Strip Search

by Shayla Black

  "Hello?" Rafe answered, groggy.

  "Hey, buddy. I know it's late there. Did I wake Kerry?"

  A pause. Mark heard the rustle of sheets before Rafe said, "No. What's up?"

  "We've got to solve this. Now."

  The bed creaked, and Mark assumed Rafe got up. A few footsteps and a minute later, he heard Rafe's computer humming.

  "I've been working on the real estate files you sent. I can't directly trace any of them back to Nicki. One shell account after another, from Eastern Europe to the Caribbean to Switzerland, nothing has Nicki's name on it. She might be innocent ... and she might not be. This security is so tight, as if someone knows exactly how I could watch their transactions. I'm sorry I don't have jack to give you."

  Sighing, Mark logged on to Nicki's computer, launched the accounting software, loaded the files. And stared at the screen. The accounts had been updated early this morning. Had Nicki awakened even earlier than he'd suspected and caught up on her criminal activity? Row after row of deposits had been put into her account over the past week. Each day a little bigger, each day a little more brazen.

  Frowning, Mark clicked onto the tab marked RE. The real estate transactions had been modified as well. The previous addresses had been tagged with three-digit numbers in red in a column to the left. 142,145,151,157. Other newer entries, about a dozen, had a different three-digit number, 164, in black in that same column. The amounts beside each entry were staggering.

  What the hell did it mean?

  Mark explained what he was seeing. "Got any clue what kind of code this is? These three-digit numbers are stumping me."

  "Let me Google..." A few key strokes and multiple sighs later. "No. Nothing that makes sense in this situation."

  Staring at the wall, fighting the rise of futility, Mark was tempted to wake Nicki and make her explain. No more clandestine shit. She wanted to talk, force him to share? Her first.

  The calendar on the wall swam in his vision. June eleventh. He'd been here more than a month and had nothing to show for it except the prelude to another busted relationship, another fucking broken heart, this one worse than the last.

  He stared at the date--it was better than staring at the screen that held nothing but mysteries. According to the little number under today's date, he'd just about finished one hundred sixty two days of this year and already managed to fuck--

  Wait!

  One hundred sixty two...

  He grabbed the calendar off the wall. "I think I'm on to something. Can you dig up information on this address and see if it sold recently?" Mark recited an address with 142 in red beside it.

  About two minutes later, Rafe shouted, "Bingo! The property sold--"

  "May twenty-second?"

  "How'd you know?"

  Mark smiled. Finally, he was getting somewhere. "All the transactions on this spreadsheet give a Julian calendar date that represents its closing date. May twenty-second is the one hundred forty-second day of the year."

  A quick pause and a few keystrokes later, Rafe said, "You're right. Good job, man!"

  "Today is day one hundred sixty-two. A whole bunch of properties have the notation of one hundred sixty-four beside them, which means--"

  "That in two days, something big is going down."

  "I think you're right." Mark sighed. "But what?"

  "I've hit a brick wall here. Every place I turn here is buried in off-shore accounts, shell companies, and all kinds of red tape. You don't have any theories?"

  Mark took a mental inventory of everything he knew... and came up empty. "Nope. But I have an idea."

  "Yeah?"

  He sighed. "I've been putting this off, but I think it's time I searched Nicki's place. Maybe I'll find answers there."

  Heaven help them both if he did.

  Chapter 15

  Nothing could have told Nicki that her arrangement/ fling/affair--heaven forbid she use the R word--with Mark was over more plainly than waking up in his apartment naked and alone.

  Other than in the bed, the man had no staying power.

  In the past, Nicki had wondered how smart women did stupid things like fall for a guy who was never going to commit. She always thought she'd see the trap coming a mile away and run in the other direction. Instead, she'd done an Olympic sprint right into Mark's arms.

  Now her heart was paying the price.

