“You’re not cooking, are you, dear?”
Jordan tried not to laugh out loud. “Why, Mother, I’m getting better at it. Honestly.” Her lack of kitchen skills was still a mystery to the rest of her family, who were so gifted in that department.
“Well, we’d love to, of course, but your father wants a timely start Monday morning. It would have to be early.”
“No problem. Let’s say—four?”
“Really? Well, I guess … sure. Why not?”
“Don’t worry, Mom. I’ll stock up on antacids.”
Jordan ended the call before Mary could bring up any more of her youngest daughter’s shortcomings.
Jordan eased the truck into the garage and shut off the engine. The overhead door chugged closed behind her Cherokee and at last, all was quiet. She geared down. End-of-the-day pleasure rippled through her.
She made her way through the house, stopping at the butler’s pantry to pick up a stack of mail. The delicious smell of sautéed garlic and onions wafted from the kitchen. She salivated; the Kung Pao shrimp was long gone. Maybe what they say about Chinese food is true after all.
Sadie, upholding her reputation as the world’s single best golden retriever, came bounding to participate in the evening puppy love ritual of slobbery kisses and vigorous tummy rubs. Sadie’s slobbery kisses and tummy, not Jordan’s.
“Hey, pretty girl. Were you good for Hannah today?” She smiled at the woman working at the kitchen sink. “Dinner smells delish. You’re going to stay and share it with me, right?”
“Can’t tonight, honey. Got my book club.” Hannah’s busy hands never paused. “You’re home early.”
Hannah turned up one corner of her red-and-white-checked apron to dry her hands. One of the housekeeper’s endearing trademark moves. The apron was as much a part of Hannah’s uniform as her ubiquitous red T-shirt, faded jeans, and Converse high-tops.
Hannah Jennings was, in Jordan’s humble opinion, an angel from heaven.
Having the grace never to ask, Jordan estimated Hannah to be in her early to mid-fifties. Beside Jordan’s five feet ten inches, Hannah looked short at five four, even shorter because she was a tad plump, but pleasingly so. Her curly strawberry blonde hair, barely beginning to gray, was cut in long layers, always worn up off her neck and held in place by a big tortoise shell hairclip.
“Did enough damage for one day. Besides, what’s the use of being the boss if you can’t take it easy now and then?” Jordan slipped off her jacket, glad to be home, glad as always that loyal Sadie waited for her and glad to have Hannah still taking excellent care of her life.
It was initially due to her mother’s insistent nagging that Jordan hired a housekeeper two days a week.
Frankly, Jordan didn’t care if her mother or her mother’s friends eyeballed the dirty dishes in the sink or dust bunnies under the bed.
“Jordan,” Mary would say, shaking her head. “This house is a complete and utter mess.”
Jordan’s reply had always been, “I like it this way, Mother.” It was yet another way to poke the bear, but in the end, she hired Hannah to keep the peace. While her mom would never hear it from Jordan’s lips, hiring a housekeeper was probably the most brilliant thing she’d ever done, that and partnering with Eddie Marino.
Hannah was a rare gem. She was a friend and confidant, one of the mainstays of Jordan’s busy life, one of the people, like Gina, whose amazing organizational skills allowed her to be Jordan Welsh, PI, of Shea Investigations and Security.
The love affair was mutual. Hannah said she thought of Jordan as the daughter she never had. Jordan liked being thought of in such a way, even though Hannah was already blessed with one satisfactory offspring, her grown son, who responded to Hannah’s every whim with love and adoration.
“We signed on to a new case today, a nice big juicy one.” Jordan filled a glass with ice water from the dispenser on the fridge door.
Hannah’s eyebrows came together. “Not dangerous, is it?” One difference between Hannah and her mother was while Hannah worried about her safety, she supported Jordan’s career and lifestyle choices, never demeaned them.
“No, dearest. Not dangerous at all.” Jordan hoped her tone was comforting as she moved behind Hannah and hugged her. “I’ll be fine. I swear.”
“You’re probably right,” Hannah smiled, “especially with Mr. Eddie Marino hanging around. Has he proposed yet?”
