Death's Door

by Meryl Sawyer

  “Trying to cozy up to Wyatt won’t work,” Nathan informed Madison in a very sarcastic, superior tone.

  “My father’s estate is already set. He’s not rewriting his will for some brat that crawled out of the sewer.”

  Anger rocketed through Madison. She wanted to shout that she didn’t give a damn about the Holbrook fortune, but she realized these two would never believe her. With an effort, she swallowed a caustic reply.

  “We know that’s why you finagled your way into staying in the guesthouse,” Nathan said. “You’re after Wyatt’s money.”

  “You claim to need somewhere to stay with your—” Savannah glanced at Aspen, who was sitting on the seat beside Madison “—mutt. My assistant will find you a place by this evening. I want you out of here.”

  There was just enough room on the narrow service road to the guesthouse for Madison to wheel the Beamer to the right and shoot around the Aston Martin without responding to their accusations. As soon as she’d cleared the expensive car, Madison hit the gas.

  “That was fun!” she told Aspen. “Savannah thinks the world revolves around her.”

  The dog turned and thrust his nose out the open window to sniff the breeze. She drove as fast as she dared. Not only did anger propel her, Madison wanted to catch Aiden at home. This was a discussion she didn’t want to have in the office, where they could be overheard.

  Word traveled around the cube farm at work with astonishing speed. Jade called it “new millennium jungle drums.” Madison wouldn’t be surprised to discover the majority of office gossip was circulated by e-mail. Jade was probably behind most of it. When Madison had a chance, she was going to find more for the girl to do. Jade was bored because she was bright and spending each day as a glorified gofer was a waste of talent.

  Madison was too upset with Savannah and her snotty boyfriend to concentrate on what else Jade might do. They thought they could order her around, take over her life. I want you out of here. Obviously, Savannah didn’t have her father’s best interests at heart the way Garrison did.

  It occurred to her that Savannah might not know about Madison’s financial problems. If she had, the woman probably would have mentioned money. They couldn’t expect her to pay for a place when she didn’t have more than one hundred dollars to her name.

  Madison suspected neither Garrison nor Wyatt had told Savannah that she was staying in the guesthouse. If they had, they must have just mentioned it in passing and not given her the details. More likely someone on staff at the main house had told her.

  Why was Savannah so jealous? It took just an instant for Madison to come up with the answer. Because she’s insecure. Savannah Holbrook might be rich and beautiful and successful but she wasn’t sure of her father’s love.

  The situation reminded her of colorful butterflies. Gorgeous beauties like Savannah. Most people wouldn’t believe that butterflies were cannibals. Many types ate each other. Savannah had the world—or so it seemed—yet she was ready to eat alive anyone who threatened her relationship with her father.

  Or maybe greed motivated her. Who knew? At this point, Madison didn’t care. She had her own problems. When she’d gotten a handle on this identity-theft thing, then she would take the test to see if she was a suitable donor. She knew she wouldn’t be. That would end it.

  Her mind drifted to Paul, the way it had all last night, waking her often. What was wrong with her? Why did she keep throwing herself at the man every chance she had? She knew better.

  Right now she had enough trouble for six women. She didn’t need to become involved with a man who…who what? She didn’t know much about him except that he was willing to keep his mouth shut about Aspen.

  And that she was undeniably attracted to him.

  Maybe that wasn’t such a bad thing. What had Erin told her that last night they’d been together, sharing cardboard pizza? Get over Aiden. The past has you trapped.

  TANNER SECURITY SOLUTIONS’ offices were in a newly refurbished building in Coconut Grove. When Paul had been a kid, “the grove” had been known for its artists and writers and liberal types. Gentrification had transformed the area. Now clusters of trendy boutiques, nightclubs and the endless supply of Starbucks clones had priced out the artists and writers.

  The suite his father leased took up the entire third floor. Not bad for a guy who’d retired from the police force with next to nothing except his pension. In a little less than five years, Mike Tanner was the go-to guy for private investigations.

  Paul rode the elevator up to his father’s suite and mentally gave the old man credit for enlisting retired policemen and off-duty officers. He didn’t employ guys with drug or gambling problems. He used the best, paid them top wages and produced results for his clients.

  Paul stepped out of the elevator and headed for the double glass doors. It was too early for the receptionist to be at her desk. Mike was a workaholic. Paul would bet his last dime that his father was sitting at the walnut desk in his office, just beyond the inner office pod where the computers, laser printer and several copy machines were set up adjacent to an alcove for the coffee machine.

  Paul stopped and grabbed a cup of black coffee. Mike never cut corners in his office. Kona coffee, the pride of Hawaii, was his father’s favorite. Paul turned the corner in the hall while blowing on the fragrant liquid to cool it.

  Sure enough, there he was. Mike Tanner looked up and his sliding smile appeared, then vanished. His father never smiled for more than a second. He had a way about him that seemed friendly, but Paul doubted anyone really knew the man.

  “You’re out early.”

  Paul took a sip of coffee and lowered himself into the chair opposite his father’s desk. “Yeah. Thought I’d check in and see if you needed me. Then I’m going over to the station to find out if there’s any word on my reinstatement.”

