The Rookie Club Thriller series Box Set

by Danielle Girard

  “Assuming the bottles are bought by the case—I don’t know the percentages on that because the distributors sell them as cases, but most stores sell them individually.”

  Jim bought them in cases.

  “It’s the 2010 Chateau St. Jean Cinq Cepages,” she said.

  He nodded and rubbed his eyes.

  “So the wine is the same varietal, same vintage, but we’re not sure about the barrel.”

  Even if it wasn’t the same barrel, they were talking about one wine. One specific vintage. The wine Jim drank most nights. Even if he drank only three bottles a week, he would go through one hundred and fifty bottles a year. They would surely come from different barrels, just by chance.

  Somehow Jim was at the center of this thing.

  “Right,” Roger agreed. “For one thing, it’s impossible to tell how much the wine was affected from being in the coffin. I assume quite a bit of mold was present.”

  “There was,” she said.

  “I wouldn’t testify to them being the same wine.” He paused. “At least not based on the chemistry of the samples. The cork samples tell a similar story. It’s real cork, from a cork tree—there’s a move now towards man-made material for corks—” He stopped, waved his hand. “You know all that.”

  Hailey nodded. Endangered cork trees.

  “The nutrients in the soil will create variations in the cork even from trees as close as six or eight feet away—some within a single tree.”

  Hailey looked away, dreading what he would say.

  “These two samples come from the same tree,” Roger said. “The same vineyard would get corks from the same place, so again there’s still a possibility that those corks came from two different barrels of wine. Even if they’re both from the same barrel of wine, that fact doesn’t necessarily link them to a single wine drinker.”

  She thought it did. She felt sure of it. “Is there anything else we could test? To be sure?”

  “Not one hundred percent. Not from the wine or the corks. There was one other thing that suggested the same source.”

  She waited.

  “Both cork samples showed an odd angle of wine absorption.”

  “What do you mean—absorption?”

  “A tiny bit of wine gets into the cork—it’s very slow and very minimal, but you do find minute samples of wine that are absorbed over time.”

  “From storing them on their sides.”

  “Right. People who know wine store the bottles horizontally.”

  “These were stored like that? On their sides?”

  “Actually, what’s interesting is that both of these cork samples came from bottles stored at a slightly declined angle—that is, more declined than ninety degrees.”

  Jim’s bottles were stored in a dank, cement room in the basement, a room that reminded her of a prison cell. It was no larger than five by five, and the door was made of thick oak beams, a flat iron bar across the top and bottom and a heavy iron ring to pull it closed.

  Hailey had always wondered where it had come from, what castle—or maybe what dungeon.

  Hand-carved alder racks lined the walls of the wine cellar, each bottle cradled and each neck supported at the same angle. One that was pointed down—maybe five or ten degrees more than ninety.

  “The same angle on both,” Hailey repeated, feeling the finality of the words.

  “Are you okay?” Roger asked.

  “I will be.” She glanced across the lobby, thought about getting home. “I’ve got to go now.”

  “What do I do about the cork?”

  A woman in a suit stepped out of the elevator and glanced over at her, then away. Something in her stride reminded Hailey of how she saw herself—strong, focused. Suddenly, Hailey no longer felt like that woman. “Tell Hal.”

  “What?”

  “Tell him. Call and tell him about the cork. He’ll know how to handle it.”

  “Don’t you think it should come from you?”

  She looked at Roger, at the furrow of his naked brow. She didn’t think Hal would stop being angry at her long enough to listen. “Not this time.”

  “What’s going on with you two?”

  Hailey didn’t answer.

  “Are you okay, Hailey?”

  “I’m fine.” The answer came too quickly. Roger didn’t push.

  “You want me to tell him that you said to call him? So at least he knows you weren’t keeping it from him?”

  Hailey shrugged again. It wouldn’t matter.

  It was too late.

  Chapter 22

  Hal was no idiot. Hailey had gone after Roger.

