by Kristen Lamb
“Singled out?”
I nodded. “That was why I came home. Mark Cunningham, son of Lonnie Cunningham, hates my guts. Like you, he assumes I stole all that money and fifty million of it was theirs.” I took a bite of sticky roll then said, “Which is really weird, because they are billionaires. Fifty million is like weekend spending money to those kind of people, right?”
“That is how a lot of cons justify stealing.”
I slammed down my cup and this time the aged glass broke. I scrambled for a towel to get the scorching liquid off my hands. “Okay, leave. Get out.”
“You okay?” He rose to help me, but I backed away, shaking.
“Get out of my house. Now.”
“Romi,” he said, his voice soft.
“What? You deaf? Don’t let the door hit you in the ass. Leave.”
“Romi, you’re bleeding.” His eyes moved to my hand.
I glanced down and a four-inch gash on the palm of my right hand gushed blood.
“Great, just friggin’ great.” I wrapped the coffee-soaked towel around my hand.
“Let me—”
“I got it.” I rummaged, one-handed under the counter for my First-Aid kit. I didn’t have much, but being compulsively over-prepared, I did have a kit. Preoccupied with my hand, I momentarily forgot I was kicking Sawyer out of my home. I washed the cut with hot soapy water then inspected the gash. Long, but clean. A jagged cut would’ve been a real pain in the ass.
“You need stitches,” he said.
“Probably.” I poured Bactine over the wound and bit down hard to keep from screaming. It felt like Drain-O bubbling through my flesh. Pressing the cut dry, I fished out a bottle of superglue, uncapped it with my teeth and closed the wound. I blew on the superglue to make it seal before more blood would make me have to start over.
When I finally glanced up at Sawyer, something in his manner had shifted.
He raised his hands and calmly said, “I wasn’t calling you a con. Phil didn’t work alone. We know that.”
“Thanks for that tidbit, Captain Obvious. What’s your next declaration? Sky is blue? Grass is green?” Sonofabitch my hand hurt.
“Hear me out. There’s a very specific psychological profile that goes with conmen. They’re narcissists.” He picked up pieces of glass and wrapped them in a paper grocery sack before putting them in the trash. Then he unrolled the paper towels and wiped up the mess of coffee and blood on the counter and floor, and I let him. All I could think about was the fire in my hand.
“Narcissist,” I said. “That’s Phil. Again, no great revelations there.” Between my hangover, the cut, burns, and my fatigue, it was exhausting being a hardass.
“Men like Phil are able to justify their actions, no matter how horrible they are.”
“Wow, and you had to attend Quantico to learn this.”
“Verify targeted mainly larger companies, ones worth hundreds of millions or even billions.”
“When do we reach the part you tell me something I don’t know?”
“Ten million here, fifteen million there is easier to slide under the radar. Less likely to be missed right away.”
My hand throbbed in time with the pounding in my head. “Trust me, the Cunninghams miss it a lot.”
His face reminded me of a bloodhound that had picked up scent from a dead trail. “Tell me more about Mark Cunningham.”
“Not a lot to tell.”
“Humor me.”
I slumped against the counter, really wanting to go back to bed. “His dad, Lonnie, apparently sentenced Mark to work for the Texas Employment Commission as punishment for him talking the family into trusting Verify.” Frankly, I could appreciate why Junior would be pissed. I thought of Angry Bird and shuddered.
“Why target you?”
“Daddy issues.” I made a face.
“Other than that.”
“Shoot the messenger. I sold them the software.”
“You sold who the software?”
“Cunningham Industries. They’re in the drilling and cattle business.”
“No, I mean who did you sell the software to?”
“Lonnie. The father.” I shrugged.
“The father,” he said, his expression unreadable. “When?”
“About two, two and half years ago.”
“So, you met Lonnie Cunningham at his office…?”
“No, we met at the Colonial Golf tournament in Fort Worth. A lot of companies were there.”
“And this Mark guy introduced you?”
I laughed. “Not hardly. Lonnie was a widower. Loved young women. I needed some shade and had taken shelter under the bar tent. He offered to buy me a glass of wine and we started chatting. He was a sweetheart.” I remembered the day fondly. Who knew such a wonderful old man could give birth to such a snake? “Anyway, we kept talking. Forgot about the entire golf tournament. Next thing we knew it was over and everyone was headed out for dinner and drinks. He took me to eat at The Petroleum Club to celebrate the deal.”
“When did you meet Mark?”
I blew on the glue on my palm. “Three days ago. We had a lot of the same connections, but I’d never run into him. I spent more time working than socializing.”
“You never interacted with him.”
“Didn’t even know who he was. Only ever dealt with his father. I liked Lonnie because he was salt of the earth. Began working in civil service as a county surveyor after the Army then later got into oil.”
“Self-made man,” he said distractedly.
“And a good man. We shook at dinner. Deal done.” My hand felt stiff now that the glue had fully dried. A few tiny lines of blood leaked from the wound and I dabbed them away with a paper towel.