What the hell would I say if he did? “You tricky little matchmaker, you.” She snagged an apple from the bowl on the counter. “I’m going to the den to work for a while. If you can’t stay and eat with me, please split the food up and take some home with you. Sadie, come.”
Humming a Coldplay tune, she headed to the den, Sadie on her heels. The house made her happy every single day. It was open and airy; the rooms flowed each into the next with a spaciousness she loved. Best of all, it was hers, all hers.
A few years back when the market was down, Jordan took the money she made from the fiasco at the Chicago gallery, put it with a draw from the O’Connell trust fund and bought the house outright. It was a steal, priced in the mid-three hundreds.
Only the year before, Jordan had an interior designer personalize the house from top to bottom, transforming it into a delightful haven of rich desert hues and comfortable casual furniture.
Without a burgundy drape or gold brocade pillow in sight, Jordan had expected her mother to disapprove the casual makeover, especially since Mary Welsh had been chomping at the bit to get her paws right in the middle of Jordan’s décor project. In the end, Mary pronounced it an excellent job. Yes, even Jordan’s mom approved.
There’s one for the record book.
In the den, Sadie jumped on the leather love seat, circled three times and curled up. Jordan sat down and opened her laptop to sort through the results of earlier queries on the Brenners. There was nothing in their personal or financial history that might motivate them to steal money from the foundation. Nothing she could see anyway. The many government contracts awarded to Nick’s construction company generated enormous personal income for the couple. Jordan took great pleasure in mentally marking their names off her list.
The phone rang. Ryan Avery, the Brenners’ attorney and Jordan’s dear friend. “Hey, Ryan, what’s up?”
“Nick said you took the case.”
Jordan leaned back. “Not much lead-time for a case shaping up to be thorny at best, but I’m so grateful for the referral, Ryan. Thank you. I’ll do everything I can.”
“Ah, you can handle it. Let me know if you need anything.”
“You bet. I’ll talk to you soon. Thanks again.” She hung up.
Over on the love seat, Sadie snored.
Sometimes I think I wouldn’t mind being a dog. What a life.
A nap would have been nice, but instead, Jordan set to figuring out where to go next.
CHAPTER 6
Thursday morning Jordan had a hard time rolling out of bed, not because it was Thursday, but because it was morning. The thought of going for a run entered her mind and went straight out the other side without even slowing down. Some days were perfect for a morning run or hiking a trail. Some weren’t. Or maybe some days I’m up for it and some days I’m not. Today, not so much.
It wouldn’t be cardio getting her moving. She’d better figure out something else.
Jordan crawled out from beneath the cozy duvet and padded into the bathroom for an eye-opening shower.
A half hour later, feeling fresh and ready to face the day, she browsed her closet, settling on a chestnut pencil skirt and a lightweight taupe jacket over a sleeveless silk shell. It was a nice outfit, and as the day grew hotter, she could peel off layers like an onion. Classic, simple, but as was usually the case for Jordan, the shoes made it complete. She slipped on lavender ballet flats for driving but tenderly packed her canvas tote with a pair of Steve Madden harlot red four-inch peep-toe pumps. There would probably be no opportunity to wear the kick-ass pumps duri
ng her workday, but a girl never knew when she might happen upon a chance to interview a basketball player.
Jordan never wore much makeup—a touch of peach-tinted lip gloss and a smudge of bronze eye shadow. The makeup artist who styled her for the agency’s website photo advised her to always wear those shades, or variants of them. He said they complemented her high color, long silky auburn hair, and hazel eyes. High color? Yeah, right. What a crock.
It was still too early for Hannah to arrive, so Jordan and Sadie had the place all to themselves. The solitude of the house was unquestionably nice.
From the kitchen, Jordan carried a banana, a glass of soymilk and three dog biscuits to the den. When Sadie got a good whiff of the biscuits, she clowned around then rolled onto her back and lay there with her belly exposed and her tongue lolling out. Her lips were pulled back from her open mouth.
