Dangerous Illusions (Code of Honor Book #1)

by Irene Hannon

  She cocked her head. “How do you do that?”

  “What?”

  “Read my mind.”

  A smile tugged at his lips. “I could say it’s my detective training and experience—but the truth is I seem to be on your wavelength. I’m interpreting that as a positive omen for the future, by the way.”

  Nice to know.

  And after that comforting reassurance, sharing her fears became a no-brainer.

  “Okay . . . so I’m wondering if his attempts to plant doubts about my mental acuity might be part of a campaign to convince me to turn control of the foundation over to him. Since Mom would never have done that, I’m also wondering if he might have . . .” She swallowed past the bad taste on her tongue that even the lingering rich chocolate flavor couldn’t banish.

  “If he might have played a role in your mother’s death.”

  At least he hadn’t used the word murder.

  “Yes.” It sounded awful, put into words. “But Matt’s never done one thing since I’ve known him to deserve that kind of suspicion.”

  “Until the past few weeks.”

  “Those minor incidents shouldn’t be enough to justify the kind of suspicions polluting my mind. I mean, it’s a leap from suspecting someone of undermining your capabilities to . . .” She couldn’t say the M word either.

  “Unless there’s a stronger motive.”

  He was still on her wavelength.

  “Are you thinking embezzlement?”

  “It’s a possibility. I’m assuming there’s a fair amount of money in the foundation’s coffers.”

  “But why would he do that?” It was the same question she’d been asking herself since the suspicion had taken root in her mind during the wee hours of the morning. “Do you think he needs money?”

  “His credit report was clean.”

  “Then what would be his motive?”

  “Greed comes to mind.”

  “That doesn’t make sense. Why would he get greedy all of a sudden?” Frowning, she ran a fingertip around the lid of her drink. “Do you think his car accident could have caused some sort of odd mental shift?”

  “I’ve never heard of anything like that—although the timing does seem more than coincidental.” He tapped a finger against the tabletop. “Let’s assume Parker does want money for some reason and is trying to get you to relinquish control so he can embezzle funds. Tell me how the foundation works.”

  “It’s a simple setup. The money is invested in a variety of financial instruments, which Matt oversees. Mom and Dad wrote checks to charities they felt were worthwhile. Mom met with Matt every month to discuss those donations and review the financial statements. To be honest, she didn’t need to see him that often—but she liked Matt and enjoyed the social interaction.”

  “How much control does Matt have over the organization?”

  “A fair amount. After Dad died, Mom gave the previous accountant—and then Matt—a lot of oversight responsibility. Mom was a smart woman, but she didn’t have a head for numbers. That was Dad’s strength. Matt reviewed investments with the fund financial adviser and made recommendations to Mom. She also redirected fund mailings to him, and he prepared a simplified monthly report for her.”

  “Have you reviewed all the charities that receive donations from the foundation?”

  “Yes—and the recent financial reports filed with the IRS.”

  “Spot anything suspicious?”

  “No. The numbers were fine. There were a few charities I didn’t recognize, but all the websites appear to be legit. The only one I questioned was Providence House Ministries.” She told him what Matt had shared with her about the organization. “His explanation for their low profile made sense—and I read all the material he gave me. No red flags popped up.”

  “Do they have a mailing address?”

  “A PO box. But that fits with how he described the organization’s operating philosophy.”

  “I wouldn’t mind digging deeper into the material he provided on that one. It shouldn’t be difficult to do some due diligence. Our white-collar fraud people are very adept at that.”

  “I’ll give it to you when we get back to the house.” She played with her straw. “I know you want to keep a professional distance until this is over, but will you let me know if anything useful surfaces from all the contacts you made over the past twenty-four hours?”

  “Yes. Case-related conversations are fine—and I’ll find a reason to have those on a regular basis until we wrap this up.” He smiled, the warmth in his brown irises seeping straight into her heart. “So what are your plans for the rest of the day?”

  “I need to weed the rose garden.”

  “Not a chore you enjoy?” He gave her a keen look, apparently picking up the faint whisper of sadness in her voice.

  “I don’t mind the chore . . . but it reminds me Mom is gone.”

  Once more he reached over and covered her hand with his. “We may not talk about it much, Trish, but I haven’t forgotten about your loss. I want you to know I’ve been praying for you every day.”

  That news was almost as startling as his case update.

  “I thought you and God weren’t communicating.”

  “I’ve reopened the dialogue.”

  “That’s one positive result from all of this, then.”

  “More than one.” He squeezed her fingers. “I just wish I could be around more for you.”

  “I understand why you need to keep your distance—and I respect your professionalism.”

  “I do have an offer for you, however. Remember I mentioned my friend Kristin?”

  The woman he was helping with the summer show, even though he had zero interest in theater?

  Of course she remembered.

  “Yes. The one who’s doing a children’s production at her church.”

  “Right. She said she’d enjoy meeting you, and asked me to see if you’d be open to a call from her.”

  Interesting.