Sawyer sat quiet, but I could almost hear the wheels turning in his head. “You never met Mark before or after the day at the Texas Employment Commission.”
“That’s what I said, right? He’s blackballed me. Throwing every bit of Cunningham family influence into screwing up my life for good. Which is why I came here.”
“Enough about Cunningham. Why did Phil go after you?”
“Am I that ugly?”
He said nothing. No expression. “He hired you right out of college for a premium position. Most people work years to get that high on the corporate ladder.”
“What can I say? I slept my way to the top. He hired me so I could give private lap dances to our clients.” I leaned toward Sawyer and whispered seductively, “And then, when those old billionaires were vulnerable, dressed in nothing but a sparkly dog-collar and heels, I could talk them into buying additional tech support.”
He gave me a dirty look. “Not biting. Points for creativity, though.”
“But you will buy that I’m some lovesick ho waiting on my thief boyfriend to whisk me away to a private island. Nice to know where I stand.” I awkwardly picked off a piece of my sticky bun with my left hand. Needed food before I puked again.
“Conmen select certain people to get them what they want. You’re too sharp to be Bimbo Barbie,” he said.
“Is that your version of a compliment?”
“What did you offer when it came to business? Why you and why in that position?”
I smothered a smartass retort and thought of what Heather had said to me, You always did have a way with the old people. “I don’t know. I always thought it was too good to be true, but I was afraid to question my luck.”
“All right. Why do you think Phil promoted you so quickly?”
I shrugged. “I could do a few things. I have a way of being able to understand really complex technology, then breaking it down where a layperson can understand. The real money is in the big companies, but big companies have too many gatekeepers. A dumb salesman wastes years trying to get past a string of threshold guardians, but I didn’t. I went right to the Big Kahunas.”
“At golf tournaments.”
“Yes, among other places.” I gave him a sideways stare. “It’s a social situation. Y
ou don’t need to bust through fifteen layers to talk to the people who make the big decisions.”
“What else?”
“I can only guess.”
“Do that.”
“To be very un-PC, most people with that much money aren’t exactly young, but they felt young around me. I could make them laugh.”
“I can see that.”
“I could also help them feel smart again. It’s a different world and anyone over sixty-five feels overwhelmed. I helped them feel powerful and more in control, by helping them really understand what our software could do, how it could streamline their operations.”
“Other than being a people person and a…good teacher, what else?”
A fist pounded at the door making both of us jump. “Open up. Police.” I recognized the voice. Not good.
“Meyerson? What the hell?” I half-tumbled off my stool and opened the door.
“Can I help you?” I said as politely as I could manage.
“We have a complaint that you were trespassing and that you stole private property. A fan and a stepstool?”
My father yelled obscenities from the bottom of the steps. “Think I wouldn’t miss it you little thief? That the old man doesn’t know what he has? Rot in jail you sticky-fingered brat.”
I stepped outside and said, “I’m sorry, Daddy. I needed them to clean the trailer. That’s all. I can put them back now that I’m finished.”
His face was puffy and haggard with at least three days growth of beard, tubes running from his nose to a portable oxygen tank. His gray hair looked like he’d styled it by sticking his head out a window on a car ride. He wore a ratty brown terrycloth robe over striped pajamas, the bottoms far too short for his tall, thin frame. When he saw me, his face went white, then red. “You come home so you can steal from me? Don’t even come by and say hello, but take what you want?”
“Daddy, I just needed—”
“You want sympathy? Look it up in the dictionary between shit and syphilis. Cuff her Meyerson.”
“What?” I felt dizzy. How much blood had I lost?
“I’m pressing charges,” Dad bellowed. “Lock her up or she’ll just run off like that no-good mother of hers.”
I couldn’t believe what was happening. I knew my father wasn’t going to exactly welcome me home but this was insanity.
Meyerson gave me a smug smile. “Normally this would be a domestic case, but he says you’re not his daughter.”
“We went to school together, Robby. You know I’m his daughter.”
“It’s Officer Meyerson to you.”
My father started yelling again. “I only have one daughter, Heather. I don’t know who this little thief is.” My father was shaking with fury or weakness, I couldn’t tell which. The effort made him start coughing a terrible, tearing cough. I wanted to go to him, but I couldn’t move.
Meyerson said, “I have your confession, but I need to search the premises for the stolen items for confirmation.”
“Get a warrant,” Sawyer said from behind me.
Meyerson smacked his gum, “Already have one.” He handed a folded piece of paper to Sawyer.
Sawyer stood in my doorway, blocking Meyerson from entering. “Why do you need a warrant? The most you can do is write her a ticket for theft under twenty.”
“Twenty dollars?” My father howled. “That fan she pilfered is going for three hundred on EBay. Vintage.”
“And it was laying in a pile of junk to rot,” I fired back.
“Still mine. My private property. You had no right to take it. And that stepstool’s vintage, too. Worth two-fifty on EBay. Was going to sell them, but I couldn’t because you stole them. You and your Shadow People. Saw them with my own eyes.”