  Mike studied Paul from beneath dark eyebrows. No DNA check was necessary to confirm who Paul’s father had been. The older man still had a full head of dark hair just beginning to silver at the temples and a solid frame that hadn’t run to fat despite his age. The old guy worked out religiously—an hour a day, seven days a week.

  “What’s going on with Madison Connelly?” Mike asked.

  That’s what Paul had come to find out, but he didn’t want to rouse his father’s suspicions by appearing too anxious. Mike had been a hell of a detective and could pick up a scent like a bloodhound. He shrugged, saying, “She’s going to take the tests to see if she’s able to donate.”

  “You said she didn’t believe she is related to Wyatt Holbrook.”

  “She still doesn’t.” Paul sipped again; the coffee was almost cool enough to drink. “But you know the Holbrooks. They got her out to their offices and she saw what valuable work Wyatt is doing. Yada, yada, yada. She agreed to be tested.”

  “That’s good.” Mike fingered a stack of files on his polished walnut desk, where everything was lined up with military precision. “Then maybe we won’t have to track down anyone else.”

  Paul knew he was referring to the list of children conceived through Wyatt’s sperm donations. A few might still be in the Boston area, but thanks to New Horizons, more could be in Florida. Paul took some pride in having unearthed those files himself. Of course, his father had never given him any credit. After all, he’d been paid to do a job. That’s the way Mike viewed the world. You did what you were paid to do; praise wasn’t necessary.

  “Madison needs to straighten out this credit card mess before she can check into the hospital for testing.”

  “What do you think about her?” Mike Tanner responded. “Could Madison have killed her friend?”

  How like his father, Paul thought. The man asked a lot of questions. He rarely volunteered anything, particularly about himself.

  “I doubt it.” In his mind, he could see how upset she’d been. Hell, he could feel her lips under his, feel the softness of her skin beneath his fingers. Could almost…Paul gulped down the last of his coffee, reali
zing his father was intently staring at him. “She was too shook up about it to be acting.”

  Paul knew his father would trust his evaluation. Homicide detectives saw more than their fair share of liars. A good detective could smell a lie, could see it in someone’s eyes. Paul’s ears actually tingled when he was onto someone, a fact he never mentioned because it sounded so absurd.

  Mike rocked back in his chair and studied Paul for a moment. “I ask because I had Kirk Bryant on it all last night.”

  Paul nodded, pleased to hear this. When his father announced he was setting up a private investigation firm to service businesses, Paul had advised him to hire a computer expert. This would attract corporate accounts who would be concerned about computer security.

  Paul had been stunned—nah, he’d been blown away—when the old man took his advice and hired a geek and set up a computer security department. Mike had never given him credit, but Paul suspected the department, which had grown from one guy to several, was responsible for the rapid growth of Tanner Security Solutions.

  “What did Kirk find out?” Paul prodded when he realized his father, in his typical fashion, wasn’t adding anything more.

  “The transactions were seamless. Whoever withdrew the funds had all the relevant information. The bank and credit card companies wouldn’t have known a thing if Miss Connelly hadn’t contacted them.”

  “She says she does a lot on the Internet—”

  “More than half of identity thefts come from sources other than the Internet. Family, friends, coworkers or your trash. Most reputable Internet sites encrypt private information. It’s called TLS. Transparent Layer Security.”

  “I’ve read about Internet sites as well as bricks-and-mortar companies whose databases have been compromised.”

  “True,” Mike conceded, “but most are quite safe. I always check the percentages first. She’s been divorced. That raises a red flag right there. You wouldn’t believe the people who don’t change their passwords or bank accounts after a divorce.”

  Paul knew Madison planned to speak to her ex this morning. From the moment he’d first heard about her problem, Paul had wondered if the ex was to blame. Paul had never met the man but he disliked him. What kind of a guy would cheat on a babe like Madison?

  Don’t go there, he cautioned himself. His father was the next best thing to a mind reader. He didn’t want him to know he was involved with Madison. Screw it! His father had probably guessed by now.

  “How long do you think it will take for Madison to straighten this out?”

  “A year to eighteen months.”

  “You’re kidding!”

  “No. Depending on what happened, she’ll need to have the credit reporting agencies freeze her accounts so the thieves can’t get credit in her name or order more credit cards and run up charges.”

  Paul knew about identity theft, but he hadn’t had any personal experience with it. He did recall it was the fastest-growing theft category in America. Still, he’d thought it would be relatively simple to fix.

  “If a gang targeted Madison, the info already went out of state and they’ve applied for credit in her name. It’ll cost the average person around five thousand dollars to clear up the problem.”

  “Son of a bitch! Why does it cost a victim so much?”

  “Sometimes it’s necessary to hire an attorney or a credit counselor, especially if other states are involved. Often it’s easier to pay off small charges to restore your credit than to fight the system.”

  Paul almost said it wasn’t fair, but he knew what his father would have told him.

  “What about getting back the money that was withdrawn from her bank account and credit cards? Doesn’t filing a fraud claim help?”

