Asking for Trouble (14 page)

“Yes, sir.”

“Have to admit, I wasn't thrilled with the mayor's order to turn the Nemesis case over to D.A. Marshall here, but I'm glad you'll be the one dealing with the fallout from this.”

Gage managed a weak smile, all too familiar with the chief's sense of humor. Chief Randall had at one time been Sergeant Randall and had been the one to assign Brady Malloy as his training officer. “Glad to be of assistance, sir. Okay to head inside?”

“It's your case.” The chief turned to address the two uniformed officers by the gate.

“The last thing we need is a media presence at one of these scenes,” Gage muttered to Evan as they headed inside. Gage took in Evan's attire. “Nemesis doesn't need the added ego boost. You going incognito tonight?”

“I was out for a jog when I got the call from the chief. This case is starting to piss me off, Gage. Bringing out the crazies.”

“Right there with you.” Gage nodded to the officer by the door and followed the line of police through the first floor. This much police presence at a burglary scene was a fucking joke, and made Gage's job harder. A last look at the paparazzi had him frowning as he snapped on a pair of latex gloves. “Are we attempting to prove we're on top of the case or are we just playing to the cameras?”

Evan smirked. “That's what happens when the queen of social media posts that she's been targeted by a criminal mastermind. I kid you not, that was one of her tweets.”

God save him from Twitterheads and Facebook freaks. “You'd think she escaped a serial killer. What was taken?”

“Here's where it gets interesting.” Evan led the way down the wide marble hallway toward the double-door study at the far end of the house.

Gage noticed the alarm panel blinking incessantly, as if recharging from being set off. “Alarm sound?”

“For ten minutes straight,” Evan confirmed. “Miss Bell states she was in the pool with some friends when it went off.”

“She had the alarm on with friends in the house?” Gage circled the room, noting the empty pedestal by the door, the open door to the safe, the crooked paintings and mirrors on the walls, as if Nemesis had ransacked the office in his search for the safe. Gage returned to the pedestal. “Either stupid or paranoid. What goes here?”

“According to Miss Bell, a bronze Degas ballerina statue. She also couldn't wait to inform us that it's insured for a cool two and a half million. She's happy to file a claim, of course, as soon as the police report is filed.”

“A report she doesn't plan to retract.” Gage skimmed his fingers around the pedestal base.

“Oh, she's pressing charges. Wants to testify in court. Whatever we need her to do, media interviews, lineups for suspects.”

“Somebody's been watching too much Nancy Grace.” Gage squatted, scanned the floor around the pedestal and desk. “Came in through the French doors?” He went to check, saw the faint shoe imprints in the damp dirt surrounding the rosebushes. One set, heading in the wrong direction.

Gage snapped off his gloves, anger and irritation boiling like an overheated pot of soup. “Where is Miss Bell?”

“Now that she's done with her interviews, she's gathering herself out by the pool,” Evan told him.

“Hope she's ready for an extreme close-up.” Gage jerked his head toward the computer tech with the video camera. “Let's see what the victim has to say, shall we?”

***

Gage's temper had reduced to a simmer by the time he stepped off the office elevator with a box of donuts in one hand and a carafe of coffee in the other. The SIM card he'd taken from the evidence tech was jammed into his pocket, but the way his blood was percolating, the damned thing would be incinerated in the next five seconds. He found his team in various states of consciousness around the conference table.

“Oh, hey, boss.” Bouncer jerked up in her chair, covered a yawn, and glanced at the clock that said two fifteen a.m. “Just waiting for the new case information—”

“It wasn't Nemesis.”

Bouncer blinked as Rojas and Peyton sat up and shifted to stare at him.

“Pathetic cry for publicity.” Gage tossed the SIM card onto the table. “Found the missing statue in her idiot boyfriend's car. When you want a good laugh, or to get a good mad on, take a look at the Oscar-worthy performance of one Clarice Bell.”

“Tell me you outed her to the press,” Bouncer pleaded, extending folded hands across the table. “Please?”

“A news story will run in the morning that the investigation has concluded Nemesis was not the perpetrator of the crime.”

“How much did that cost her daddy?” Peyton muttered.

“Don't know, don't want to know. Not our concern. What it does show is that our withholding certain information is working. The media hasn't gotten wind of the thank-you cards Nemesis leaves behind.”