  The way she dropped everything, the urgency in her voice, the way she evaded his questions—he could still read her like a book.

  Add that to the list of stuff she was keeping from him.

  His anger was like an acid, burning through everything he came across. After twenty-four hours, it had started to burn through itself. What remained was disappointment, betrayal. He needed to go for a run—to sweat—but he was stuck at the scene where their best evidence required a forensic accountant.

  One named Tiffany was already at work on Rendell’s books. Arriving in jeans and a button-down white shirt, her hair in a ponytail, Tiffany looked about twelve.

  “It was my day off,” she said before making herself at home at the secretary’s desk.

  “We’ll need to go through all the books, but right now, I’m most interested in his payroll,” Hal told her. “I need to locate someone who worked here. Home addresses and contact numbers would really help.”

  Hal paced the worn blue carpet in front of the desk and stopped to stare at a panoramic photograph hanging on one wall, the only art in the room. Maybe four feet long and a foot and a half wide, the image was of a mountain range he didn’t recognize. Jagged, sharp mountain peaks cut into the red-orange sky of sunset. The tallest mountain looked like a shark’s tooth, hooked to the left.

  “Tetons,” Tiffany said.

  “What?” Hal asked.

  “The mountains—they’re called the Tetons. Big one is the Grand. In Jackson.” When he didn’t respond, she added, “Wyoming. Great skiing.”

  “Never been skiing,” Hal said.

  “You ought to. It’s awesome.”

  Hal studied the mountains. Nothing about skiing seemed awesome, only cold. But what did he know? He’d never been closer to Lake Tahoe than Sacramento.

  Hal sat in an uncomfortable metal-framed chair opposite Tiffany.

  “He kept good books on some things. Client funds are all clearly denoted, as are payables. But, there’s no payroll system.”

  “Maybe it’s on another computer.”

  “But there are no records of payroll deductions in his books. He’d have to denote them somewhere.”

  The secretary didn’t work for free.

  Hal hadn’t seen her yet. They’d taken her for coffee, to calm her down. Why weren’t they back yet? “Damn it. How is it possible to have employees and no payroll?”

  Tiffany shrugged. “There are lots of ways to do payroll.”

  “What do you mean? He had to pay his secretary. Where are those entries?”

  “I think he paid her. It just doesn’t look like Mr. Rendell believed in the traditional W-2 system,” she explained. She swiveled the monitor toward him and pointed to a line item for $32,000. “Twice a month, he took out big chunks of cash.”

  “He paid his employees in cash?”

  “Looks like it.” She scrolled down the page, pointed to another debit for $28,000 two weeks prior, and then another debit farther down for $40,000.

  Hal came around the desk as she clicked through the records. “It’s just about twice a month. The twelfth and the twenty-eighth last month.” She brought up the calendar on her phone. “Twelfth was a Wednesday. Twenty-eighth, a Friday.”

  She scrolled through the numbers, jotting them on her notepad. “No real pattern in the last six months. Can’t tell if the secretary makes fifty thousa
nd a year or a hundred and fifty. And other employees—” She shook her head.

  “He pay anyone?”

  She nodded and launched a program called Sage Pro. “Like I said, some of the accounting is really good. Phone bills, cell phones—two cell phones.” She looked up.

  “Maybe one for him and one for the secretary?”

  “I’ll get the numbers.” She scrolled down. “There’s a printing service—probably does prospectus mailing and stuff.” She nodded to the screen. “Lease expense is here, his credit card.” She double-clicked. “He’s got it itemized. Meals and entertainment, travel.”

  “Where did he go?”

  “One ticket to New York on this statement. Stayed at Trump Tower.” She closed the Visa information and continued down. “Here’s a company listed under security—Security Specialists. Maybe that’s where he got his employees.” She opened up the account detail. “He paid them $60,000 a couple months ago.”

  “How far back do the credit card records go?”

  “As far back as he’s been entering the data.” She went back to the check register and dragged the scrollbar up to the top of the page. “Looks like he started in October of 2014, so he’s got records for almost two years.”

