by Libby Howard
Judge Beck narrowed his eyes. “Expense reimbursements.”
I blinked in surprise. “Forging them? At a blue-chip investment firm?”
“No, diverting the reimbursements into a separate account.” Judge Beck steepled his hands under his chin. “I know ours get processed separately, and they usually come on the non-payroll week. If he’s got a few thousand a month in expenses, that could be a lot.”
I scribbled it down on the pad. “But that shows up on the W-2, doesn’t it? It’s been ten years since Eli got a check or a W-2, but I seem to remember there being a box for it.”
He nodded. “True, but if they lob all their paperwork over to a tax accountant like everyone else does, the wife may not ever have noticed.”
Check W-2s. That should be easy. Marissa should have access to that. And I was trying to ignore the fact that I hadn’t needed a tax accountant in over a decade. When Eli was in practice, yes, but after the accident I couldn’t justify the expense—especially since there was far more money going out than coming in.
I went back to the tedium of the bank statements, and Judge Beck began looking through his own work. For the next few hours, the only sounds were of flipping papers, scribbling pencils, and the occasional sigh. Finally, at midnight, when my eyesight was beginning to cloud and all the mundane debit charges were starting to blur together, I said a quiet “goodnight” to the judge, scooped up a sleepy Taco, and headed to bed to dream of expense fraud and expensive dinners at Stella’s.
Chapter 4
I eyed Daisy from between the legs of my downward dog. It was six in the morning. I’d squeaked in just over five hours of sleep last night. With enough coffee, I’d get through the day, but I really couldn’t make a habit of these late nights working combined with yoga at dawn—not unless I wanted to be facedown in a nap on my desk by noon.
Daisy, on the other hand, looked energetic and well-rested. Yoga with cats clearly did a body good.
“So? How did it go last night?” I asked as we continued to hold in downward dog.
Daisy giggled. Giggled. It was a sound so out of place coming from my friend that I almost fell over. “I can’t believe I got J.T. Pierson to do yoga, let alone yoga in a room full of cats. He even drank a hibiscus ginger kombucha tea afterward.”
Sheesh. J.T. wasn’t kidding when he said he’d do anything for Daisy. “So, did you talk him into adopting a cat?”
She snorted. “No. Can you imagine J.T. with a cat? He’d be hopeless with the poor thing. Those kitties need a good home, not someone who would probably forget to feed them.”
“He wouldn’t forget to feed them. He’d just get one of those giant auto-feeders and maybe pay someone to empty the litter once a week.” We shifted into a tree pose, and I sighed, glad to be out of the hamstring agony of downward dog.
“Actually, he’d probably be good with a pet,” Daisy admitted. “But it would have to be one he really wanted, not one he adopted because he thought it would get him laid.”
I laughed. “You do realize it’s only you he’s pursuing like this? He’s not a…what did Madison call it? A player? He’s not a player.”
Daisy grinned. “No, but you have to admit that if I told him I’d sleep with him, he’d adopt one of those cats in a hot second.”
“He’d have a house full of cats if you slept with him,” I told her. “You’ve got the man wrapped around your finger, Daisy. I mean, he actually spent an evening doing yoga. With cats.”
She pivoted into a chair pose. “I know. And…well, he is kind of growing on me.”
I mirrored her position. “Growing on you? Like a fungus?”
She laughed. “I like him. I enjoy being with him. The attention is so flattering, and he’s not pushy or anything. He’s just fun, and gentlemanly, and…I don’t know. Chivalrous.”
I’d never have imagined anyone describing Gator Pierson as chivalrous, but then again, the guy did save me from being shot. Chivalrous worked for me.
“You don’t have to rush anything, Daisy,” I told her. “Enjoy his company and just see where it goes. You know he has feelings for you, but J.T. is a patient man. And if the answer ends up being ‘no,’ he’ll still have enjoyed the time he’s spent with you.”
“I kissed him,” she confessed in a whisper as she dropped down into a vajra pose.
