by Stacy Finz
Chapter 4
Even though Flynn couldn’t help poking at Gia like a schoolboy with a crush, the last thing he needed was to get sucked into her problems. But when the Sacramento FBI agents had shown up at her place, he couldn’t let her twist in the wind. Guilty or not, she deserved due process. And, for God’s sake, a lawyer.
What kind of irresponsible person fires her attorney because of lack of funds and buys a multimillion-dollar ranch? Only someone who thought her innocence would prevail. Not that Flynn was saying Gia was innocent. But he’d come to learn that that was the thought process of innocent people.
I’ve got nothing to hide, so what do I need a lawyer for? If he only had a dollar for every time he’d heard that naïve statement, he’d be a rich man.
In Gia’s case, he’d acted out of habit and a sense of duty. But from here on in he was out of it. Private practice meant he could pick and choose his clients and Gia wouldn’t be one of them. Better to stay away from pretty women he was attracted to, who were up to their eyeballs in trouble. It was bad enough he’d see her on the ranch from time to time.
He looked at his truck dash clock. If there wasn’t a traffic jam in Roseville, he’d make his apartment by noon, just in time to shower and change before his one o’clock appointment with the CEO of a social media start-up. The client was being investigated by the IRS for tax fraud. The only thing the kid was guilty of was smoking too much pot and letting incompetents mind his books. Flynn would straighten it out.
For a Friday, traffic on Interstate 80 was surprisingly light. Usually folks were headed to the Bay Area for a weekend of fun. He got to his loft apartment in record time and parked in the underground lot. The building was conveniently located near both his office and the courthouse. And having grown up in an ancient farmhouse divvied up into a warren of small rooms, he thought he’d like the urban feel of open space and tall ceilings. Turns out he didn’t. He rarely stayed here these days, preferring the rural Sierra to the crowded city.
Instead of bothering with the elevator, he took four flights of stairs to his apartment, stripped off his clothes, and jumped in the shower. He finished putting on a suit and tie and hit the answering machine on the way out.
“Hi, Flynn. It’s Laurel. I haven’t heard from you in a while and thought we could catch dinner this weekend.”
“Yeah, maybe,” he muttered to himself, thinking Laurel, who he’d been seeing on and off, might be a good distraction.
Call him an idiot, but ever since Gia had held that Winchester on him, his head had been full of her. She had a smart mouth and a sweet ass. And he was a sucker for both. Not so much for someone who aided and abetted a swindler, though. And while he was willing to give Gia the benefit of the doubt, it was best to stay clear of the whole mess.
He took the stairs back down to his truck and the city streets to his office, an entire floor of an old high-rise near the courthouse.
“Well, fancy seeing you here.” Doris came around from her desk and gave Flynn a big hug. He’d stolen her from the U.S. Attorney’s Office when he’d left. No one could juggle the phones and type as fast as Doris. Better yet, she could cull out the crazies faster than a shrink. “You come from the ranch?”
“A different ranch, but yeah. Went home first and showered.”
“You clean up nice.” She pinched his ass. Because she was somewhere north of sixty, no one batted an eye.
He sifted through the pile of mail on her desk. “Anything good?”
“A couple of checks, which have been deposited.”
“Remind me to give you a raise, Doris.”
“And a bonus,” she said and tossed him a cheeky grin. “Boy wonder is running late.”
That’s what Flynn got for rushing. These start-up kids were self-entitled shits who couldn’t care less about other people’s schedules. But they kept him on hefty retainers, so unless they really took advantage, Flynn didn’t complain.
“Toad here?” he asked Doris.
“He went out to grab lunch.”
Lunch for Toad could mean a drive through Taco Bell or a leisurely afternoon at the Lusty Lady. Flynn had lured the detective away from Sacramento PD, and although Toad didn’t know a damn thing about white-collar crime, he had a way with witnesses. People, especially women, told him stuff they wouldn’t say in a confessional box. And it wasn’t because of his looks. He was bald and squat and he had a neck like a bullfrog, hence the name Toad.