“Not that they're getting us anywhere.” Rojas sniffed the air. “Crullers? From Doh!Knot?”

Gage set the box down, slid it to the center of the table. “Save me a fritter. So the cards were a bust?”

“It's plain white card stock available at any discount store. Solitary gold embossed
N
, run off of any color laser printer. The one he left on your car matches the others, but they've given us zip.” Bouncer nibbled on the edge of a maple bar.

“While Miss Bell is discussing her future with the D.A. and the chief of police—”

“They should make her pay for all the overtime. Did you hear they called in a damned chopper to spotlight search the area?” Rojas looked as if he'd been sucking on a lime.

“The mayor might have been influenced by her father's demands for justice,” Gage said. “It'll work itself out.” He didn't give a crap about Clarice Bell except to curse her for wasting so many people's time. “In the meantime, I'm sorry I dragged you all in here—”

“No, no. It's good, actually.” Bouncer grinned at him. “I've got an idea I want to run past you.”

“Go.” Gage took a seat.

“So we've been looking into the backgrounds of all of the victims, right? When I did a search, each of these names popped up all within the last two years as being a headline story in the
Lantano Valley Times
.”

Gage shrugged. “They've spent most of their lives in the media spotlight. Any publicity is good publicity, as evidenced by tonight's events.”

“Yeah, you'd think, but check this out.” Bouncer aimed a laser pointer at the first board on the left. “Grant Alvers, Nemesis victim number one. He was accused of calling in a raid on his own sweatshop to avoid paying the illegal workers he'd hired. The fine he was given was less than the wages he'd have to pay. Victim number two, Emily Goodwin—”

“You mean her husband, Herman,” Gage interrupted.

“Aha. That's just it. I don't think so.” Bouncer shook her head. “Stay with me. Emily Goodwin was accused of refusing to pay the medical bills of two of her maids after she demanded they use unsafe cleaning products on her custom wood floors. One was diagnosed with lung cancer, the other developed severe asthma. What went missing? Not the Monet painting her husband spent a small fortune on, not the stack of bearer bonds sitting right inside the safe, but Mrs. Goodwin's antique jewelry collection, including the emerald and diamond necklace rumored to belong to the Romanovs of Russia. The collection she'd bragged about in a local TV news interview a few months before. Then there's Adam Swarthmore's negligence at his factory that left half his workforce with pneumonia. All of these stories were headline news in the
Times
.”

Gage leaned forward.

“Here's what I did.” Bouncer shifted her focus to her computer, hit a few keys, and a projector popped the image of a chart onto the blank wall at the end of the room. “Every Nemesis victim was featured for unsavory actions against their employees, their stockholders, or someone less fortunate than themselves. Then see here, no more than three days later, they're hit by Nemesis and each theft is tied directly to the personal collection of the owner. Nemesis didn't wipe them out. He was selective, meticulous even. He took what he determined would hurt them the most. I mean, look at the stack of cash left in the Cunninghams' safe. That's a freaking fortune and then there's the fact that by stealing one or two items, they're easier to fence, get them out of the country. And then, as we know, the money from selling them comes back to the people Nemesis's targets let suffer. Those two maids were able to pay off their medical bills with what they said was left in their mailboxes.”

“Nemesis was the Greek Goddess of retribution and revenge,” he murmured. Jackson had been right, and so had Gage's gut. “Every single one of Nemesis' victims stuck his or her foot in their mouth, very publically,” Bouncer added, her face shining with pride. “Every incident connects to a burglary.”

“That doesn't explain why they withdrew their charges,” Gage reminded them.

“Yeah, well, I've got a theory on that.” Rojas leaned into the conversation. “What if Nemesis didn't steal just one thing? What if he took things he knew the victims wouldn't want to report? What if he got his hands on information about these people, information no one would want getting out.”

“Blackmail. Interesting idea.” Gage nodded. “Got any proof?”

“Not yet.” Peyton got up to refill his coffee. “But there is this. What Jackson Tremayne told you checks out. At least four of Nemesis' victims, including the latest, Cunningham, had the same attorney of record.” He pointed at the whiteboard and victim number three. “James Van Keltin.”

That couldn't be a coincidence, and even if it was, Gage didn't believe in them. “Shift focus to Van Keltin. I want to know everything about him from the time he was born. But this is great work, guys.” He could feel the break coming, just out of reach. “Really great work.”

