In A Heartbeat (32 page)

“Henry Renard. Leave your name, number and a short message.”

Concise. Direct. In charge. So like Hank.
The caller hung up. Hank or her mom would have left a message. Better let the machine pick up any and all calls, just to be safe. Preferring not to be disturbed, she turned the ring volume down and headed back to Hank’s home office.

With a little help from Max, she received an email with an attachment of their original audit spreadsheet. Engrossed in tracing shipping documents, she jumped at the sound of the doorbell. Must be Stephen with the suitcase.

“Just a minute.” She clicked onto the next screen and jotted a note. The doorbell chimed again.

She walked to the front door, “Hold your horses, I’m coming.”

With one hand already releasing the lock, she checked the peephole. Her heart sank. Raymond waited on the other side.

Chapter Twenty-Six

FOR A MAN who thrived on stress, Hank was having a helluva time concentrating on business. He’d tried to call Angel several times this morning, and each time he was invited to leave a message. Smart girl to screen calls, but then why wasn’t she returning his calls? Was she even there? His gut twisted, then relaxed. Classic Limo had her car. She couldn’t go anywhere. But what if she was hurt? What if she couldn’t answer the phone because something had happened? What if…?

“Maybe we should discuss this when you can stay focused,” Tom Wilson said, making a poor attempt to hide his discontent. He gathered the papers he’d brought for Hank’s review.

“Sorry.” Hank glanced up. “What were you saying?”

“I was saying that this is the worst possible time to do an inventory count. The warehouse is hopping with that sales promotion. We could lose business if we closed it for the day. And you and I both know that won’t help the bottom line.”

“God, I am so sick of hearing about the bottom line.” Hank shook his head. “If we can’t figure out how to stop the hemorrhaging, neither one of us will have to worry about the bottom line again. We’ll both be out of a job.”

“Maybe not both of us.”

Hank didn’t mix the snide remark. “What do you mean by that?”

“Nothing, nothing.” Tom straightened his papers. “Hayden’s been around for forty years. I don’t think it’ll disappear overnight.”

Hank snorted, surprising himself. When did he pick up that habit? “You have personnel. Find enough people to count. I’ll call Falstaff. We’re going to count that inventory if it’s my last official act as CEO.”

As soon as Wilson left, the phone rang. Hank picked up, hoping it would be Angela. It wasn’t.

“You bastard. What have you done to my sister?”

“What happened? Is she hurt?”

“She better not be or there won’t be enough of you left to make a bowl of chowder.”

“Slow down, cowboy,” Hank cautioned. “Angela was just fine when I left this morning. Has something happened?” The knot in his stomach tightened.

“That was no accident yesterday. Her brake line was cut.”

On some level, he wasn’t surprised. The failing brakes combined with the shooting were too coincidental not to be related.

“Did you hear me?” The phone blasted in his ear. “Someone’s trying to kill her, dammit!”

“Which is why I didn’t want her to stay at her house.” Hank fought to keep his voice calm and rational. “Whoever this is, they obviously know where she lives.”

“And you think hiding out at your place is enough protection? I’ve been trying to call her for a good hour, but I keep getting your damn machine. I’ve texted her but no response.”

“Yeah, I’ve been getting the same.” Crap. So it wasn’t just his calls she’d been avoiding.

“I sent Raymond to check on her. She shouldn’t be alone. You know, nothing like this ever happened to her before you arrived on the scene.”

So much for keeping calm and rational. Hank’s voice rose at Stephen’s implication. “If you think I’m responsible in any way for—”

“I don’t know what to think,” Stephen interrupted. “I just know nothing better happen to my little sister or someone’s gonna pay.”
Click.

Stephen’s threat made it perfectly clear who that
someone
would be. Hank replaced the receiver. Not that he blamed Stephen. He had a powerful urge to do bodily harm as well. He just didn’t have a face to connect to his brutal punishment. Stephen was right about one thing. Angela shouldn’t be alone.

“Mr. Renard, Philip Ross in Human Resources wants to see you about—”

“Later, Cathy.” Hank grabbed his coat and headed toward the door. “I don’t know if I’ll be back this afternoon. If it’s an emergency, leave a message on my cell.”

