by Meryl Sawyer
A croaking sob burst from Trent and hit Hayley like a punch worthy of The Wrath. The anger simmering inside her instantly cooled. Uncomfortable, she pulled out of his embrace. Were those tears pooling in Trent’s eyes? His reaction was the last thing she’d expected, and it left her totally unprepared.
“Everyone’s stoked that you’re okay,” The Wrath said.
“Where were you?” Trent asked, his tone concerned. “Why didn’t you let anyone know you’d be away?”
“It’s a long story.” She didn’t want to have this discussion in front of The Wrath.
“Gotta run,” The Wrath said, instantly solving her problem. “I’m late. Just came back to tell you the reporters know you’re in here. Now they have the rear entrance covered.”
“Thanks,” she said. “It was great to see you.”
He reached out and brushed her cheek with his big hand. “Anytime, babe. You’re the bomb. Don’t wanna lose you.” He sauntered toward the door. “Remember, you’re coming to the exhibition fight.”
“Count on it,” she replied, then ventured a look at Trent. He was more composed now, but there was no mistaking the emotion on his face. He’d acted the same way when they’d been told their parents had died.
Could she be mistaken about Trent? Perhaps it had been Farah or Cynthia who’d conspired with Chad. It was possible, she conceded. In her experience, women were much more capable of deceit than men.
“Sit down.” Trent still looked shaken. “Tell me all about it.”
The office had two desks with computers and a bank of filing cabinets and display stations for mock-ups of gear they were considering producing or purchasing. The larger desk had belonged to their father, but after his death, Trent had taken it over. The other desk had been her mother’s until Trent came to work full-time. Then she began to do more of the designing at home. Since the plane crash, Hayley had used the desk.
Hayley sat in the chair next to her father’s desk and studied Trent for a moment. “I went to Costa Rica to paint a mural for Ramon Estevez’s new hotel.”
He gazed at her with reproachful eyes. “I didn’t realize you knew Estevez.”
Hayley explained about selling her art in a gallery in San Francisco where she’d met Estevez and agreed to paint a mural. “I’ve always wanted to be an artist. Surely you knew that.”
Trent shook his head. “I thought it was a hobby, like golf or tennis.”
“Didn’t you want to be a pro skateboarder? Isn’t Surf’s Up a second choice?”
Trent rocked back in the swivel chair and stared at the ceiling for a moment, then he looked at her again. “Sorta. Not second choice. I just thought after my pro career, I would come into the business. I’ve always liked it.” He waved his arm to indicate the shop in front of the office. “I thought you did, too.”
This wasn’t going the way she’d imagined. Hayley could see her revelation—instead of making Trent free to claim the company as his own—disappointed him. Now, she really questioned his involvement in the destruction of the trust documents.
“I want a career as an artist. Doing this mural raises my profile in the art world. I flew down there secretly because I didn’t want Aunt Meg to worry. You know how much she hated Dad’s plane. Then when they were killed, she made me promise not to fly on small planes.”
Trent sighed heavily, his voice filled with anguish. “You could have told me.”
For a moment, she was baffled. He cared much more than she could possibly have imagined. Why not? They’d been raised together—part of the time anyway—and he’d helped her father teach her how to surf. She would have been just as upset if he had died. “I should have, but I wanted to make sure Aunt Meg didn’t find out. Her heart’s so weak.”
“I see,” he slowly responded, but it was clear that he didn’t.
“Somehow the air crew didn’t run my passport through the system, or the authorities would have realized I was out of the country,” she rushed on to change the subject. “When I returned and found out, I hid until I decided what to do.”
Trent arched one eyebrow as if she lacked her full share of brain cells. “Who was the woman killed in your car?”
“Lindsey Fulton.” Just saying her friend’s name, imagining her gruesome death, caused a sense of loss too deep for tears.
Trent frowned. “Do I know her?”
“No. She was an artist from San Francisco. She’d flown down and met me at Gulliver’s where I’d parked my car. She was going to use it and stay at my place until I returned.” Hayley didn’t bother to explain about Lindsey’s crazy husband.