“Wouldn't have gotten this far without Bouncer,” Rojas said, and Peyton nodded.

Bouncer smiled. “If all this tracks, Nemesis works backward from what we thought. He finds people who need help and then picks his targets. We've been focusing on the ‘victims,' when we should be looking at those receiving the money. We just have to keep an eye on the papers and local newscasts for someone fitting the pattern of the victims and tie them to someone Nemesis would deem worthy of helping. The D.A.'s ‘threat'”—Bouncer air quoted threat—“did part of the job, but we need to be scouring every paper, every article since the last robbery to see who might be Nemesis' next target. Now that we know how he thinks, what he looks for, we might just be able to catch him in the act.”

And then, finally, Gage thought, he could close this case and move on with his life. A life that would hopefully include Morgan.

“Hi, Dad.” Morgan hurried into the private dining room at Beaugere's, grateful for the quiet after the crap week she'd had. “Sorry I'm late.”

“Don't be.” Jackson greeted her with a warm hug before gesturing to one of the chairs at a table equally suited for bank owners or their employees. The soft seafoam green walls and the delicate embroidered silk fabric draping the etched glass windows that overlooked the small serenity garden outside lightened Morgan's heart. How many birthdays, anniversaries, and graduations had they celebrated here?

“I'm just glad you could make it at the last minute,” Jackson said. “Nathan's running behind and Sheila is discussing some catering plans with Chef Catalan.”

“Sheila's building a solid client list.” Morgan pushed her purse under the table so she couldn't access her phone. She'd taken Sheila's comments about her lack of family attentiveness to heart and amended her schedule to fit her father's last-minute request. Weaning herself off her cell phone during dinner was her next goal. She slumped back, tempted to kick off her shoes and give her overworked feet a break. “If I never have another week like this one, I will be eternally grateful. The fact that tomorrow is Friday is the best news ever.” All she had to do was get through tomorrow's meeting with the new accountant for the foundation.

Her weeklong quest of visiting every downtown business asking for donations had added up to a cool thirty thousand, which meant she was still a hundred seventy thousand short. Next week she planned on daylong trips to Santa Barbara and then a couple of Los Angeles suburbs. With more than three weeks to go, she was beginning to feel as if she might pull off a financial coup. Add to that she'd found a steal of a deal on a semi-new washing machine on Craigslist, and she was putting this week in the win column.

Her tired smile faded as she caught the faraway look in her father's eyes. “Dad? Is something wrong?”

He blinked as if coming out of a trance. “You reminded me of your mother just then. The combination of exhilaration and dedication.” The sadness didn't hover as long as it used to, but Morgan didn't think it would ever fully fade. Her parents had been married for over thirty years and rarely spent more than a few days apart.

And then, one day, Catherine was gone.

“It's her birthday soon,” he said. “The first one since the accident.”

“Whatever you want to do that day”—Morgan reached for his hand—“I cleared my calendar.”

“Appreciate that. But I'll be okay. Besides, you don't need to add me to your list of responsibilities. Speaking of which, how are things going with the center?”

Morgan bit her tongue. “Kent and I spent the day revamping the construction schedule. The latest inspection revealed a sewer line wasn't properly hooked into the system, so we're looking at maybe a three-week delay.” It could be a month, considering they had to schedule another inspection. Morgan was almost numb to the shock of bad news by now. Then again, given the mountain she still had to scale, what was another ten, fifteen, or a hundred thousand dollars? At least that bank account was holding. For now.

“The subcontractor who did the work is going to cover the cost, I assume?”

Morgan nodded and rubbed her temple, wishing away the headache that had been plaguing her for two days. “For the new work and the supplies, sure, but the delay is going to stretch our budget pretty thin.” A budget that could still be bolstered by local fund-raisers, but honestly, how many bake sales and car washes could Lantano Valley host? “Sometimes I worry I'm letting Mom down. That I'm failing her.” When the confession slipped out, a tiny bubble of tension popped in her chest, as if the small admission was enough to let her breathe again.

“You are not failing her.” Jackson squeezed her fingers. “No one could have stepped into her shoes like you have. It's been a relief to me knowing how determined you are, how passionate you feel about the foundation and continuing your mother's work. I couldn't have done it, Morgan. Without you, the foundation would have died with your mother.”