Now that’s a grin if I ever saw one.
“Sadie, you’re such a slut for these things.”
She tossed the biscuits to Sadie and sat down behind her desk. Okay, first order of business is Lenncore Systems. Come out, come out, wherever you are.
Karla Simpson had sent an email with attached documents detailing the discrepancies, but they didn’t tell Jordan anything new. No big surprise. Financial documents had never been Jordan’s strong suit, but it was easy to determine the address on Lenncore’s invoices was a bogus post office box. The phone number had been disconnected.
She Googled Lenncore, also a no-go. White Pages and Yellow Pages search engines, ditto. As far as the Web was concerned, Lenncore Systems didn’t exist.
Undaunted, Jordan called Blanca, her source at the phone company.
“Blanca Castro.” Blanca’s voice was breathy and musical. It made Jordan think of a calliope.
“Blanca, hi. It’s Jordan.”
The two women had met about four months earlier when Blanca’s son, Paco, was accused of hacking into an Arizona State University computer network to change grades.
Jordan unleashed her secret weapon, one Eddie Marino. Eddie and his crack team of tech dicks—Eddie’s name for his computer specialists, not Jordan’s—cleared Paco of any implication and laid groundwork for the police to bring charges against Paco’s roommate.
Blanca expressed her unending gratitude and continued to make good on her commitment of providing “whatever you need, Jordan, whenever you need it.” So far she had come through every time Jordan asked for help. She hoped today wouldn’t be any different.
“What’s up, girlfriend?” Always the same greeting.
“What do you have on a company named Lenncore Systems? Probably in Mesa. Phone number I have is no good—disconnected.”
“You came to the right lady, chica.”
For a minute she heard only the sounds of Blanca’s soft breathing and the clicking of keys.
“I’m queen of the world,” Blanca sang.
“Sure you are, Latina super woman. Now quit gloating and tell me what you found. I’d like to get to them sometime this year.”
“I have an installation address on the original service call, but there’s no new phone number.”
Jordan jotted down the address. “Yes! Excellent. Saved my bacon yet again. As usual, you rock.”
“No doubt about it. You need anything else, you know who to call. Right?”
“Right.”
“So, how’s the boy toy Eddie Marino?”
“Boy toy?” Jordan laughed. “Don’t let him hear you call him that.”
“That boy is hotter than a habañero chili. Yum. Yum.”
“Mm-hmm.” She couldn’t help but laugh. “Good-bye. Go take a cold shower and thanks, Blanca. As always, thanks.”
Although Rio Diablo Street in Mesa was miles away from North Scottsdale, it was a straight shot south on the 101. Traffic wasn’t great, but not terrible, either. It took Jordan about thirty-five minutes to make the drive.
The address, it turned out, was a nondescript aging strip mall across from a municipal golf course.
Jordan sat in her car, staring alternately at the paper in her hand and the number on the building. There was no sign of Lenncore. The homemade signs in the big front window advertised Kosher Deli—Homemade Pierogi $10.99 dozen—Special Today Pastrami on Rye with Coleslaw $8.99.
Hmm. Pastrami. Can’t hurt to check it out.
Ever diligent in her follow-through, Jordan moseyed on into the deli, hoping against hope the manager had something to offer toward discovery. The smallest bit of new information would constitute progress. Even if she came up empty-handed, lingering over a compensation prize of the pastrami sandwich special didn’t sound like the world’s worst idea. The place literally oozed wonderful, mouthwatering smells. It would be lunchtime in a half hour anyway.
A young girl with stringy magenta hair, too much eye makeup, and two silver ring piercings through one eyebrow worked behind the counter filling an order.
Jordan waited until she finished. “Is the manager in?”
“He’s out back checking in a shipment.”
“Can you tell him I’d like to speak with him?”
“Why?” The girl’s brows drew into a frown around the piercings. “Did I do something wrong?”
Jordan smiled to put the paranoid little thing at ease. “It’s not about you. I just need to talk to the manager. Could you get him for me?”
“All right.” The girl stripped off the rubber gloves and headed for the back room, throwing suspicious looks over her shoulder.