“Jesus H. Christ! Talk about being unlucky. Wrong place at the wrong time.”
He was just a little too flip about Lindsey’s death, she decided, but didn’t call him on it. If they kept discussing Lindsey, she was certain she would begin to cry. That would put her off track. She’d come here for a reason.
She’d installed the two state-of-the-art listening devices Ryan had given her. One was in Trent’s office phone. Another was hidden in the rim of his desk. She had a third to slip into his cell phone—if she had the chance.
“Why’d you hire Garver Browne?”
“That was Aunt Meg’s idea. I went to see her first, intending to call you next,” she fibbed. “She insisted I needed an attorney. She was right.”
“What do you mean?”
“The police acted as if I were the criminal.” She went on to tell him about the aggressive questioning. “They even asked me to take a lie detector test.”
“Really? They’re holding up my container from China, but they didn’t mention the test to me.”
“Be careful what you say,” she warned him. “Don’t talk to the press. That’s what Garver told me. Let’s see what charges they file, if any.”
Trent hesitated, measuring her for a moment in a way that made her even more uncomfortable. “Didn’t Browne tell you to stay out of sight? If he didn’t, he should have. What if the killer tries again?”
As casually as she could manage, Hayley fibbed, “Garver thinks it’s a drug mix-up. Happens all the time. With all this publicity, they’ll realize their mistake and leave me alone.”
Trent nodded thoughtfully. “Probably.”
Actually, when she’d called Garver to tell him she wasn’t going to play dead and hide, the attorney told her that she was “wacko.” He believed that someone would try to kill her again. She asked one of the questions troubling her. “You haven’t let anyone ship drugs with the company’s orders, have you?”
“Of course not,” he shot back immediately. “Hell, they had drug sniffing dogs all over the store, the warehouse, the container. Then they tore everything apart, but they didn’t find shit. I’m not sure why they think it’s drug-related.”
She felt his sharp eyes boring into her. If Trent was lying, he was better at it than she could possibly have imagined. “It seems the way bombs are made give them a certain signature. The police told me the ATF identified this bomb as belonging to the Sinaloa cartel.”
“Really?” His eyebrows shot up. “You haven’t—”
“No. I never have done drugs.” She couldn’t believe he was asking her, since he’d tried over the years to get her to smoke pot or kick back tequila shooters with him and she’d always refused.
“What about The Wrath and that crew? They’re a bunch of dick-swingers pumped on steroids. Who says they aren’t involved in some major drug scam?”
“That’s ridiculous,” she cried, then told herself Trent had a point. She’d gone to the local gym where he worked out. It was in the seedy part of Costa Mesa near Santa Ana.
A lot of odd-looking guys hung out around the gym. They seemed friendly enough, she thought, recalling The Wrath showing her a few moves to ward of an attacker. Not that it had done much good when Ryan mistakenly jumped her. A crowd had gathered to watch her lesson. Just because they’d been smiling and laughing didn’t mean they weren’t involved in illegal activities.
&n
bsp; Suddenly, she recalled something else. On the morning of the car bombing, Hayley had gone to the gym where The Wrath was training to get his approval on some designs. Was it possible the bomb had been planted while she was inside the gym?
“I suppose you could be right,” she admitted, still wondering about her trip to the gym. “There’s a lot of money at stake in MMA fights.”
“No kidding. Joe Hunter just bought a twenty-plus million-dollar estate on the ocean in Laguna.”
Hayley knew “Mean Joe” Hunter was an MMA promoter who’d bought the rights to televise the sport when the bouts were unknown beyond the back alleys. Joe had made a fortune when MMA hit the big time and television was the next step. She hadn’t realized the promoter had moved to the art colony just minutes south of Newport Beach.
“Fights have always attracted a certain…element,” Trent said. “Fixing fights. Mobsters. The works.”
“What would that have to do with me?”