  Closing her eyes against tears that crushed her with the force of her despondency, Nicki rose--and refused to give in. Oh, no doubt, she was going to cry. But not here. Not now. Not when he might come back and see the kind of damage he'd done. He'd apologize, most likely. Deep down, he was a good guy. But his apology wouldn't change a damn thing.

  They were over, it was done, and she couldn't see him anymore, for any reason. Not and keep her sanity.

  Gathering her clothes, Nicki sniffed to keep pesky tears at bay and quickly donned her dress. She stuffed her panties into her shoes and took a deep breath.

  She was about to do one of the most gutless things in her life in the name of sanity and self-preservation. It wasn't something she'd tell the grandkids or write into any memoirs she might pen someday, but she couldn't think of a better way to do it.

  She had to ask Mark to leave.

  Never in her life had she imagined herself writing a Dear John/Dear Employee letter all at once. But it severed both parts of their... interaction simultaneously.

  Hell. Why was she stressing? He'd probably mourn the loss for all of five minutes, then move on without a backward glance.

  It was exactly what she needed to do.

  Groping her way up the lamp on the bedside table, Nicki found the switch and turned it. The sudden light, while subtle, burned her eyes. She stared at the bed, rumpled from her tangle with Hurricane Mark. Now only devastation remained, as evidenced by her decimated heart.

  Nicki resisted the urge to grasp the sheet to her face and bury her face in it, smell Mark's unique scent and imprint it on her memory, leave behind the tears he'd never know or care about.

  If she started crying now, when would she stop?

  Paper, she needed paper. And a pen. Remember your mission!

  Resolved, she turned away from the bed and glanced around the Spartan room. The bed took up most of the space. The closet door lined the opposite wall. He'd purchased a plastic tub, which held some of his clothes. Most garments, however, still sat in his open suitcase that lay sprawled near the bed. Clearly, he'd never planned on staying long.

  She dug her fingernails into her palms at that reminder, staggering at the power of her pain. If this was being in love ... it really blew chunks.

  Swallowing her tears, Nicki pushed on in her search. The clothes didn't provide her anything on which to write a note.

  The closet door stood ajar. Just inside, she spotted a leather briefcase. A very nice one, in fact. Briefcases usually had paper. She would simply write him a note that indicated she'd enjoyed meeting him but it wasn't going to work out anymore, and to please vacate the premises in the next twenty-four hours. She'd find another accountant. Auditions for replacement dancers were already under way. In a few days, it would be like he'd never come here at all.

  Yeah, and pigs would sprout wings and start clucking like chickens, too.

  Nicki crossed the room and grabbed the briefcase. It was heavier than she expected, but with a tug and a groan, she managed to lift it onto the bed. What the hell did he keep in here? Bricks would seem like a feather in comparison.

  After unzipping the middle pouch, Nicki found a laptop computer and a portable printer, along with a tangle of cables and cords. Definitely not what she wanted. If she could figure out how to turn it on--big if--she'd have little idea what to do next.

  With a tug on the zipper, she closed the middle section, then moved to an outer flap sealed shut with Velcro. It lifted to reveal a flap to a section that looked the size to hold business cards. To the right of that, two pens sat threaded through canvas loops made just to hold them.

/>   Absently grabbing a pen, Nicki couldn't resist opening the flap and digging inside. Curiosity may have killed the cat, but since she felt half-dead already, what the hell.

  Her fingers closed around a stack of business cards. She pulled one out. White. Made of thick, expensive cardstock. Charcoal lettering coupled with a sleek, contemporary graphic that contained a hint of red to create an eye-catching logo in the upper right corner. A Manhattan address and phone number. But the words ...

  Dawson Security Enterprises

  Mark Sullivan, CPA

  Vice President and Chief Financial Investigator

  What? Chills slammed down Nicki's spine. Mark Sullivan, not Gabriel? And he'd said he'd worked for a bank in Florida. He'd never mentioned a security company in New

  York, much less being a vice president. And what was a chief financial investigator?

  Another look at the card indicated the firm specialized in electronic security and services related to electronic commerce. Huh?