Within a minute or two, a short, stout man came back with the girl. He waddled over, hitching up his pants to cover his hairy belly.
“Suzy said you wanted to talk to me. Name’s Ira Finkle. Something I can help you with?” He rubbed his hand on his apron then held it out.
Jordan looked at the offered hand before making eye contact and shaking. If it was bad enough he had to wipe it first, maybe a quick look was advisable. “Jordan Welsh. I’m a private investigator.” She handed him her card.
“Private investigator? You don’t look like a private investigator.” He held the card in front of his face, squinting. “Pretty fancy business card though.”
Yes, it is. Excellent taste, sir. “Could I ask you a few questions?”
“Guess it depends on what it’s about.” Ira stared at the line of customers snaking back from the counter. Suzy and a pasty-faced, skinny boy with an Adam’s apple the size of a golf ball were doing their best to take care of them one at a time.
“Why don’t we go over there so we can have some privacy?” Ira led the way to a booth. “Have a seat.”
Jordan slid onto the yellow bench seat; she checked it first too.
“So, what can I do for you?” He glanced at the counter line for the fourth time in the minute since they’d sat down.
“I can see you’re busy, Ira, so I’ll make it quick. I’m checking into a company called Lenncore Systems. This is their last known address. Can you tell me anything about them?”
The wheels and cogs grinding in his head were almost visible. “Lenncore. Hmm. No. I can’t say I ever heard of them. You say this was their address?”
“Allegedly. Do you mind telling me how long you’ve rented this space?”
“We’ve been here three months or so. The place had been vacant a little while when we took it. Maybe you ought to check with the leasing company, Absolute Management over in Phoenix. Think I’ve got their card in the back somewhere. You want me to see if I can find it?”
“Well, yes, if you don’t mind.” Ooh, please, please. “That would be great.”
Ira lumbered away and disappeared into the back room. He was gone for several minutes, and Jordan sat as patiently as she could, watching the order queue grow steadily longer. When he came back, he handed her a card, which she glanced at then slipped into her jacket pocket.
“You need anything else? If not, I’ve got an order to check in.” He jerked a thumb toward the back room.
“No, nothing else.” Sh
e stood and took hold of his hand, pumping it enthusiastically without even having a look first. “You’ve helped a good cause. Thanks again. Thanks so much.”
It was a good deal/bad deal situation any way she looked at it. The bad deal was how elusive Lenncore was proving to be. The good deal was that the trail hadn’t gone stone cold, at least not yet. She could follow up with Absolute Management.
She wasn’t ecstatic about the way this was going. Usually you could take the tiniest thread of information and join it to another then another until a pattern emerged. So far, there hadn’t been any threads to join together, not even a tiny one. Maybe this business card would be the turning point.
The people behind Lenncore Systems were the key. Who were they and whom were they working with at the foundation? What if they were a legitimate vendor whose dealings with the foundation were somehow hijacked by embezzlers? The questions continued to mount, but there were no answers on the horizon. Pony up, girl. Jordan was chomping at the bit and anxious as hell to get to the bottom of this mystery. So much so, she left the deli without giving a second thought to the mouth-watering prospect of pastrami on rye that she’d never had a chance to order.
CHAPTER 7
Jordan used the card the deli man gave her to call Absolute Management and ask to speak to Vince Largo, Vice President. He was on another line, but Jordan explained what she needed to his assistant.
“Please wait, Miz Welsh. I’ll see if Mr. Largo can fit you in today.”
Left on hold several minutes, Jordan was just about to fail Patience 101 when the assistant returned.
“Mr. Largo has a commitment later in the day, but he said if you can be here within the hour, he can spare you a few minutes.”
“Awesome. I’m on my way.” Jordan shifted into reverse and backed out of the parking space in front of the deli.
The lease management offices were housed in a single-story red brick building in an industrial area near Sky Harbor on Washington. The address was easy to get to, and traffic wasn’t bad. Jordan made it with ten minutes to spare.
Stealing the Moon & Stars Page 4