  Did this Kristin want to size up the competition . . . or was there another reason for her offer?

  “I’m always open to meeting new people.” She took a sip of her drink, striving for a casual tone. “But why would she want to meet me?”

  “To be honest, part of it is nosiness.” He grinned. “She and Rick have picked up on my interest in you, and I think she wants to check you out. Plus, if we continue to click, you’ll be part of our group.”

  “What group?”

  He considered her for a long moment. “Do you have a few more minutes to spare?”

  “Yes. The roses can wait.”

  After taking a long drink, he set his cup aside and folded his hands on the table. “You already know about what happened with my brother when I was nine, and how our family fell apart after that. Once my parents divorced, I lived with my mom and spent every other weekend with my dad. To be blunt, life stunk.”

  “Until you met Rick—and the cop from his church.”

  “Yeah.” He seemed surprised she’d remembered those details. As if she would forget. “He and I bonded, to use current lingo. He grew up in foster care after his mother was killed in a domestic violence incident. Compared to his background, mine was a Disney story—and hearing his history helped restore my perspective. Anyway, the two of us were inseparable. It was a club of two . . . until we met Kristin.”

  “So you’ve known her since you were kids?” That was encouraging. If the two of them had been destined for romance, surely those sparks would have developed long ago.

  “Yes. She was a year younger than us, and I doubt we’d have given her a second look if we hadn’t noticed her sitting in the middle-school cafeteria alone every day at lunch. Her isolation bothered us, and we felt sorry for her.”

  Her heart melted.

  How many boys that age would pay attention to a little girl’s isolation . . . let alone care enough to step in and try to help?

  Colin rose several more notches in her estimation—as di
d his friend Rick.

  “You guys adopted her?”

  The corners of his lips twitched, and he took a sip of his drink. “You’re giving us too much credit. Sitting with her at lunch was as far as our benevolence went in the beginning.”

  “But . . .”

  “But we ended up liking her. Once we got past her intense shyness, we discovered she was smart and funny and kind. We also found out she was as much in need of a friend as we’d been. Unlike us, she came from money—but her parents were gung-ho career people who had no time for their surprise child. They showered her with material things but were stingy with their attention.”

  “That’s sad.” Yet all too common.

  “We thought so too. And we learned a lesson—even an intact family, with all the material possessions you could possibly want, wasn’t always the happiest place to be. That was a revelation for both of us.”

  “So you felt sorry for her and invited her to join your club.”

  “Not at first. We weren’t that altruistic. But once we found out she had an amazing two-level treehouse, it was a no-brainer.” He grinned and finished off his drink. “We dubbed ourselves the Treehouse Gang, and the name has stuck.”

  “Did you have a secret password and handshake?”

  “No.” His demeanor grew more serious. “But we did have a code of honor—and a pact that as adults, we would do our part to make the world a better place.”

  A noble if lofty ambition for a bunch of preteens—except Colin had taken it to heart.

  “You’re honoring that agreement with your police work. Did Rick and Kristin follow through too?”

  “Yes. Rick was in the service for a few years and now runs a camp for kids who are in the foster system. Kristin owns a shop that sells fair-trade goods.”

  A group of honorable high-achievers.

  Impressive.

  “And you’ve stayed tight.”

  “Very. We meet for breakfast every other Saturday. So . . . circling back to the beginning of this conversation . . . our close friendship is one of the reasons Kristin would like to meet you.”

  “Do I have to pass some kind of test to be an honorary member of your group?” Though she couched it as a joke, her question was more than half serious.

  “You’ve already passed my test—and my vote has the most weight in this situation.” He winked at her, allaying her concerns.

  “Then by all means, give Kristin my number.” If she couldn’t hang out with Colin until this case was over, why not get to know one of the important people in his life? Plus, she might pick up a few more insights into the man she suspected was destined to play a key role in her future.

  And it would be lovely to have a girlfriend again. As a young married couple, she and John had devoted all their free time to each other—and the past two years had been filled with grief and work and caring for her mother. Cultivating new friends had been a low priority.

  “I’ll do that. Ready to go?”

  She swirled her drink. There was an inch left, but the ice had melted. Didn’t matter. It had already done its job. She’d cooled off—even as her heart had warmed.

  “Yes.”

  The drive to her house was short, and within ten minutes Colin was walking her to the door. “While you dig weeds, I’m going to dig for dirt on our mysterious accountant.”

  “I may do some googling myself once I finish with the roses.”

  “Have at it. The more hands on deck for this one, the better. I’ll call Kristin on the drive to the office. Don’t be surprised if she gets in touch later today. She’s chomping at the bit.”

  “I’ll look forward to meeting her. And thanks for your help at school.”

  “Anytime.”

  He gave her hand a squeeze and retreated down the walk to his car while Stan Hawkins watched the proceedings with unabashed interest from across the street, hedge clippers in hand.

  After Colin pulled out and drove away, the older man broke off a hydrangea blossom and trotted over, arms shoved into his ratty, button-up cardigan despite the early June warmth.