  At the moment, Mr. Secretive-Gabriel-Sullivan-Whatever-His-Name-Was smelled like a rat. This card definitely meant something. Had he been hiding more than a bad medical past and a failed marriage? Or, God, had he made all that up?

  She was going to find out. Right now.

  Scowling, Nicki tore into the briefcase. Another zippered pocket produced a pad of legal paper with a local phone number, no name. A bad feeling brewing in her gut, she wrote the number down on a separate piece of paper and tore it out of the pad. Then she moved onto the final pocket of the briefcase.

  Ripping it open with all the finesse of a kid with a stack of Christmas presents, Nicki plunged a hand in. Papers, file folders, a calculator. She yanked them all out.

  The calculator turned out to be a handheld device she didn't recognize. Blackberry, it said. Damn! It was probably loaded with information, but she really didn't know how to use it any more than she did the laptop. She set it aside and turned her attention to the papers. A computer printed receipt from the Bellagio hotel for nearly two thousand dollars, charged to Mark Sullivan. The last day of his stay coincided with his move here.

  Nicki turned her attention to three file folders next. The first had the name of her bank on its tab and contained the last year's statements. Some entries were highlighted in yellow. She frowned. Why were these here and not in the office ? He was a chief financial investigator, and having her stuff all in his briefcase, unbeknownst to her, was like being ... investigated.

  The next folder had the words Real Estate written in bold block writing on the tab. It contained a list of addresses, dates, and dollar amounts, none of which meant a thing to Nicki. Shrugging, she set that aside.

  The third folder had nothing written on the tab. She flipped it open to find a cover letter from a private investigator here in Vegas. The phone number at the top matched the phone number she'd lifted from Mark's legal pad. Why would Mark have hired a PI here in town?

  Scowl deepening, she scanned the letter.

  Dear Mr. Dawson,

  Enclosed you'll find the requested report. To summarize, the subject has no criminal history, despite associations with suspected Mafia.

  Regarding the matter at hand, my field studies were inconclusive as to the subject's involvement.

  The full report follows this letter.

  Please don't hesitate to call me if you have any questions or would like to take a different avenue of inquiry.

  Sincerely,

  Jacob T. Lane Private Investigator

  The name didn't ring a bell. Again, Nicki felt as if she was groping in the dark. The subject? Inconclusive as to the subject's involvement? What the hell ... ?

  Flipping the cover letter aside, Nicki felt as if she was prepared to see anything--information about her uncle, who the authorities wanted to label Mafia because he was all Italian all the time. Or one of her dancers, incriminating pictures maybe. Who knew? The last thing she expected to see was her very own birth certificate, school records, documents showing the club's establishment, copies of her father's will, deeds to a house her father had left her and Lucia together on the shore in Atlantic City. Scanning the attached report, Nicki saw the investigator had delved into her childhood, social and dating history--the works.

  She was the subject?

  The last page Mark had clearly ripped from the legal pad. It was filled with his notes.

  5/11--Nicki said Zack has worked for her since the club's doors opened, but has only been her stage manager for a few months. Relevant?

  5/11--Lucia here for summer working on paper. Involved?

  5/21--First peek at accounting records. Messed up. Changed while we had sex. Bocelli's doing? Sex a ploy to distract? Records fake?

  5/25--Per Nicki, Pietro owns 30% of Nicki's club. She wants him out.

  5/30--Why did Nicki ask me to be her accountant suddenly? More reason than realizing Bocelli is not qualified. Did they have a partnership? Did she sever it? Did he?

  6/1--According to Nicki, Bocelli works here because her uncle demands it. Also says she's not having sex w/ Bocelli.

  If not, what was the basis for partnership? Money?

  6/4--Discovered real accounting records on Nicki's computer. Password protected. JimmyChoo, TyPennington, Frank29. Made CD of records. Deposits and transfers match bank statements. Rafe tracking down source accounts. Who's pulling the strings? Or is Nicki in charge?