  Mike sat forward and realigned a neat stack of papers directly in front of him. “Kirk tells me that she’s beyond the processing period. That means after a number of days, the transaction has been processed. The funds are gone. The bank or credit card companies aren’t to blame unless you can take them to court and prove they knew this was a fraudulent transaction.”

  “How long is the processing period? She reported this within days.”

  Mike steepled his fingers and gazed at Paul with blue-gray eyes that had always reminded him of a wolf. He realized he sounded way too upset for this to be just another case. “Some banks and credit card companies process within three days.”

  “Can’t the funds be tracked? Find out where they went and you’ll…have them.” He realized it couldn’t be this simple or it wouldn’t be a nationwide problem.

  “Her savings were withdrawn by a person at another branch of the same bank. There’s no way to tell who received the funds since they weren’t transferred into an account. Same with the cash withdrawals on the credit cards.”

  Paul took in a deep breath, sucking air through his teeth. He felt like hitting something. How could he tell Madison he couldn’t help her? Maybe he was becoming as tightly wound as his father. Unfuckingbelievable. “What should I tell her to do?”

  “Reassure her that she’s not alone. One person in four is a victim of identity theft.”

  “I’m sure that’ll be very comforting.”

  Mike Tanner arched one brow. “Tell her to check her family and friends. If she finds the culprit, she may get her money back. Go with the odds.”

  Paul rose, clutching his empty coffee cup. “Thanks. I’ll do that.”

  He was almost out the door when his father said, “I make it a practice not to get involved with clients. It’s a lose-lose situation.”

  Paul didn’t answer and kept walking. He dropped his cup in the wastepaper basket next to the receptionist’s desk. He’d never been particularly introspective, but long ago he’d realized his inability to have meaningful relationships stemmed from his own relationship with his father. The matter-of-fact comment about getting involved with clients was as close to a personal discussion as they’d ever gotten.

  Paul had been seven when his mother kissed him goodbye and told him to mind his father. Mike Tanner had later explained she’d left them to join the “crazies” in California. Paul had been too young to have any clue what this meant, but he intuitively realized not to question his father.

  Back then, Mike had recently received a promotion to the homicide unit. He was too busy to care for his son and had sent him to Woodridge Military Academy in Georgia, the only military school that would accept such a young student. It had taken Paul years to realize this might have been an ill-advised attempt to lure his mother home.

  It hadn’t worked. His mother had never bothered to contact them. He’d thought about looking for her when he was in college, but decided that would be disloyal to his father.

  The only time he saw his father after his mother left was during the holidays. His summers—only slightly less lonely than the winters—were spent at camp. He came to realize his father was the man who paid the bills. That was the extent of the involvement Mike Tanner wanted with Paul.

  He’d accepted the situation long ago and had gotten on with life. So why listen to his father’s advice now?

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  What is the bestselling record album of all time?

  MADISON SLOWED as she drove through the streets of Coral Gables toward the home she’d once shared with Aiden Larsen.

  “You could be living here,” she told Aspen.

  The dog turned from the open window at the sound of her voice and wagged his tail. His soulful eyes brought a smile despite this mess. He was a wonderful animal and for all that had happened to him, the dog deserved a better life. “Don’t worry. I’ll find another place with a yard for you.”

  She gazed out the windows at the many homes built from local limestone called coral rock. Coral Gables had been one of Miami’s first planned communities when it was developed in the 1920s. Most of the Mediterranean-style homes had tile roofs, lush landscaping and streets bordered with stately trees.

  When they’d been house-hunting, s
he’d desperately wanted a home here. It was still a lovely area, but now its emotional pull wasn’t as strong. She’d changed, she realized. That transformation had come very recently. A little over a week ago, she’d had a Realtor looking for a replica of the home she’d lost.

  Where she lived no longer seemed to matter. She merely needed a place she could afford that could accommodate Aspen. Erin’s death had rocked her world.

  Madison had never imagined feeling so truly…alone. With her father gone, her mother missing in action and Erin murdered, the people she was closest to had unexpectedly vanished. Having her identity stolen was the latest blow. It had unsettled her more than she could have imagined because she had no one to turn to.

  She parked in front of the Mediterranean villa that used to be her home. She let Aspen out to sniff around. She knew the dog well enough now to realize he wouldn’t run away. If dogs could be said to be insecure, then Aspen was. He didn’t allow Madison to get too far away from him. And he liked to be on the leash. Probably because he didn’t see very well and relied on her to guide him.

  She rang the bell and waited. The shutters were closed and there was no sign anyone was inside the house. The morning paper had been picked up, she noticed, glancing over her shoulder to the lawn where Aspen was ambling around, sniffing. A mockingbird trilled from the banyan tree that she’d treasured and the light breeze brought with it the fragrant scent of the neighbor’s rose garden.

  She rang the bell again and heard its faint echo down the long hall. Had she missed Aiden? She checked her watch; it was too early for him to be in the office. The distant thump-thump of footfalls came through the plank door. A few seconds later, it swung open.

  “Madison? What are you doing here?” Aiden stood in the open doorway, his hair still mussed from sleeping. Wrinkled khaki trousers hung from his slim hips. His bare torso was waxed smooth—evidently another of Chloe’s innovations.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you, but I need to talk to you.”