“RAYMOND. WHAT ARE you doing here?” Angela asked, already determined to send him on his way.

“Stephen asked me to deliver this.” He held up the suitcase her mother had used on her Florida trip. “And he wanted me to stay so you wouldn’t be alone.” His gaze crawled the length of her, lingering, assessing.

Angie suppressed a shudder and reached for the suitcase. “Thank you for bringing this, but you don’t have to stay. It really isn’t necess—”

With a sharp twist, he jerked the suitcase back, causing her to practically wrap herself around him to keep her balance. She glanced up. A sickening smile curled his lips. “Stephen said you’d be difficult. He said I should insist.”

She straightened without the suitcase, her ankle complaining from the awkward twisting. She hadn’t thought to wear the brace while alone in Hank’s house. While tempted to slam the door in Raymond’s face, she reconsidered. It was her nerves making her suspicious of everyone. Her brother would never send someone to harm her. To irritate, maybe, but never to hurt her. She stepped to the side. “Come in, then.”

Raymond passed her in the entry way. Angie glanced longingly at the crisp, clear day outside, hesitant to close the door.

“You should lock it,” Raymond said behind her.

She turned to look at him, confused.

“The door.” He pointed with his chin. “You should lock it. There’s lots of crazies out there.”

And how do I know you’re not one of them?
She purposefully left the door unlocked.

“This is a nice hiding place, Short Stuff.” He dropped the suitcase on the sofa before crossing the room to the sliding glass door. “Not a lot of unnecessary clutter. Not a lot of those froufrou plants.” He pushed back the heavy drapes as if he owned the place, then peered into the yard beyond. “I almost feel like I’ve been here before.” He spun on his heel and returned to stand in front of her. “There’s a name for that, isn’t there? When you feel like you’ve been somewhere before.”

“Déjà vu?” she offered.

“That’s right. Déjà vu.” He smiled as if she had solved one of the world’s great mysteries. She supposed the expression was meant to be flattering, but it made her uncomfortable. “I experience déjà vu with people sometimes, as if I’ve met them in a dream, or in another life. Does that ever happen to you?”

“I suppose that happens to everyone,” she said. “That’s why there’s a name for it.” She felt the tabletop behind her, searching for a book or some heavy object to discourage him from coming closer. Her hands came up empty. He stood no more than an arm’s length away.

He laughed. “How true. But I’m particularly interested in you. Do
you
ever feel that you’ve met someone, say like me, before? Especially in light of…” He slowly dragged his finger down the front of her too thin shirt, tracing the scar hidden beneath.

Angie shuddered, slapping his finger away. “Stephen shouldn’t have told you about that.”

“I understand.” He smiled, his eyes gleamed. “You’re uncomfortable that I know these things.”

Stepping around him, she moved away, anxious to put distance between them.

“Aren’t you the brave one?” he said, nodding to the sliding glass door. “I heard someone took a potshot at you last night. You’d make a great target through that window.”

She yanked the drapes shut. “You’re the one who opened them,” she snarled.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.” At least he looked contrite. “Why do you suppose someone wants to kill you?”

She almost missed it. The slight curl of his lip, the spark that lit his eyes. He was enjoying this! She walked to the front door.

“I think you should leave. I’ll be fine by myself.”

“But your brother insisted that I stay. I’m your protector. You should be grateful.” He walked into the kitchen and inspected the cabinet contents. “Coffee?” he asked.

“I want you to leave,” she insisted. “I’ll explain everything to Stephen.”

He pulled Hank’s professional quality butcher knife from a wooden block, obviously ignoring her not-too-subtle suggestion. Testing the point with his finger, he smeared the resulting bubble of blood between his thumb and his forefinger. A smile pulled at his lips. He never even flinched. Alarms sounded in Angie’s head.

The front door opened unexpectedly. Angie jumped, her hand instinctively covering her heart.

“You should keep this locked,” Hank said, stepping over the threshold. “You never know—”

The rest of his words were lost as she practically leapt into his arms.

“Had I known I would get this reception, I’d have come earlier.” Hank’s voice warmed her ear and soothed her pulse. He hugged her tight as he addressed the man in the kitchen. “Stephen told me you’d be watching over Angie. Thanks. I can take it from here.”