I nearly passed out from shock as I knelt down. Kissed him? A thrill ran through me, as if I were a teenager again, discussing my friend’s stolen chaste smooch behind the bleachers with a boy with a mouth full of braces.
“You kissed him?” It came out with a bit of a squeal. I couldn’t help it.
Daisy actually blushed. “It was just a quick thing when we were walking down the street to his car after yoga. I just leaned over and kissed him.”
“And?” If she left me with this cliffhanger, I’d never forgive her. Well, I’d forgive her, but I might not let her have an extra piece of the pumpkin bars.
She abandoned the yoga to sit cross-legged and yank a few blades of grass from my lawn. “I think it surprised him as much as it did me. He didn’t really have time to respond. It was just a quick smooch, then we kept walking to the car.”
“He didn’t grab you and kiss you senseless? Knock your socks off? Ravish you right there on Third Street?” I demanded, realizing that I’d probably been reading too many of those Luanne Trainor novels.
“He held my hand.” Daisy smirked at me, rolling the torn grass between her fingers. “I’m glad he didn’t jump me in some crazed act of passion. It would have ruined what was a beautiful, spontaneous moment.”
Score one for my boss. It seemed with Daisy, slow and steady did win the race. And letting her set the speed of things was clearly a good thing. I thought for a moment about how I’d want a relationship to proceed at my age. Back in college, Eli and I had been all over each other pretty much like those romance books I’d been reading, but I didn’t think I’d want that at this point in my life. Passion, yes. Definitely. But I wanted passion built on a foundation of friendship and trust. I wanted it to come to a slow boil, to simmer on the stove a bit. The hormones were definitely still there, but like a car that had sat in the garage for too long, it would take the old engine a while to turn over and catch.
“I’m happy for you, Daisy. J.T. is a nice guy, and I’m happy things are working out between you two,” I told her, all the while very much aware that I was also envious. I’d buried my beloved husband six months ago. I wasn’t ready to fall in love again. But I longed for that closeness, that rush I got when Eli was near me. Even after his accident, when everything had changed between us, I still loved him. I still enjoyed our life together. And I ached to think I might never have that again—with him or anyone else.
“Well, I think after our dinner at Stella’s I might just kiss him again.” Daisy jumped to her feet, giving me the whole teenager-vibe again and dispelling my sad mood. “Now, come on. You promised me some pumpkin bars, and I’m a big fan of dessert for breakfast.”
She wasn’t the only one. As we headed through the kitchen door, I caught Judge Beck, coffee cup in one hand, the other holding a pumpkin bar halfway to his mouth.
He lowered the slice with a sheepish grin. “I hope this wasn’t for some charity auction. It looked wonderful. I couldn’t help myself.”
“Go ahead.” I waved at him. “It’s Cake for Breakfast Day, didn’t you know?”
He took a bite then looked down at the pan. “How about we not tell the kids and just eat it all ourselves?”
I pulled two cups from the cabinet. “Glutton. Go wake your children. I’ll cut them each a piece.”
He headed upstairs and Daisy eyed him appreciatively—eyed his backside appreciatively, that is. I’ll admit that Judge Beck wandering around in pajama bottoms and an old t-shirt was just as much of a wake-me-up as the coffee.
“So, how’s the divorce case thing going?” my friend asked, tilting her head and leaning over to catch a final glimpse at Judge Beck climbing
the stairs.
“I worked straight through until midnight and couldn’t find much of anything.” I sighed in frustration as I handed her a pumpkin bar and a mug of coffee. “I’m in over my head, Daisy. I do skip-traces. Credit reports. Social media and internet searches. Case searches across state lines. This is all bank and credit card statements, and I’ve got no idea what I’m even looking for. I’d just assumed there’d be some huge money transfer in bold red type with a memo that said ‘hiding this from my wife.’”
“Ask J.T. for help.” She took a swig of the coffee. “You just got your license. He’s supposed to be mentoring you or supervising you or something, isn’t he?”