Trent threw up his hands. “I haven’t a clue. I guess it doesn’t compute. Garver Browne is probably right. This was a mistake.”
“Let’s hope the police come to the same conclusion—and the media. Then we can go about our lives.” Hayley tried to inject as much sincerity into her voice as she could. “Tell me what’s been going on with Surf’s Up. I checked the sales reports. Swimsuits are still selling at last year’s level. Same for board shorts. MMA merchandise sales are up—way up.”
Trent held the tip of his tongue between his teeth, the way he had when he’d lost a skateboard competition when they’d been kids. Being a man, her father had claimed. Trying not to cry.
Why was he so upset? No one had tried to kill him. An odd twinge of heaviness centered in her chest, turned to lead. She’d grown up with this man. Hayley was friends with his wife. His son was her nephew and she loved him as if he had been her own child.
“Something the matter?” she asked in a ragged whisper.
“We could lose Surf’s Up,” he replied in a low voice taut with anguish.
His words caught her off guard. “What?”
“You heard me. We could lose everything Dad—” he inhaled a sharp breath “—and your mother built.”
Her pulse began to beat in double-time as his statement registered. “Why? How? Isn’t the court overseeing the probate?”
“Sure the court is in charge—so to speak.” A bitter laugh erupted from his pursed lips. “But we’re running the company. They’re just trying to decide its value so they can settle the estate and scarf up the state’s cut. The economy tanked our profits just when we were set to take off.”
“You mean the container you’re—we’re sharing with Laird?”
His expression darkened, and she sensed bad news coming. “We’re not sharing that container. It’s all ours. Not that we could sell all those boards in this economy, but with them impounded we can’t even try.”
We? She wanted to scream at him. Their father had warned about cheap imported boards. He’d made Surf’s Up’s name on custom boards from his own molds. They didn’t have enough stores to sell half a container of inexpensive boards in a great market. What was Trent thinking?
“We need cash—now—to meet payroll, pay for shipments, rent. You name it.”
Her chest felt as if it would burst, but she couldn’t yell at Trent. It was clear how devastated he was. Trent had a family depending on him. She’d anticipated this discussion all night, but in the various scenarios she’d envisioned this had never occurred to her.
She’d believed if she met with Trent face-to-face she would know if he had been involved in the destruction of the trust and—possibly—the car bombing. Now she could see that Trent was distressed about his mistakes. He wasn’t out to get her. His concern was the company.
“What can we do?” she asked.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
“WHAT CAN WE DO?” Trent replied. “Good question. We need money so I met with Laird McMasters this morning. He’s agreed to help, but he wants part of the company.”
Hayley groaned inwardly. She’d known Laird since high school when he’d moved to Newport Beach. He was smart—attended his father’s alma mater, Yale—and charismatic. Girls adored him. Except Hayley. They’d gone out several times when she’d been younger, but she’d never felt comfortable with him. Then she’d refused to date him despite persistent calls.
When he’d left for Yale—with a big send-off party—she thought Laird would stay back east after graduating. But he hadn’t. He’d surprised everyone by coming home and opening a surf shop.
What was that all about? everyone wondered. The guy didn’t surf. He was a golfer and his father was a real estate developer who also loved golf. All the big names in the business, from Hurley to Quicksilver and, of course, Surf’s Up, had been founded by surfers.
She had to give Laird credit. He’d learned the business and become successful. She’d been with her father when he’d met with Laird to discuss importing surfboards together. Laird was ambitious. Maybe a little too ambitious. He was willing to cut corners to make money.
After she’d broken up with Chad, she’d again gone out with Laird. She was older now; he no longer intimidated her the way he once had. Still, she didn’t enjoy his company and stopped dating him. Maybe she’d been too upset by Chad’s betrayal to take an interest in any man. She wasn’t sure, but she didn’t regret her decision.
“Are you comfortable with Laird?” she asked.
“No. Are you?”
She couldn’t help giggling at Trent’s candor. He’d never liked Laird. She couldn’t imagine him wanting Laird to be a partner. The situation must be truly desperate. “No, but do we have another choice?”
