We returned to the locker room, where she removed a racquet from a large red duffle bag. “Racquetball. Ever played?” She held up the racquet.
“No, never.”
“Good, then I have a slight chance of beating you.” She grinned and pointed to my sweats and fleece. “You won’t be needing those or that.”
I sat on the bench between the lockers and gently tugged my sweat pants over my shoes. I stood and pulled my fleece over my head, then hung both items in my locker.
“Will this work?” I asked.
Her eyes traveled unhurriedly down my body to my shoes and back up to my shoulders. “With those arms, you must do more than spin class.”
I felt a mix of pleasure at the recognition of my routines and discomfort at feeling on display. “I get bored if I do cardio every day, so I do some weight training now and again. But you should talk. You’re the one who looks like you’re shooting an infomercial for some insanely effective fitness machine.” Though I was merely stating the obvious, Sarah’s eyes gleamed with delight.
“Schmoozing donors at L.A.’s finest restaurants is part of the job, and I like to eat. It’s either stay active or balloon to a size twenty.” She handed me a racquet. “Let’s go.”
I desperately over-swung during the first game. Tennis training was helpful for hand-eye coordination, but I found myself trying to hit hard groundstrokes with fully extended arms instead of flicking my wrists and aiming for good angles. For a fairly jerky kind of game, racquetball as Sarah played it was almost elegant. She swung through the ball efficiently, and her racquet position always seemed properly placed.
The second game was a little less lopsided as I concentrated on trying to follow what Sarah was telling me: lead with the elbow, snap the wrist, follow through. I still over-hit everything but flailed about slightly less. I was breaking quite a sweat, surprised at how much exertion went into hitting a little blue ball within a small, confined rectangular space.
After the second game, we crouched through the bite-size door built into the court wall, drank from the nearby water fountain, and toweled off our faces. I was breathing heavily compared to Sarah, who gave me her assessment.
“I’m impressed. Usually it takes longer for tennis players to get the hang of the wrist action involved. You’re doing great.”
I laughed. “If I’m doing great, I’d hate to think of how awful the not-great players are.”
“Trust me, your ability to retrieve nearly everything makes you a tough opponent.”
After a minute or two, my breathing finally returned to normal. “All right. I’m done taking it easy on you. Ready for your beating?”
Sarah squared her shoulders, took a step toward me, and met my challenging glare with a playful cockiness. “I’m shivering with fear.”
I stepped forward and stood nearly toe-to-toe with her. “Bring it.”
As if a lighting designer was staging a production starring Sarah and me, the only thing that seemed suddenly illuminated was her face and upper body; I noticed nothing else. A current of electricity shot between us. Our eyes shifted back and forth as if we were both searching the other for the party responsible for flipping whatever switch had just been thrown. After several moments passed, Sarah swallowed audibly.
“I intend to,” she said. Then she stepped back and motioned for me to enter the court. It took me a few seconds to register that I was supposed to move, and a few more to get my shaky legs to walk toward the door since all I’d wanted to do was step forward and kiss her. Jesus. Not this again.
Feeling a bone-deep weariness from the strenuous workout and my third straight loss, I seconded Sarah’s invitation to head to the locker rooms and clean up. Thankfully her locker was around the corner from mine, so I didn’t have to pry my eyes from her or pretend not to notice her when she undressed. We both seemed to shower and dress on the same schedule, since she appeared at the shared multi-sink area that housed the personal and hair-care products right after I grabbed one of the hair dryers. I was wearing a black pantsuit with a lavender oxford shirt, while she wore a periwinkle skirt suit with a pale-yellow blouse.
While I dried my hair, I occasionally stole glances at her as she dried hers. She could have been in a hair-color commercial, though the reddish tint in hers was natural. Her auburn hair was shiny, silky, and radiated a softness that begged to be stroked. Its natural wave made it look like she curled the length that fell over her shoulders. She set aside the dryer, then leaned in toward the mirrored wall in front of the sinks and began to apply mascara.
After finishing with her right eye, she stopped and looked at me through the mirror. “What?”
Only then did I realize I’d been staring. I quickly turned back to the mirror and started to arrange my hair so I could snap in a hair claw.
“Cazz.” Her voice held a smidgen of annoyance, trying to prompt a reply.
I flicked my eyes through the mirror in her direction. “Sorry. Just intrigued by your transformation.” I had to work to keep my voice steady. She was astonishingly pretty, and the way she’d slightly parted her lovely lips and exposed just a hint of tongue when concentrating on her eye makeup was fantasy material.
“Transformation?”
“You’re a far cry from looking like the take-no-prisoners opponent crusher you were a half hour ago.”
“I am?” She began to apply mascara to her left eye. “Then what do I look like?”
“Like you could have breakfast with the president.”
She finished with her mascara, straightened, and turned to view me directly. “More demure?” She was clearly amused.
I finished inserting my hair claw and faced her with a smile. “Less assertive.”
“I find it has more to do with attitude than outfit.”
“Possibly.”