For all other investigative work, Flynn relied on Bellamy Brown, a forensic accountant he’d rustled from the IRS who could sniff out missing money like a bloodhound. There were two other attorneys in the firm and between the three of them, they pulled in corporate clients from all over the West.
“I’ll be in my office, Doris. Tell me when the little shit gets here.”
“I surely will.”
Flynn sat at his desk, booted up his computer, and scrolled through his email. There was a cattlemen’s meeting later in the month he’d like to miss but wouldn’t. An invitation to a legal luncheon he’d definitely miss and a note from his brother, reporting on the calf count on their Quincy ranch.
The intercom buzzed and Doris’s voice came through. “Tim Casserly is on line two.”
“All right, thanks.” Flynn picked up the phone. “Timmy, what can I do for you?”
“What’s up with you and Gia Treadwell?” Well, that hadn’t taken long.
“Not a thing. I lease her land for my cattle. My family made the deal with the former owner; she just inherited it.”
“The former owner who’s serving time for shooting a cattle rustler?”
“The very one.” Ray Rosser had pleaded guilty to second-degree murder. At his age, Ray was never getting out of prison.
“Pretty fancy place, from what I hear. Jeff said you kicked him off the property.”
“Nah, I just asked him to leave. It was all very civil until he told me I couldn’t play poker with you guys anymore.”
Tim laughed. “You representing her?”
“Nope. What do you want with her, Tim?”
“Are you freaking kidding me? The woman’s boyfriend ran off with billions. A lot of people in high places got ripped off.”
“You couldn’t even get an indictment.” A grand jury would indict a ham sandwich, as the saying goes. The fact that they didn’t get one and were still haranguing Gia told him there was more at play here than the Ponzi scheme. “You think she knows where Evan Laughlin is? Because from what I read in the papers, Ms. Treadwell was ripped off too.”
“Hell yeah, we think she knows where he is. Could be she’s harboring the money in some offshore bank account. How else did she afford that fancy ranch?”
“Tim, the woman’s a millionaire in her own right. Doesn’t seem like much of a stretch for her to buy a place like that.”
“Maybe so,” Tim said. Flynn could hear him drumming his fingers on the desk. “We know she liquidated a lot of her assets before closing escrow. Then again, a smart lady like her knows how to give herself cover. How do we get in there to talk to her?”
“You’re asking me?” Flynn chuckled. “You’re a freaking assistant U.S. Attorney. You know what you have to do. Go through her lawyer.”
“She doesn’t have one, which makes her fair game to talk to. If we can’t get onto her property, we’ll corner her in that little town . . . what’s it called?”
“Nugget,” Flynn said. The FBI could try, though he didn’t know what good it would do. Gia had already made it through countless interrogations and a federal grand jury—the last step in a criminal investigation. That’s why he didn’t get why they were still going after her. In any event, she wasn’t likely to spill her guts now. “What are you telling me for?”
“It would help to know her schedule, where she goes and when.”
“Did you forget that I work for the other side now?”
“You said you’re not her lawyer.”
Flynn let out a sigh. “I don’t know
her schedule, and even if I did, I’m not getting involved.” Lazy is what they were. Special Agent Jeff Croce and his partner didn’t want to make the three-hour drive in the hopes that Gia would leave the ranch that day. They wanted everything set up nice and easy. Even though playing along could help butter up Tim for favorable plea deals when it came to Flynn’s own clients, he didn’t want any part of it.
“You’re going to have to find your own snitch, Tim. For all intents and purposes, Miss Treadwell is my landlady.”
“You suck, Barlow. See you at poker.” Tim hung up.
Doris came over the intercom again. “Your brat is waiting in the conference room.”
