I’m looking at her phone records for the last month. She made very few calls from home. I don’t see any duplicates among them.”
“You’re thinking she would call a friend more than once, right?” When Adam nodded, she asked, “What about calls from her cell?”
“It takes longer to get cellular records than regular telephone records. We won’t have those for a few days.”
They worked in silence for almost an hour. By that time Jasper was snoozing on Adam’s lap and the sun was dropping low.
“I’m not finding much on her charge accounts,” Whitney told him. “Gasoline mostly, and a few department store charges. Nothing expensive. She paid the entire balance every month.”
“I’m not finding anything either.” Adam gently picked up Jasper and put him on the floor. “Let’s see what she stored out in the garage before it gets dark. The fire destroyed the electrical wiring so we need to take advantage of what daylight is left. We can come back to this later.”
Whitney rose and stretched provocatively. He longed to reach out and pull her into his arms, then kiss the sensitive spot he’d discovered at the nape of her neck. Don’t start anything, he cautioned himself.
He reached out and brushed two fingers up the gentle rise of her cheek. He needed so much…more than this fleeting touch. But he refused to allow himself the pleasure. There was too much to do, too much danger.
His cell phone rang and he glanced down to where it was clipped to his belt. Max Deaver was calling. He hadn’t mentioned the accountant or the missing money to Whitney.
“Why don’t you get started?” he asked. “I need to take this call.”
Whitney nodded as he pulled the telephone off his belt. She was walking out the door, the dogs at her heels, when he answered.
“Any luck in tracking down those cash withdrawals your uncle made every month?” Deaver immediately asked.
“No. It doesn’t make sense.” Adam had decided the money had been given to someone in the weapons deal. Cash payments kept that person’s name off any records, but he wasn’t comfortable sharing this theory.
“Are you sitting down?” Deaver asked.
“No. Should I be?”
The forensic accountant chuckled but couldn’t manage to sound amused. “Your uncle’s account in the Caymans. There’s been more activity.”
Now Adam was sitting down. He’d plopped into the office chair the second he’d heard “Caymans.” If his uncle’s accounts were drained, Adam would be on the hook for anything owed against properties he owned jointly with his uncle.
“Someone wire transferred seventy-five thousand dollars into the account.”
“No shit.”
“No shit. Seems bizarre, man. Totally bizarre.”
“Where did the money come from?”
“A numbered account in the Bahamas.”
“Why would they put money into a dead man’s account?”
There was a moment of silence on the other end of the line, then, “I thought you might have some idea by now.”
“Not really,” Adam replied. He thought about what Quinten Foley had told him. It was possible the group purchasing weapons didn’t realize Calvin Hunter had died and was still paying him.
“I’m going to keep working on this. We need to have a list of the assets for the probate, although I don’t know what any attorney can do with numbered account information that he could obtain only by hacking into systems.”
“I guess he’ll have to leave it out unless I can find the code so I can withdraw the money.”
“Someone else might beat you to it.”
That was becoming more of a possibility by the minute.
“You know the old saying,” Deav
er said, irony in his tone. “Dead men tell no tales.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
WHITNEY TETHERED THE three dogs to what was left of the back gate post in the small yard behind the cottage. The lingering smell of smoke and the sooty debris in the yard was a stark reminder of last night’s fire. Nearby was the carport where she’d parked her SUV. Damaged by the fire, the structure’s flimsy roof had collapsed onto what was left of her Jeep.
The firefighters had chopped holes in the garage walls and broken through the locked side door to fight the fire that had quickly spread from the cottage. Peering in, Whitney saw charred, water-soaked boxes. She wasn’t looking forward to going through the sodden mess.
What choice did she have? She wasn’t sure she could put into words the feelings she had about her cousin. Miranda wasn’t going to miraculously reappear. They would have to find her, and it wasn’t going to be easy.
With a quick glance to make sure the dogs were secure, Whitney edged her way into the old garage. Huge holes had been hacked in the roof and light streamed into the darkness. All she found as she rummaged through the things strewn across the floor was clothing. She sorted through the stuff to see if any of it could be salvaged—or provide a clue.
Several minutes later a scuttling noise made her jump. She stared into the corner where the sunlight didn’t penetrate. In the dark shadows something moved. She released a pent-up breath of air. Rats or mice.
She needed to lighten up and soothe her raw nerves. Whoever was after Miranda was long gone. They weren’t lurking in the shadows or following her every move as she walked dogs or went to the breeder’s. Adam was merely being cautious.
“Find anything?”
Even though she immediately recognized Adam’s voice, Whitney flinched.
“Hey.” He slid his arm around her shoulders and lowered his head until his brow touched hers so gently that something caught inside her chest. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”