Her expression became focused—almost cocky—as she held my gaze. After a few contemplative moments, she strutted over and stood directly in front of me, the toes of our pumps nearly touching. I noticed my breath for the first time since our final racquetball game. Her face moving to within inches of mine, she reached past my ear and pulled the claw from my hair, sending my dark tresses tumbling to my shoulders. She held one end of the plastic clip in her teeth and kept her eyes on me as she combed back her hair with her fingers in several strokes.
She placed the claw in her hair, which lifted some of it off her enticing neck. “Have dinner with me Saturday.”
As with my breath earlier, I noticed for the first time today that I swallowed. Unable to take my eyes off hers, I gave a weak response. “Okay.”
She smiled, looked back to the mirror, made slight adjustments to the way her hair was arranged, and turned to me.
“Like I said. Attitude,” she said. She spun around and spoke over her shoulder. “Follow me in your car. I’ll introduce you to my favorite bagel place.”
Thankfully the destination was merely breakfast, not some remote location involving BASE jumping or the equivalent, since I would have followed her anywhere for any—or no—reason.
Having Sarah single me out for one-on-one time felt just as wonderful as it had a decade ago.
Damn the woman and her “attitude.” I was spellbound and she knew it.
Chapter Twelve
I was lucky the desk in the office I was given faced the doorway, which meant my computer screen wasn’t visible to anyone who peered in. They would have to stand behind me to see what I was up to, and by then I could easily use my keyboard to ALT-TAB away from a software application or close any open windows on my screen.
I launched the accounting software and ran an income statement. Given the small office space the Foundation occupied, I was shocked to see the staggering amount of donor contributions and special-event revenue it received. The Statement of Activities (an income statement, a.k.a. P&L for a nonprofit) showed prior year support and revenue of nearly twelve million dollars, excluding investment income of almost two million. Grant expenses totaled roughly nine
million, and general and administrative expenses came in at close to three million.
I ran a Statement of Financial Position (balance sheet). The Foundation had a combination of cash and investments exceeding forty-four million dollars. I couldn’t believe how much money this place brought in and spent, and how much more it had on hand to continue executing its mission. Luke Perkins had built an impressive charity.
While Morrison was at lunch, I searched the file cabinets for the audited financial statements. When I found them, I sent the latest report through the multi-function copier/scanner and typed my personal e-mail address into the menu so I’d have a PDF version waiting for me to review from home tonight. Once the scan had been sent, I scrolled through the options on the copier until I found the screen that logs all activity. I cleared the cache to wipe out the log.
Having returned the report to the file cabinet, I switched windows to display the P&L again and clicked into the general and administrative expenses to see what cost three million last year. The small staff and building lease couldn’t account for much in the way of salaries or rent—unless it was very generous with its salaries, which was possible given how much the Foundation brought in with so few personnel. The Foundation must be utilizing an outside payroll-processing service since the records were synced by pay date but excluded information by payee. The information came through lump sum, so I could see how much cash went to the IRS, California Franchise Tax Board, and the employees in total, but couldn’t determine how much was paid to each employee individually.
The annual bite with employer taxes was about one point five million, which meant that the twelve staffers averaged about a hundred fifteen thousand annually. These were historical and thus would include Luke Perkins, who clearly would have earned sizably more. The Carols of the office would make far less. Didn’t matter. These numbers told me nothing strange was going on with payroll.
The employee benefit plans must be of the premium variety with the numbers I was seeing, but generous did not mean untoward, and they meshed with the hefty club and membership expenses I found. Given the irregular hours Sarah—and I imagined Luke—kept in order to take donors to fancy clubs like I’d been to this morning, as well as dinners and weekend events, a little extra something for the employees in the benefits department appeared reasonable. Rent for this floor was pricey, but not extraordinary. All the other usual expenses seemed, well, usual.
The big unknown was in the form of consulting expenses, which tallied a whopping six hundred thousand. I clicked into the account to view the detail. Aside from some miscellaneous one-off projects, the Foundation was paying on the order of forty-five thousand a month to a firm called Mastick Consulting Inc. Since the investment income was already reported net of investment management fees, I couldn’t fathom what services this Mastick company must be rendering. I clicked into a few of the bills and further into the bill payments that tied to the check register of the main bank account. The payments were made electronically by wire. Usually a recurring payment of this nature to a US company would be sent via ACH (automated clearing house) to avoid unnecessary wire-transfer fees.
I walked over to the filing cabinet that held accounts payable and searched for the M folder. The first Mastick invoice read like this: Consulting Services—August. And unlike all invoices on the planet, there was no remittance address to which to send payment. Not helpful. I scanned more of the invoices and found the same generic description and same absence of address. I needed to track down the governing consulting agreement to find out what services Mastick provided to the Foundation. By the time Morrison returned from lunch, I’d finished my tasks for the day and asked for more to do.
When I got home that night, I dropped my purse and Chinese takeout onto the kitchen counter before changing into my favorite tattered blue Columbia sweats and a T-shirt. Veggie chow mein in hand, I booted up my laptop, intent on reviewing the audited financials I’d e-mailed to myself. After entering my login credentials, I settled into my faux leather recliner and savored a bite of broccoli.