I shrugged. “I’ll ask, but this isn’t really his thing, either. The divorce cases he does usually involve him sitting outside a no-tell motel with a camera. He’s an old-school detective, which is why he hired me to do the skip-trace work. This is more in line with my abilities, but I’m just not an accountant. I need someone who really knows what they’re looking at and can spot the needle in the haystack of bank statements.”
Daisy took a bite of cake and made a series of appreciative noises. “How about Olive?” she mumbled with her mouth full. “She’s an accountant.”
“Yes, but she’s busy with her company’s fiscal year end. She couldn’t even make it to last Friday’s happy hour. Besides, I need someone who does financial audits. That sort of thing.”
Wait. I did know someone who had a CPA license and had specialized in audits—specifically in forensic accounting. And she was young, without the sort of lofty resume that would make J.T. clutch his wallet in alarm.
“I’ve got an idea,” I told Daisy. “I just have to sell it to J.T”
“Yeah, good luck with that.” She took another bite of her pumpkin bar, then glanced up at me with a mischievous twinkle in her eyes. “Unless you’d like me to intervene and ask him myself?”
Oh my. I’d created a monster. “No. You save your influence for the important things, like getting homeless cats adopted or a sponsor for the youth center. I’ll handle this one.”
I walked through the door to the office, plopped the box of paperwork on my desk and faced J.T., hands on my hips. He paused mid-pour of his coffee and shot me a wary glance. “I take it you haven’t found a million dollars hidden in a Swiss bank account?”
“I haven’t found fifty cents in between the sofa cushions. Three years of bank statements filled with thousands of transactions for every gallon of gas and box of cereal those people ever bought isn’t the easiest thing to sort through. I’m in over my head. I want to ask an accountant to look over this,” I told J.T. “Specifically, I want to pay Violet Smith fifty bucks to stop by my house tonight and look over this.”
My boss scowled. I could see the miserly gears turning in his brain. “Isn’t she a kid? Some recent college grad? I appreciate that you’re trying to save us a few bucks here, but Mrs. Thompson can’t call on a college kid as an expert witness.”
No, she couldn’t. Violet was twenty-two, just passed her CPA exam, and not two months into a job at the county tax assessors’ office. But she had one thing going for her—she was cheap. And I really liked the idea of tossing some money at a girl who was working hard to dig herself out of generations of crushing poverty.
“We’d need to call Mrs. Thompson and get approval for the funds to hire an actual forensic accountant. Is that something you want to do?” I asked.
I knew darned well what his answer to that would be. J.T. was cheap, but there was more to this than pinching a penny or two. Bringing in a forensic accountant would send a very loud message to our client that we couldn’t handle this case. Next step would be her wondering why she was paying us at all when she could just go straight to a forensic accountant herself.
“I don’t want to waste fifty bucks on some college kid who doesn’t know what she’s doing,” J.T. protested. “You’re good at this sort of thing, Kay. I know you can do this yourself.”
“I can, but not as quickly as Mrs. Thompson wants it,” I countered. “I’m meeting her for coffee in less than an hour to give her a progress report, and I want to at least be able to reassure her that we’re going over these statements with a knowledgeable and fine-toothed comb. Fifty bucks. One night. If Violet doesn’t find anything, then she’s still probably saved you fifty bucks of my time. If she does find something, we’ll be able to show our client that we’re making progress and doing it fast.”
His eyes narrowed as he considered my argument.
“I’ve got a hunch,” I told him. “I think there’s something in these bank statements, something small that I’m missing because I’m just not used to wading through all this accounting stuff. I’m not finding anything through my usual avenues. I seriously think the clue is in the bank statements. If I’m wrong, I’m sure you’d rather spend fifty dollars on my mistake than bill Mrs. Thompson for five days’ work and tell her we’ve got nothing. Or spend five hundred dollars, which is what a forensic accounting ‘expert’ will cost us. If Violet finds something, then we can always check with Mrs. Thompson about paying for a legit audit to back us up.”