  “How’re you doing, Trish?”

  “Hanging in.”

  “I sure am sorry about everything that’s happened.”

  It was the same well-meaning, earnest sentiment he expressed whenever their paths crossed.

  “I appreciate that.”

  “Thought this might brighten your day. I remember how you liked them as a little girl.” He passed over the vivid blue bloom. “Happy memories can be comforting.”

  Her throat tightened. “Yes, they can. Thank you. How’s Mrs. Hawkins?”

  “She has her good days and her bad days. Arthritis interferes with a lot of the activities she used to enjoy—but I suppose that’s to be expected once you hit your eighties. Maybe it’s the Lord’s way of telling you to slow down and smell the roses. Or the hydrangeas.” He touched a fragile petal, then motioned in the direction Colin had disappeared. “Pleasant young man. Polite too.”

  “Yes, he is.”

  “I like him better than that serious accountant fellow your mom set such store by. I’ve never seen the man smile.”

  Trish tried to hide her amusement. “I didn’t realize you knew either of them very well.”

  “We haven’t had long conversations, if that’s what you mean. But you don’t always have to talk a lot to know when it feels right in here.” He tapped his chest. “Like with the missus. I knew the first time I saw her she was the one for me. It can happen like that, you know.”

  “I suppose so.”

  “I know so. You want my best piece of advice? Always listen to your heart. If you’ve put your trust in the man upstairs and lived a virtuous life, it won’t steer you wrong.”

  “If it makes you feel better, I have no intention of getting serious about Matt Parker.”

  “What about the detective?”

  “He has . . . possibilities.” And wouldn’t Colin get a kick out of this conversation?

  “Glad to hear it—because he thinks you have possibilities.”

  What?!

  “How do you know?”

  “I’ve watched how he watches you. I may have creaky joints, but this old heart can still pick up sparks and hear the song of romance. Just ask the missus.” He gave her a playful nudge with his elbow. “Now it’s back to work for me. I have bushes to trim. You need anything, you give us a shout.”

  “I’ll do that. Thanks.”

  He waggled his hedge clippers and traipsed back across the street.

  What a sweetie.

  And sharp too, if he’d picked up the vibes between her and Colin from a few casual encounters with the man.

  As her neighbor tackled a shaggy bush, she turned to go inside, his advice replaying in her mind.

  Always listen to your heart.

  Not bad counsel. That’s what she’d done when she’d met John, and though their marriage had been far too brief, it had been happy. The kind she wanted again if she ever took another chance on love.

  The kind she had a feeling she might find with Colin down the road—for as she’d told Stan, the new man in her life did have serious possibilities. Ones she intended to pursue as soon as they got past the obstacles that kept cropping up.

  Those detours, however, were temporary. They were on the verge of finding answers that would help them piece together the circumstances that had pulled her into an episode from the Twilight Zone. She could feel it.

  Yet as she locked the front door behind her and her gaze fell on the CSU bag in the foyer, a shiver rippled through her.

  Based on all Colin had told her today . . . based on the questionable circumstances of her mother’s death . . . based on the mugging Colin seemed convinced was a setup . . . it was possible this situation could take another dangerous twist before it wound down.

  Not the most comforting thought.

  But all she could do was hope answers would be found and guilty parties apprehended without further incident.
r />   And pray God would protect her through the shadowy unknown looming ahead.

  19

  “I’ve got an update on Elliott, boss, if you have a few minutes.”

  Dmitri motioned Oleg to join him in the conference room, where he was enjoying an excellent Monday dinner—no . . . lunch, here in America—of borscht, baked grouper, saffron rice, and the black bread of his homeland. Despite his French chef’s disdain, Pierre had learned to make the staple rye loaf.

  As well he should, given the ridiculous salary he was paid.

  “Would you like some food? There is plenty.”

  “No, thank you. I have already eaten.”

  The appropriate response. Oleg knew his superior’s invitation was no more than a rote courtesy.

  “Sit and tell me what you have found.”

  The man chose a chair on the opposite side of the table and laid a folder in front of him. “Our sources tell us the police in St. Louis are also looking for Elliott.”

  That was a positive sign. If he’d caught the attention of law enforcement, he’d made a mistake.

  And any mistake would make him easier to locate.

  “Why are they searching for him?”

  “He is a suspect in a missing person case.”

  Dmitri broke off a piece of bread. “Who is missing?”

  “A woman.”

  He took a bite of the bread and chewed slowly, savoring the tangy rye flavor. “He never was one to deny himself the ladies . . . but I am not aware he ever harmed one. Who is this woman?”

  “A manicurist he found at a bar.”

  “Ah.” He gave a dismissive wave of his hand. “Someone who does not matter.”

  “She matters to the police—fortunately for us. But they have not found her . . . or Elliott . . . yet.”

  “Then how does this information help us?” Oleg wouldn’t waste his time unless there was more concrete news to convey.

  “Another person is also being investigated in conjunction with the missing woman. According to our sources, Elliott was staying with him.”