Meyerson smirked. “No longer theft under twenty. More like felony theft. Now, step aside.”
“That’s absurd,” I said. “People try to sell pancakes with Jesus’ image on EBay for ten thousand but that doesn’t mean they’re worth more than the flour that made them. And Shadow People?” My voice pitched. “Clearly, he’s delusional.”
“Not if the stolen goods are inside.”
“I didn’t steal anything.”
“We’ll sort this out at the jail.”
I whirled to Sawyer, eyes pleading. Meyerson could not come in. I couldn’t have that slimy pig in my home, my sacred space, but Sawyer said nothing. I noticed the muscle along his jaw flickered. “Warrant’s legit. Have to let him in.”
Meyerson snatched my arm hard, spun me around, and shoved me against the wall and cuffed me.
“What the hell are you doing?” Sawyer demanded. It was the first real emotion I’d seen in him, and any moment I expected him to break Meyerson over his knee.
“Everyone knows Romi keeps company with crooks. Your girlfriend’s a flight risk. Now move aside. This won’t take but a minute.”
“Can’t I even get dressed?” I asked, imagining myself tossed in a den of real criminals wearing Sponge Bob pajamas. Meyerson ignored me.
I noticed Sawyer clenching and unclenching his fists. He towered over Meyerson, but that only made the little bully even cockier. “Step out of the way, sir.”
“Officer, your warrant only includes two items. A fan and a stepstool. Get them, then leave or I’ll have your badge and then your hide.”
“Says who?” Meyerson puffed up.
“Her lawyer,” he said. I swore Meyerson’s head might have exploded right there. Brains everywhere. A mess.
Okay a small mess.
“Lawyer, eh? Well, don’t tell me how to do my job and I hope your services are prepaid.” He shoved past and into my home.
“Sawyer,” I whispered and tipped my head, beckoning him closer. “There’s a grocery sack in the cabinet over my refrigerator. Keep him away from it. In fact, get it out of there and keep it safe. No matter what, Meyerson cannot find it. No one can.”
“What is it?”
“I’ll tell you later, I promise. Keep it safe. Please, promise,” I begged, the gravity of the situation finally hitting me center mass.
“I promise. Your hand okay?” he asked.
It wasn’t, but I had bigger things to worry about. “Call my sister. Heather.” I gave him the number and he punched it into his phone. “She’ll come bail me out.” I hoped Meyerson would give Heather the same Cul-de-sac Special that Nana got. I didn’t want to go to jail. Please, God. Don’t let me go to jail.
“When you’re out, call me.” Sawyer’s eyes calmed me. There was something in his demeanor that said he was now on my side. He gently brushed my hair out of my face and said, “I’ll lock up the trailer for you, but I need to go make sure this whack-job isn’t trying on your panties.”
I nodded and smiled weakly. “I’ll be fine. Go.”
I slumped against the sand-crusted vinyl wall and winced. Blood trailed down my palm and dripped off the tips of my fingers. Meyerson had broken the seal on my wound, and put the cuffs on far too tight. My wrists ached and my fingers tingled. My wretched father picked through all his piles raving about how Shadow People were after him, taking his stuff. He shuffled from mound to mound in tattered house shoes coughing and wheezing. His legs were a ghoulish gray like his face, and his eyes were wild and unfocused. I saw nothing of the strong, handsome father from my childhood, the roughneck who worked hard and partied harder. He’d always had a bit of a mean streak, and was probably too strict, but Mom could always make him behave and every once in a while, even be kind. She was the only thing that had ever brought out any good in him.
I couldn’t hear any of the conversation inside, only muffled tense voices and I prayed Sawyer would hold to his word and keep Meyerson away from that cabinet. Who secured a warrant for an old fan and rusted stepstool? I’d been irritated when Sawyer showed up unannounced, but now he seemed like a guardian angel sent in the nick of time. I stared down to the police cruiser and dreaded being alone, handcuffed with Meyerson. He frightened me. Always had. I stared at the cruiser and
fought the urge to vomit. My skin stippled with oily hangover sweat as the pitiless sun beat on my face.
A moment later, Meyerson emerged from my trailer with the fan and stepstool. “Sir,” he called to my father who went from dragging on a cigarette to drawing off his oxygen. I was waiting for an explosion any moment. “Is this your property?”
“Damn right it is. Haul the little thief to jail. Always was no good. Stole when she was a kid, too.”
“It was gum and I was four you lunatic,” I shouted back.
Meyerson interrupted. “Mr. Lachlan, you claim this is stolen property and you are pressing charges, am I correct?”
“Ain’t ‘haul the thieving little rat to jail’ the same as ‘pressing charges’?” he slurred and stumbled to stub out his cigarette on an old gas station sign and nearly fell. My father had been known to drink a few beers, but had never been a drunk. Yet, he barely could track a straight line and it was breakfast time.