J.T. sighed, but when he turned to pour his coffee, I knew I’d won. “Fine. Fifty dollars. But I want something tangible by tomorrow morning. Deal?”
I grinned. “Deal.”
“And you’re meeting with Mrs. Thompson this morning to give her an update? What are you telling her?”
I dropped my purse on my desk and sat down. “That there are no photos so far that show her husband anywhere except at business events, and those were clearly professional. He seems to socialize with a lot of mortgage bankers and real estate agents. Nothing criminal. Nothing shows up in his credit report beyond the joint accounts with his wife, so any credit he’s taken out is either too recent to show up, or is under someone else’s name, or a company’s EIN. I’ve found some variances in his direct deposit that go back a few years, but without the paycheck stubs, I can’t tell if they’re a change in benefits, tax withholding, or a redirect of funds, but I noted it down. Next step is to check tax records and do a deeper dive into the bank statements for anything that might indicate a side investment, business, or gambling enterprise. Or a mistress.”
J.T. nodded. “Okay. Don’t let her pressure you into conjecturing on anything at this point. Stay strictly to the facts and no interpreting them. Divorces are an emotional business, and if you hint at what you think might be going on, she’ll take it and run.”
“And we’ll look like fools. Or I’ll look like a fool.”
“If she tries to rush you, just let her know that these things normally take months to go through, and we’re trying to accomplish it in a week. Then tell her you’ll update her daily on our progress.”
“Got it.” I smirked and watched my boss sip his coffee for a moment. “So…you’re going to film the last few scenes of your Luanne Trainor video this morning, right?”
He shot me a narrow-eyed glance. “Yeah. We’re meeting in half an hour outside Billingsly’s Bed and Breakfast. Why? Do you want me to go with you to meet Mrs. Thompson?”
No, I needed to show him I could work with clients all on my own. My question was leading down a different path.
“And afterward…?”
He slowly shook his head. “I’m coming back here to work on a repossession case?”
Lord, the man was dense sometimes. “Isn’t Daisy meeting you at the B&B? To film that last scene?”
He flushed. “Yes, she is. It won’t take long, though. Just twenty minutes at the most. She’s got to be back at work, so it’s not like I can take her out for brunch or anything.”
I pulled a little package out of my purse and held it out to him. “You can thank me later.”
He took the package with a puzzled frown and opened it, holding up the coffee mug with a colorful series of dancing cats on it. A paper fluttered to the ground.
“Make sure you pick that up and include it,” I told him.
/> J.T. picked up the paper and read it. “Thank you for your support. One hundred percent of the profits from this purchase go to benefit Milford Mittens Cat Rescue and Foster Care.”
“You’re welcome.”
He grinned, his face still flushed. “Did she tell you about last night?”
“Let’s just say that my friend really enjoyed herself, and I expect to be reimbursed for the mug.” I’d bought it for myself, but realized this morning before I left for work that it would make a wonderful after-the-first-kiss present from my boss to Daisy.
He tucked the paper inside the mug and wrapped it in the tissue once more, carefully tucking it inside his briefcase. “Well, I need to run, or I’ll be late. And you as well.”
I watched him leave, then quickly sorted through my papers, electing to take only my purse and a notepad as I dashed out to meet Marissa Thompson for coffee and an update on her case.
There was no need to rush, because Marissa Thompson was evidently one of those people who would probably be late to her own funeral. I was halfway through my skim latte and contemplating the professionalism of watching cat videos on my phone as I waited when she finally walked through the door. I had to wait another five minutes while she ordered her overly complicated drink, and they made it. Finally, she walked over to me like she was a model on the runway in Cannes, her drink in one hand, and her designer purse in the crook of her other arm. My irritation faded when she sat down and took off her glasses and I saw clear evidence that she’d been crying.
Professional. Must be professional. Which wouldn’t involve giving our client a hug. No. Not at all.