  “What about before that?”’

  She shook her head. “No way to know without taking the computer in and digging around. Nothing in the file cabinets?”

  He gestured to the laptop. “Mind if I look?”

  “Be my guest.”

  Hal took the mouse and scrolled through the register. The first large transaction was in the amount of $72,000. November 10, 2014. “What is that?”

  “Cash withdrawal. No details.” She glanced up at him, eyes narrowed. “Why? What does it mean?”

  “What day was November 10th?” He paused. “In 2014, I mean.”

  “It was a Monday. Why?”

  “The Dennigs—” She nodded, waiting. “They were murdered on Tuesday, the 11th.”

  His phone buzzed. Sheila. He silenced the phone and slid it into his pocket.

  He was angry he’d slept with her. He knew better. He hadn’t been that drunk. There had been plenty of time to change his mind.

  Worse, he’d taken her to the Tempest, just two blocks from his house. That bar was his refuge. Now she knew where to find him.

  At least he’d had the sense to wear a condom.

  This morning, after she left, one of the kitchen drawers was open, and his set of spare keys was missing.

  The professional safe breakers arrived, jerking Hal back to the present.

  He retreated into the hallway to escape the noise, his head still pounding. Rendell’s secretary came off the elevator a few minutes later, followed by one of Roger’s techs, who looked exasperated.

  “Miss Riley,” Hal said, stepping forward. “I’m Inspector Hal Harris.”

  The tech gave him a brief nod of acknowledgement and stepped back onto the elevator.

  “Call me Tammy,” the secretary said, her cheeks pale, the skin a flawless cream except for the small, round spots where she’d applied a glittery blush. Her brown eyes were lined in black, and her mascara had melted into the space under her lower lashes and in the corners of her eyes.

  “Can we talk for a few minutes?”

  Her gaze skittered toward the door, and she whispered with a hiccup, “Is he still in there?”

  Hal nodded. “He’ll be coming through soon.” When she gasped, he added, “He’ll be in a bag, though.” She nodded and backed to the far corner of the elevator lobby, where she glanced lovingly at the Smith Barney doors as though she’d always wished she worked there instead of for Rendell.

  “We didn’t find any employee files in the office,” Hal said. “Were you the only one he had working for him?”

  She shook her head and dotted her eyes again. “There was one other.”

  “In the office?”

  “No. Well, he came in sometimes but not very often. Harvey couldn’t stand having him here, so he was mostly in the field. That’s what Harvey called it, ‘the field.’”

  Hal opened his notebook. “What was his name?”

  “Gordon.” She paused to think. “Gordon Price.”

  “Why didn’t Harvey want Price in the office?”

  “He was sort of conspicuous—if you know what I mean.”

  Hal shook his head. “I don’t.”

  The secretary flushed, looking at the floor, away from Hal. By conspicuous, maybe she meant black.

  “And he had this annoying habit of flipping his retainer around his mouth. It would click against his teeth. Drove Harvey crazy.”

  “A retainer,” Hal repeated. Clicking. Tawny Robbins had said the man who shot James and his friend clicked. “You have an address for Mr. Price?”

  “I think I can find it.”

  “Excellent.”

  Hal entered the empty lobby, Price’s address in hand. In one corner was a sign for the stairs—a stick figure walking down a crude drawing.

  He didn’t have time for thirty flights of stairs. He had a man with a retainer to find.

  Inside the elevator, Hal pushed “L” for lobby, then closed his eyes.

  Chapter 23

  Hailey left Roger with questions. She couldn’t face them, or the answers she would have to give. Not when she should have been asking them all along. Why hadn’t she demanded more answers from Jim? She’d taken so much for granted.

  No wonder Hal was so angry.

  She caught a cab on California Street and gave the driver her address, asking him to please hurry.

  She still had time to get home, pack a bag, and get to the girls’ school before the release bell.