Hayley hadn’t looked closely at the books. She should have. There was no excuse for not checking. That had been her mother’s job. With her death, Hayley should have been more hands-on.
Instead, she’d turned inward and focused on her art. She cranked out surf designs that were little more than a recycling of earlier work. Her only innovation had been with the MMA line.
She’d believed Trent was more business savvy than her father, whose interest had been limited to custom boards. Trent had been very involved, but obviously not cautious, as he should have been.
“I’ve tried everything,” Trent assured her. “Banks aren’t loaning to retail operations right now. Private equity has dried up.”
“Can’t the court—”
“I asked. Raising money isn’t their job. Unless you count raising money for the state in a probate.”
Hayley thought of all her parents had built, their lifetime of happiness represented by Surf’s Up. She recalled the years she’d spent at the shop, running up and down, trying on equipment and clothes. She’d suffered her own insecurities, but it was about as happy a childhood as she could have known. To lose it or have it taken over by the likes of Laird McMasters seemed like an insult to her parents’ memory.
“Didn’t Laird offer to buy Surf’s Up once before?” she asked, recalling what Ryan had told her.
“Yeah. How did you know?” There was an edge to his voice now.
Hayley shrugged as if she couldn’t recall. “What did you tell him?”
Trent lifted his brows and blew out an exasperated breath. “I said you didn’t want to. I was too chicken to tell him that I was hoping one of the big guns would buy us out for more than he was offering, so I blamed it on you.”
He wasn’t lying, she thought. This was what Ryan had told her. “You never mentioned anything about Laird or hoping anyone would buy us out.”
Trent slowly shook his head. “It was a crazy time. Dad had just died and the economy hadn’t tanked. I don’t know what I was thinking. But today Laird’s hurting for money just like the rest of us. He has enough to see us over this hump but not enough to buy us out. It’s partners or nothing.”
Nothing, Hayley silently vowed. At least Trent was being up front with her, and she knew how he felt. Their parents’ deat
hs had thrown everyone into a tailspin. Out of nowhere, the answer came to her. “I could ask Aunt Meg to help us out.”
He stared at her in utter disbelief. “I thought you wanted out.”
“I do, but…” She realized this meant her art career would go on hold again. “I can’t let Laird McMasters take over. And that’s what he’ll do. I know Laird. He won’t be satisfied until he’s running the whole show.”
“You’re right. That’s what I’m afraid of.”
Hayley gave him an encouraging smile. They were in this together. How could she have thought he was behind the attempt on her life or had concealed the existence of the trust? That left Farah and Cynthia. One or both of them were behind this.
“Do you think your aunt will help?” His mood seemed suddenly buoyant and she knew that she had let him carry the burden of the store alone too long.
“She might. I’m going to ask her right now.” She rose to leave, then remembered the reporters. “Is the side door to Peet’s still working?”
“ARE YOU SURE YOU want to do this?” Ed Phillips asked.
They were sitting at Java City, having coffee and muffins while Ryan waited for Hayley to contact him. She’d been in the shop, which was less than five minutes away, for a long time now. It had been over an hour since she’d sent him a text message saying Trent hadn’t come into work yet.
He’d met Phillips and discussed Hayley’s situation. Phillips was blown away by her unexpected reappearance, but he let it go. The FBI had been pulled off the case. With the AFT, DEA, Homeland Security and the local agencies still involved, the director thought the FBI could be put to better use.
“Yes. I’m sure I want to resign. I’ve written the letter already, I just need to see Dawkins in person to tell him.”
“What are you going to do?” Phillips asked.
“I’m planning on joining a friend’s computer security firm. Corporate work mostly. It’s right here in Orange County.”
“They could use you in Quantico.” Ed finished off his coffee-cake muffin.
“I know.” Ryan couldn’t help feeling a bit guilty. The Bureau had trained him and now he was bailing when he could be of real use. “I’m up for a promotion and you know that means a transfer.”