Guilt and responsibility bore down on her like an avalanche. She grasped the cameo her mother had given her, wishing it would trigger inspiration or give her some guidance. Maybe she should tell him the truth. Maybe it was time to admit the truth. Maybe she should ask for help—

“If I can find a way to clone Gina Juliano, I will make a freaking fortune.” Sheila swept into the room, pale peach fabric skimming the tops of her knees as she teetered on four-inch Pradas. “Do you know she's already found me three new clients and sent out flyers to seventeen grammar and high schools inviting them to participate in her new fund-raising test program? And those clients? She talked them into making a donation to the foundation in exchange for certain “perks” that were already included in my standard contract.” She fanned herself with her hand as she took a seat across from Morgan. “She hasn't even worked for us for a week and I'm thinking about giving her a raise.”

“This would be Gage's sister?” Jackson poured Sheila a glass of white wine as she sat across from Morgan. “Must run in the family.”

“She'd take the foundation global, given half the chance,” Morgan said.

“Might be something to that. Speaking of Gage.” Jackson tilted the bottle in Morgan's direction, but she shook her head. “Will we be seeing him again anytime soon?”

“I'm sure Morgan will be,” Sheila teased.

“We've been playing text tag all week.” All day. Every day. Into the night. With both their jobs running them twenty-four/seven, Morgan enjoyed the constant communication, the bantering, the opportunity to vent and have someone listen and then joke her out of her frustration or worry. While Morgan missed seeing him, the physical distance kept her sane. Secrets stayed secrets so much easier when you didn't have to look someone in the eye and lie.

And she had to admit, even though Nemesis' latest reported transgression had proven false, she'd needed reminding of the minefield she was traversing with Gage. Not that she could walk away from him now. Not with the success he and his family had been having bringing Drew along. Whatever magic they'd worked on him at J & J Markets, Morgan hadn't seen him frown in three days. She'd even gotten a smile out of him over breakfast this morning.

When it seemed as if her father and sister were waiting for more information on her social life, she sighed, rolled her eyes. “Hard to mesh schedules.”

“Mesh, mesh.” Sheila waved an encouraging hand. “Please let me live vicariously through you.”

“There's nothing stopping you from finding a Gage of your own,” Jackson said.

“Dad, please,” Morgan said. “Gage and I aren't serious. It's just—”

“He bitch-slapped that CPS woman,” Sheila stated. “And saved Drew from the detention center. Even got him a job, which, according to Gina, is going quite well. And then there's that magic wand Gage bought for Kelley.
He bought a magic wand
.” Sheila tapped her finger against her lips as if to hide a knowing grin. “Trust me. He's serious.”

As if she needed reminding of what made Gage special. “Sheila, that doesn't mean—”

“Oh, my God. Do not screw this up.” Sheila gaped at her. “That man is crazy about you and you know it. Not to mention the fact that he gets your life, the work, the kids, and he's still interested. Doesn't get much better than that.”

The idea of thinking long-term with Gage was akin to rolling a grenade into the room with the pin half-pulled. She wouldn't know when, but when the bomb exploded, the fallout would be devastating. Especially now that he was tied to the kids, to Drew.

“Please let's continue talking about my love life because it's the perfect topic to discuss in front of my
father
.”

Jackson picked up his drink, considered the ice cubes. “In case either of you needs reminding, you wouldn't be here if your mother and I hadn't had a love life.”

“So not a statement you want to hear before dinner.” Nathan stopped inside the door, looking as if second thoughts had stolen his ability to walk. “Bourbon, straight, please,” he said to the waiter who followed him in. “Actually, make that a double.” He shrugged out of his jacket. “What have I missed?”

“Nothing Morgan wishes to discuss further.” Sheila grinned. “And what kept you?”

“I ran into Alcina Oliver on my way in. She's trying to convince Malcolm to come back for that birthday celebration you've been planning for her.”

“The Malcolm Oliver you dated while I was away at college?” Morgan glanced at Sheila, who couldn't have looked more uncomfortable if she had just sat on a porcupine.

“That's him.” Nathan said, angling a look at Sheila, who was suddenly overly focused on her menu. But before either Morgan or Nathan could pounce, she shifted her attention to their father.

“So what's with the impromptu dinner, Dad?”