  She dialed Jim’s line at the house. Dee answered, but Hailey didn’t make small talk. She had about forty-five minutes before Liz and the girls arrived at the house. “Is he there?”

  “Yes,” Dee replied. “Hold on.”

  A moment later, Jim came on.

  “You know Harvey Rendell?” she asked.

  “I do. He’s a fund manager.”

  “He’s dead.”

  The driver glanced into the backseat.

  Jim made a funny sound, something in his throat. “Dead?”

  Dee spoke in the background, and Jim snapped at her. “How?” he asked.

  “Someone fed him Halcion and smothered him.”

  “Halcion? Isn’t that—”

  “Same thing the Dennigs got.” Before Jim could speak, she added, “You’re a client.”

  “Yes.” The word came out in a hiss of breath, an admission. The deflation in his voice was a concession, and she’d push it as far as she could. “So were the Dennigs and Colby Wesson.” Hailey paused a beat to let that sink in. “They’re all dead, Jim. And you haven’t been honest. You’re involved in this somehow.”

  “Of course I’m not.”

  “You were invested with Rendell. You got a button. Someone shot at you. That’s no coincidence.”

  “I’m insulted that you would imply—”

  “I don’t care if you’re insulted,” she said, cutting him off. “If I were you, I’d be less worried about your ego and more concerned about ending up in prison.”

  She ended the call before Jim could say anything more, staring out the car window at the houses she’d passed a thousand times. Not all the homes were mansions—two thousand and three thousand square feet, but they cost millions of dollars. Three, five, eight million. Inside lived investment bankers and high-priced attorneys, people who made seven figures each month.

  How had she lived here this long?

  She would find a place where people like her lived.

  Real people.

  As often as possible, Hailey took the girls out of her in-laws’ neighborhood, away from the San Francisco mansions, and brought them down to the new theaters on Harrison Street or the old ones down in the Marina, winding their way back through neighborhoods where she hoped to one day afford a place of their own.

  The
girls didn’t need this much. Hailey could give them enough on her own.

  Her phone buzzed. Jim.

  “I referred clients to Rendell,” he told her. “I don’t think that’s a crime.”

  The cab passed a house that had once belonged to Danielle Steel until she’d moved up a few blocks to one three times its size. Now some lowly surgeon owned it. “Did you refer Wesson?”

  “I don’t know Wesson. I don’t know what’s happening here, Hailey. I honestly don’t.”

  “But?”

  “Rendell supported my campaign.”

  “You mean in exchange for referrals to his hedge fund?”

  He paused and then uttered a sigh. “Something like that.”

  But Rendell wasn’t just looking for any referrals. He had targeted people who were closely involved in the manufacture and sale of guns. Why? And what about the hedge fund had appealed to those people? “Why did all the gun guys support the hedge fund? And why would you? You’ve always been for stricter gun control.”

  Jim’s chair creaked. She imagined he would have his free arm extended out over the armrest, his hand relaxed at the wrist, his feet stretched out in front of him, legs crossed at the ankles.

  After a particularly long day, John had sat like that too, oftentimes, holding a scotch in one hand. It was one of those habits passed from father to son, so that being with Jim meant being with John’s memory too. “Rendell liked the gun guys, as you call them. It’s why he asked to meet Rittenberg in the first place. Rendell networked through the NRA. I just made the introductions.”

  “Not just, Jim. You invested too.”

  “For a while, I did.”

  “Not just a while.” There was a brief break in the line as Hailey added, “Recently.”

  “Hailey?”

  “I’m here.” Hailey listened to the silence on the other end, wondered what he was doing. “You sent him a check for $20,000 last month. He’s got a copy of it in your file.” No clicks, no breathing. “Jim?” The cab pulled behind a garbage truck, blocking the driveway.

  “I’ll get out.” She paid the driver. “Jim?”

  “Yes. Sorry,” he said, his voice almost a whisper. “Can I call you later?” he asked.

  “Jim, this is serious. People are dying and you’re involved.”