* * *
Gia sipped her coffee, nibbled at a piece of toast, and scanned the Wall Street Journal online, toggling back and forth between the newspaper, Bloomberg, and CNBC. It was eight o’clock East Coast time (five in California) on a Monday and ninety minutes until showtime. She studied the futures markets and the market indexes, looking for trends. Read what the analysts had to say about various stocks and reviewed economic calendars for new reports. The bottom line was she was looking for good trading opportunities. She had to refill her coffers. That’s why she planned to get back to her roots. Day trading.
For most people it was a crapshoot, like going to Vegas and putting all your money on red. For Gia it had been a windfall. While other people got waitressing jobs to put themselves through college, she’d spent her time between classes day trading. By her senior year she’d amassed enough money to pay back her student loans and put herself through business school. When she’d left Harvard with an MBA she’d had enough cash to set herself up in Manhattan, buy a new wardrobe, and send a nice chunk of change to her mother.
She got hired at Locktrade as a junior broker, but the money was shit. No way could she continue to pay her pricey New York rent. So in her down time, she traded in the round-the-clock markets, making more in the first few months than she made at Locktrade in a year. Eventually she made the jump to Lehman Brothers as an investment banker and learned very quickly that her clients were lemmings—investing in whatever the “it” thing was at the moment. The returns were crap and most of them managed their money like infants. Acquiring a lot of debt at high interest. Hey, they’d say, that’s what it takes to live the American dream.
No, it didn’t. Gia knew better than anyone the kind of trouble bad financial decisions could get you into. It had probably killed her father. Forty and a heart attack. It had put Gia’s mother and her in the poorhouse.
One night, during a dinner with a group of girlfriends, she’d started in on how people didn’t have the first clue about managing money or saving for a rainy day. She’d launched into a diatribe about everything everyone was doing wrong and soon found herself making budgets and doing financial planning for her inner circle. They were a group of young, ambitious, and well-educated women living hand to mouth. One of those women just happened to be a booker for the Today show and got Gia a guest slot on a financial segment Matt Lauer hosted. After that she became a regular guest, as well as making appearances on CNN Money and Fox Business.
That’s when CNBC approached her about doing her own show, The Treadwell Hour: Financial Advice that Will Set You Free. She gave notice at Lehman Brothers and moved into the CNBC offices, where her television ratings shot through the roof. The books and syndicated column came later, and before Gia knew it, she had her own financial self-help franchise. But it all came tumbling down when Evan’s crimes were exposed.
No one wanted financial advice from an “expert” who’d been bilked by her own lover. Then there was the fact that in many circles, Gia was still suspected of conspiring with Evan in his Ponzi scheme. Some of his victims had lost their entire life savings, even their homes and retirement funds.
So now it was back to day trading. Gia stared at her monitor. The markets had just opened and, as usual, the first thirty minutes were highly volatile. She sat back, waiting to pounce. By late morning she was looking for reversal opportunities, also known as shifts in price trends. She looked at the clock, set to Eastern Standard Time, hoping to make her profit target before noon. Pretty soon the big money would go to lunch and the market would slow down. As three thirty approached, she was considerably up. By four, when the markets closed, she called it quits with a nice pot of profits.
And it was only one o’clock in California, giving her the rest of the day to play. She was halfway to the stable to visit Rory and take a ride when she saw a pickup cresting her driveway. It wasn’t one she recognized, leaving her to wonder whether the feds were back for a second stab at her. The truck was covered in dust, the tires caked in mud, and the man behind the wheel wore a cowboy hat. There was a dog in the passenger seat with its head stuck out the window. On second thought, probably not a fed. She turned back to the house, where the man had stopped and was getting out of the driver’s seat, holding, of all things, a basket covered in lacy fabric. The picture was somewhat incongruous. He was a rugged, strapping guy and the basket looked downright dainty hanging from his arm.
“Hey there.” He shielded his eyes from the sun. “I’m your neighbor, Clay McCreedy.”
Ah, the famous Clay McCreedy. “Pleased to meet you.”