It had been a good day. I closed my eyes, relaxed further into the chair, and smiled. Of course it was a good day. It started with Sarah. Images of her played through my head: looking sharp in her black pantsuit on Monday and sporty in her workout clothes this morning, mesmerizing me when she treated herself to my hair claw and asked me to dinner, the grief and vulnerability in her eyes in the wake of telling me of her father’s passing.
My cell phone rang, startling me out of my reverie. I placed the take-out container on the coffee table, headed to the kitchen, and fumbled for the phone in my purse. I didn’t recognize the number, but since this was one of those prepaid smartphones issued to me before every job, I never updated the contacts with names or numbers. I knew by heart the numbers I needed, and that was enough.
“Hello?”
“Do you want a rematch, or have you given up already?” Sarah asked cheekily.
“How did you get my number?”
“Am I not allowed to call you?”
“No, it’s not that. I’m just kind of anal about who I give my number to.” I winced at how ridiculous I sounded.
“It’s on your résumé,” she said coolly.
“Oh. Right.” I hadn’t created my fake résumé so I’d forgotten the personal details Ashby’s team would have certainly included. I’d memorized my entire career according to that document, and even made up some stories about what it was like to work at those phony establishments in case someone questioned me, but I’d overlooked something as simple as my phone number. My professional aplomb seemed to fade around Sarah.
“Sorry,” I said. Silence. I managed to recognize I was annoyed with myself, not Sarah, and appreciated that she’d called. Before I could think about what it might sound like, I said, “I was just thinking about you.” It was true, but I don’t know if I would have said it had I not been trying to dig myself out of a hole.
“Mm-hmm.” She didn’t believe me.
“I was thinking I’ve never had such an enjoyable time getting walloped before. Though, as pleasurable as it was, I don’t intend to repeat my performance.”
“Meaning you are giving up?”
“Meaning, watch out. I don’t like to lose.”
“I remember that about you. Six thirty again?”
“Sure, but Friday’s better. I don’t do the early morning thing as well as you. I’m good for three a week, tops. I’m sleeping in tomorrow.”
“Well, it does work for you.”
“What does?” I’d somehow lost a thread of the conversation.
“Getting your beauty rest. It obviously pays off. Friday it is.” She hung up.
I clicked the button to end the call, picked up my dinner, and dropped lazily into my recliner. Grinning into my chow mein, I savored the feeling of hearing Sarah’s voice in my ear and knowing I was on her mind. It had gone from a good day to a great one, starting and ending with Sarah.
*
The next couple days rounded out a busy first week at the Foundation. The audit report was interesting in two ways, but lacked details I’d have to track down by other means. The first thing I noticed was the Investments footnote that said the Foundation owned land as well as the more typical publicly traded equities, fixed-income securities, and mutual funds I’d expected. In fact, the Foundation owned nearly four-and-a-half million in land as part of its investments. Where was this land it owned, and why? It made up about ten percent of total investment holdings excluding cash equivalents, which seemed like a lot of property. Especially since it was clearly not tied to the ownership of the office building where it leased its floor, which would have been included in the Property and Equipment footnote had it been used in operations.
Also, the accounting firm of Broderick LLC that had performed the audit and provided the report didn’t have a website. Not only was it lacking a basic landing page, but I also couldn’t find any reference to the firm. Where were their offices? Furtherm
ore, the company wasn’t listed as a CPA licensee with the California State Board of Accountancy. That didn’t seem possible, but there might be a perfectly reasonable explanation. Worse, I came up empty when I performed a business search of Broderick in the California Secretary of State’s website. Since the SOS records included out-of-state businesses operating within the state, such as corporations owned by California shareholders but incorporated in Delaware because of various benefits of doing so, it appeared Broderick was operating in California without having properly registered to do business here.
I searched for the remittance address from one of Broderick’s invoices in our Accounts Payable files and was stumped as to why, as with Mastick, there wasn’t one. Unlike Mastick, however, payments to Broderick were made by check. If I could locate a cleared check, I should be able to trace the general vicinity of the firm by noting the processing bank’s city and state.
*
Friday morning, Sarah beat me during our first racquetball game, but not by a mile as she’d done on Wednesday. During the second game, I even held a small lead for most of the game, though she ended up winning fifteen to thirteen. I was a much more formidable opponent and made her strive for her victories. We were both catching our breath when we stepped out of the court through the door that seemed only slightly bigger than a mini fridge. After sipping from the drinking fountain, I leaned against the wall and slid down until I sat with my legs stretched out in front of me. I wiped my face with a towel and hung it around my neck.
“Third time’s the charm.” I exhaled deeply. “Next game, I’ll be able to take you.”
“It’s good to hold out hope, no matter how remote the chances.” She gave me a teasing smile as she sat down next to me, both our upper backs against the cool wall. I tried not to be riveted by the tantalizing stretch of toned, tan leg suddenly at my side.
“What’s the plan for tomorrow night?” I asked.
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