“I can stick around in case you need to leave or something. I can—”

“I said, I can handle it,” Hank repeated. “I’m sure Stephen can use you back at Classic.”

His stern rumbled against her cheek, making he feel secure. She didn’t watch Raymond depart, even as she heard his footsteps approaching. She clutched Hank’s back tighter, wishing she could melt into him, hide within his bones.

“I’ll see you later then,” Raymond said, passing them. She knew he hadn’t meant Hank. An icy tremor shook her spine.

Once the door closed behind Raymond, Hank released her to arm’s length. “Are you okay?”

She shook her head. “There’s something about that man that makes me uncomfortable.”

“Well, he’s gone now,” Hank said with a quick smile. “How about you sit for a moment, and I’ll get you something to drink.”

“No. I’m in the middle of a project. I’d like to see it through.” She walked back to his office, knowing he’d follow.

“Have you found anything?”

“You know how we talked about how someone might be scared that I was too close to something they didn’t want discovered?”

“Like the inventory in that warehouse on Ritchton Street?”

“Maybe or maybe it’s something right under our noses.” She ruffled through a stack of papers. “I had Max email a copy of the testing we did on accounts payable, where we first encountered direct ships.” She handed the sheet over to Hank. “I printed it.”

“So?” He glanced at the spreadsheet.

“First, I made a list of all the names of the companies sending direct ships to Ritchton Street. Then I checked their websites. I could find a legitimate looking site for every vendor except one, Timone Industries.” She glanced up at Hank. “If the sample on our spreadsheet is accurate, Timone is the biggest supplier to the warehouse.”

“Timone.” Hank’s face screwed in concentration. “What do they sell?”

“According to their invoices, it’s some part with lots of letters and numbers.” Her voice rose in pitch. “The thing is, I don’t think they supply Hayden with anything.”

“What do you mean?”

“Think about it, Hank. The merchandise isn’t shipped to one of Hayden’s warehouses, so there’s no receiving report prepared. What if someone
said
they shipped merchandise but they really didn’t. Then, they send us an invoice—”

“A dummy invoice,” Hank supplied.

“Right, Hayden pays it and someone gets money for nothing.”

“Not a bad scheme.”

“An extremely lucrative scheme,” Angela modified. “Look at this.” She pointed to his computer monitor. “Before I left work yesterday, I built this spreadsheet showing how much Hayden paid to vendors for the last three years.”

“When did you do this?” Hank exclaimed. “I’ve been asking for a similar report and was told the IT department was still working on it.”

“All the information is in Hayden’s computer. You just have to know how to access it.” She glanced at Hank. “Who told you IT was working on it?”

“Tom Wilson”

“And who approves checks to Timone Industries?”

Tom Wilson. They both knew the answer to that one.

“But the accounts payable clerks approve the direct ship invoices for payment.” He frowned at her. “Are you suggesting they’re in on this dummy invoice thing as well?”

“All the clerks do for direct ships is match the invoice to the purchase order to make sure the stuff was ordered and the prices and quantities are correct. If everything matches up, they approve the invoice.”

“So the real perpetrator may not be Tom Wilson at all,” Hank said. “It could be someone in the purchasing department.”

Angela recalled her interview with Pete Burroughs, the little man with the terminally ill daughter, and hoped she was wrong.

“What else have you got?” Hank asked, intently interested.

“I searched property records for the owners of the Ritchton warehouse.” She made a few keystrokes and the image on the monitor changed.

“How do you know how to do all this?” Hank stared at her with a degree of awe.

“Stay confined to a bed for years on end and see how proficient you become with a computer connected to the internet.”

He shifted his gaze from the monitor to her face, comprehension dawned in his eyes. “I’m sorry.”

“I’m not.” She shrugged. “I’m alive. I’m here. It wasn’t an easy time in my life but the outcome was worth it.”

After an awkward pause, his eyebrow lifted in an appreciative expression. “Indeed.”

Warmth spread through her veins like hot chocolate, leaving her cheeks flushed. “Stop that,” she scolded. “Focus.”

“If you insist,” he pouted. He leaned closer to the computer monitor. “Dazzle me with your brilliance.”

She grinned. “Truman and Gabriel Real Estate owns most of the property in that end of town.” She picked up her cell and tapped on the screen.