Jackson took a moment and looked at each of them, a calm Morgan hadn't seen in some time settling over him. “Well, I'd planned to broach the subject after we ate, but I guess now is as good a time as any.” He took a moment. “I'm thinking about selling the house. In fact, I'd like to.”

Whatever air was left in Morgan's lungs evaporated. She looked at Sheila, then Nathan, and figured the same sick feeling had to be squirming its way through their stomachs. “Sell Mom's house?”

“You'd like to,” Nathan repeated, leaning his arms on the table, ignoring the drink the waiter set in front of him except to say, “Give us a while, will you, please?”

“Yes, sir.” The waiter left and closed the door behind him. The trickling of the fountain in the serenity garden echoed in the room.

“Are you sure, Dad?” Sheila inclined her head, as if she couldn't wrap her mind around the concept.

“Why?” Morgan felt cold, as if every molecule of warmth had been snatched from the room. “Why now?”

Jackson placed a hand on each of his daughter's arms. “I've been giving this some thought for some time. It is, it was, your mother's house. We built it together from the ground up, raised you all in it. Every breath taken inside its walls was because of her. Knowing she'll never walk down those stairs again with me in the morning, not seeing her struggle with the coffeepot or try to figure out the microwave—”

“Or the popcorn machine.” Nathan laughed.

“Or the time she turned the oven to self-cleaning on Thanksgiving and cooked toxic turkey?” Sheila wiped a tear from her cheek.

“It was our home, all of ours,” Jackson agreed. “Which makes this a family decision.”

Morgan couldn't help but feel as if one of her last anchors had slipped its mooring. Family decision or not, she had the feeling her father had already made up his mind. “I still expect her to walk through the door at any minute.”

“One reason I haven't been around as much as I could have been,” Nathan admitted. “You're right, Dad. It does hurt to be there.”

“I can be home more,” Sheila offered. “I can make it a point to be—”

“Sheila, the fact that you moved in after the accident was the greatest gift you could have given me, but I refuse to allow my children to live for anyone other than themselves.” He aimed a pointed look at Morgan. “A lesson I hope you're learning. The last thing your mother would want is for you to miss out on the chance to be happy.”

“We aren't talking about me. We're talking about you and Mom.” Morgan's eyes burned, clouded, but she pulled the tears back. Now wasn't the time to give in.

“Do you know that her closet is exactly the way she left it the morning of the accident?” Jackson squeezed her arm. “Her nightgown is still draped over the dresser. The watch she forgot to put on is in the glass dish beside her jewelry box. The dress she needed to press before dinner has the dry cleaner bag half-off. It's like passing by a portal into the past every time I walk into our bedroom. There isn't a moment I would want to forget, Morgan. But something has to change. I have to live for now. Not for what should have been.”

***

“These records are a miracle, thank you, Morgan.” When he accepted the USB thumb drive, Elliot Dunbar gave Morgan a look of such relief that she might have smiled if her heart hadn't been slamming against her throat. “Ralph's records are a disaster,” Elliot continued. “I can't believe he could function under these conditions.”

Ralph's records were a mess because the foundation's accountant had been covering for her.

Guilt settled inside her like a hibernating bear, suffocating the regret over having to turn away a doctor who had called her for help with his terminal patient. It was all Morgan could do not to scream at the timing. Even if she'd had the money to give, with the new accountant watching the foundation's funds so closely, there was no way to get to it without arousing suspicion. She was failing. And falling. With no net in sight.

Morgan could only hope the second set of books she'd handed over to Elliot would buy her the time she needed to come up with the last of the money.

“Glad I could help,” Morgan told him with a forced smile.

“I know the independent auditor will appreciate your attention to detail.”

Morgan's ears roared as if she'd just dived off Niagara Falls. “I'm sorry. Independent auditor?”

Elliot stopped shuffling papers. “I thought you knew. Sorry, shouldn't have assumed. Before I take on any account I like someone from the outside to take a look and make sure we're heading in free and clear. Nothing to worry about.” He continued sorting and stacking. “While I can't see where Ralph kept anything on computer, your records are meticulous. Thank goodness you pay such close attention to detail.”

“Ralph was old school.” Morgan was amazed she could eke out the words. The books she'd just turned over were more fictional than Dan Brown's latest conspiracy thriller. “So, um, when do you expect the audit to begin?”