“I was just waiting for you to get settled in before dropping by. My wife, Emily, had a meeting in town. She wanted me to extend her apologies and said she’d come over to introduce herself just as soon as she could. In the meantime, she baked you this.” He handed her the basket.
Gia peeked inside. It looked like a tart. No one ever brought her tarts in New York. “Thank you. Would you like to come in . . . have a cool drink?”
“Sure,” he said, somewhat taken aback by her hospitality. People always thought New Yorkers were unfriendly.
She opened the door and led him toward the kitchen.
He stopped in the great room and gazed at the walls. “It’s been a while since I’ve been inside. Ray did like his big-game trophies.”
“You know anyone who wants them?”
He chuckled. “Why? You don’t like ’em?”
“God no.”
This time he let out a full-blown laugh. “I think my wife would be right with you on that one. They’re worth something, though. You might want to put an ad in the Nugget Tribune. It’s the local online newspaper.” Gia knew the Trib’s owner, Harlee.
“Good idea.” They continued into the kitchen, where Gia put the basket down on the center island. “Does this need to be refrigerated?”
“You know, I have no idea. Let me text Emily.” He whipped out his phone and with one finger tapped out a message. “She’ll get back to me. You’re gonna love it. My wife is a world-class baker and all-around fantastic cook. She writes cookbooks, she’s so good.”
“Really?” It was nice to hear a man speak so highly of his wife. “What kind of cookbooks?”
“You name it. Her last one was about the cuisine of the Sierra Nevada, but she often works with big-name chefs who aren’t so great at putting their recipes in writing for the home cook.”
“No kidding? What an interesting job.”
“Yep. We turned a converted barn into a test kitchen. Occasionally a TV crew will come in and film her and one of the chefs. Of course it’s nothing like what you’re used to . . .” He trailed off, obviously realizing his faux pas. People as far away as China knew about her fall from grace. It had been splashed all over the tabloids and reported daily on TMZ.
His phone chirped, distracting them from the awkwardness. He read from the screen. “She says you can leave it out overnight. Then it’s gotta go into the icebox.”
“Great. What would you like to drink? I’ve got soda, juice, Perrier. . . tequila.”
“Tap water would be just fine.” He gazed around the kitchen the same way he had in the living room.
“I haven’t had a chance to put my mark on the place yet,” she said while getting him a glass of water. “A lot of my stuff is still in boxes.”
“I notice you got a horse delivered on Friday. Your driver took a wrong turn and wound up at my place.”
“I’m sorry—”
“No worries. It happens all the time around here. Some of these roads don’t even show up on GPS. Was this horse of yours an impulse buy?”
She laughed. “Yeah, about ten years ago.”
He looked surprised—and delighted. “Dana never said anything about you being a horsewoman. Then again, Dana led us to believe you were the T Corporation.”
“That was at my instruction, and I think under the circumstances you can understand why.” She gave him a pointed look. No need beating around the bush. The sooner everyone was comfortable with her infamy the better.
He grinned. “Fair enough. So you ride, huh?”
“Dressage and some jumping.”
“Dressage is pretty fancy for what we’ve got around here. Most of the horsewomen in these parts barrel race. But you’ll do.” He winked, the charmer.
“Flynn already made fun of my saddle.”
“I bet he did.” He grabbed a seat on one of the barstools. “He’s just an old cowboy, not real sophisticated like the rest of us.”
She laughed. “So you raise cattle, huh?”
“Just like Flynn. My family’s been doing it since the Gold Rush. They sold beef to the prospectors.”
“That’s amazing.” She let out a little sigh of awe.
“Unfortunately, we’re a dying breed.”
She cocked her head to the side. “Why’s that?”
“It’s cost prohibitive. The land’s worth more for development, feed costs are through the roof, and our kids don’t want to work their asses off for small gains.”
“That’s too bad.” All those iconic images of cowboys riding the range on the Western plains flashed through her head.
“Yup. It’s a special way of life and as long as I’m alive I plan to keep it going. Hopefully my sons will too. And you?”