  6/11--Motive: Get enough money to buy out Pietro DiStefano. Major jerk. Underestimates her. Did she and Bocelli collaborate to screw her uncle over? Or is Blade trying to kill her?

  He'd written something today? When? After nailing her? Nicki could picture it now, him crawling out of the sheets that were still hot from their friction and writing down his suspicions that she... what? Clearly, he thought she did something for money that involved Blade in order to buy her uncle out of the club. She'd bet her one and only Prada purse that whatever Mark thought she'd done, it was illegal.

  Unbelievable.

  Pain sliced her brain, while fury diced her stomach. How dare he deceive her! How dare he become an employee and her lover for the exclusive purpose of investigating her! She'd meant nothing to him, she'd bet. Nothing! While she'd given him... her heart, her soul. Thrown away two years of carefully preserved celibacy and dedication to Girls' Night Out to be with him. Hell, she would have given him the rest of her life if he'd been interested in it.

  Nicki knew she should probably be surprised by this revelation. But she couldn't exactly muster shock. Mark had been conflicted since the day she'd invited him into her bed. Well, this explained why.

  Cursing, Nicki glanced down at the paper in her hand and the phone number written on it. It matched the number of the private investigator. One mystery solved. Just one more mystery remained: How long would it take to get him out of her hair? Out of her life? Out of her heart?

  Nicki crumpled the paper in her fist. Oh, never mind taking the coward's way out. Forget leaving the bastard a note telling him to get lost both personally and professionally. The son of a bitch! She couldn't wait to tell him herself.

  With a little finesse and a little luck, Mark picked the lock on Nicki's apartment door. He didn't dare return to his apartment for her keys and risk waking her, not until he had some answers or lack thereof. If no evidence to convict or clear her materialized during this search... well, he'd think about that later.

  But he had to believe that somewhere around here something that would fill in the missing pieces of the puzzle existed.

  The door unlocked with a soft click, and Mark pushed it open to reveal a dark room, vaguely shadowed by Vegas's lights streaming in through the open blinds.

  What will you do with the information you find here? a voice inside him asked. What if you learn she's guilty? If that was the case, Mark saw prison time in her future. He ignored the anguish that clenched his gut at the thought. What if you learn she's innocent? Apologize, he supposed. Beyond that, he didn't know.

  Stepping into the gray r
oom and shutting the door behind him in near silence, Mark fished his keychain from his pocket. Thank goodness for the small attached flashlight he usually carried. He couldn't risk turning on lights, just in case. Nicki couldn't know he'd been here ... looking at whatever she might be hiding from him.

  A quick search of the drawers in her kitchen revealed the fact she was no Julia Childs. Lacking much in the way of equipment, it was clear Nicki chose to spend her time engaged in activities other than preparing foods to please her palette. But he also found no personal papers in the drawers, just a stack of take-out menus, some dry cleaning receipts, a gift certificate to a local spa, and Zack's cell phone number.

  Cursing softly, Mark retreated from the kitchen and stepped into the living room. Nowhere here to hide anything, really. He searched under the furniture, inside the sofa cushions, peeked into the entertainment center. Nada.

  Which left only her bedroom and bathroom. And he'd at least conducted a cursory search of Nicki's dresser and closet the night he'd tied her to her bed and loved her until they were both exhausted--something he'd kill to do again. Gritting his teeth, Mark forced his mind back on task.

  Hope bit into his gut as he made his way down the hall. A scented air freshener with a nightlight was plugged into the outlet in the hall. Using the faint light to help him guide his way to the end of the corridor and into the bedroom, Mark entered the nearly pitch-black room and paused.

  Something wasn't right. Little hairs stood up on his arms. His insides prickled with alarm. Heartbeat roaring in his head, Mark listened. He couldn't hear anyone moving or breathing.

  But a gut feeling told him he wasn't alone.

  No one appeared to be in the bed or in the corners, though it was too dark to tell for sure. Nothing rustled. Nothing looked out of place, but he knew...