Cut and Run

by Allison Brennan

  She was right.

  Mitch saw Max as soon as she walked into the main office, since his door was open and he had a clear view of the lobby.

  Max smiled at the receptionist when she said, “May I help you?”

  Mitch stepped into the doorway. “Maxine Revere?”

  “You remembered.”

  “Grover said you were coming to town, but I didn’t think you’d be here this fast. Did you hear?”

  “That Stanley Grant was shot and is in critical condition after being released on bail? Yes. Can we talk in your office?”

  “I don’t know that this is a good time. I was trying to find out what hospital he’s at so I can see him. Check on his sister—oh, God, what if she doesn’t know?”

  “She was there. Lucky to be alive, as she was only a few feet from him and he was shot three times.”

  Mitch paled. “How do you know that?”

  She didn’t want him to know that she was working with Sean, not yet. She didn’t know why she thought Mitch was acting suspicious, but first, he was planning to visit the man who allegedly killed his ex-wife and business partner, and second, he was one of two people that same business partner called when he learned he’d been granted bail. Something didn’t add up, but she didn’t have enough information to draw any conclusions.

  Though Mitch didn’t specifically invite her inside and he hadn’t moved from the doorway, she brushed past him and into his office. He followed her. She glanced around his modest space. Everything was placed just so and the colors were cool and inviting: gray hues with dark mahogany furniture. The books on the shelves appeared to be for show, because who in a land development office would read Shakespeare’s Complete Works? Crisp black-and-white photographs of land—wide-open spaces, horses, cattle—decorated the pale-gray walls.

  “Can I get you something?” Mitch asked. “Coffee? Water?”

  “I’m good, thank you.” Mitch seemed anything but comfortable. It could be because of the stress of the last two months, or the fact that she was a crime reporter and some people were nervous around reporters. She could look at him on the one hand as the grieving ex-husband of his business partner, stunned that his best friend from college had killed her in the heat of the moment after embezzling from the company. Or she could look at him on the other hand as being edgy because he had a secret, a sliver of guilt that he knew something more about Stanley’s confession—or Victoria’s murder—than he wanted anyone to know.

  It might mean nothing. It might mean everything. Making people uncomfortable was one of the best ways to dig out the truth.

  She smiled and sat on the chair across from his desk and motioned for him to sit back down.

  She made a point to look around the office again and not say anything. Silence made innocent people uncomfortable but guilty people nervous.

  “So, um, Max, Grover said you were in town to cover Stan’s trial.”

  “No,” she said.

  He looked confused. “What? You’re not?”

  “When Grover asked me to help him navigate Victoria’s murder investigation, I was happy to help—from afar. I have a colleague here to handle the fieldwork. But when Stan recanted his confession, I’ll admit, that intrigued me. And when I become curious, I like to do the work myself.”

  He leaned forward as if he thought she would continue. After a moment, she said, “How difficult has it been for you with both Victoria and Stan gone?”

  “What kind of question is that? Victoria is dead. She was murdered.”

  He didn’t say, Stan murdered Victoria.

  More than interesting.

  “That may have been insensitive of me,” Max said without remorse. She had intentionally framed the question in just the way she asked it to get a specific response, only his response revealed far more than she expected. “I was thinking about your business; MCG is very successful, but there were three of you running it—jeez, how long? Ten, twelve years?”

  “Fifteen years. Before Victoria and I were married.”

  He looked at a photo on his desk.

  She didn’t let manners stop her. She reached over and turned the photo so she could see.

  The picture wasn’t of their wedding but appeared to be taken at the rehearsal dinner—based on the attire and who was in the picture. Victoria and Mitch were front and center. Stan stood next to Mitch, and they were both laughing. Simon was in the photo, as well as Victoria’s much younger brother, who was now a doctor in Austin. Victoria was tipsy and looked happy, her arm around another woman who also looked tipsy and happy. She looked familiar, Max probably met her at the wedding but didn’t recall her name.

  Mitch took the photo from her hand and put it back, adjusting it exactly as it was before.

  “Happier times,” Max said.

  If she believed that her best friend had killed the woman she loved, no way would she have his photo on her desk. Because even though Mitch and Victoria divorced, they were friends. Max wondered if he still loved her. Which made her wonder, not for the first time, why they divorced in the first place.

  “What do you want from me, Max?” he asked quietly. “You asked how things are? They suck. I’ve been putting in twelve-, fourteen-hour days because of the work just to manage the clients we have. The staff walks on eggshells because no one knows what to say to me and I don’t know what to say to them. I’m weary. Tired. Lonely.”

  “Why did Stan call you this afternoon?”

  He stared at her, but didn’t deny it. “None of your business.”

  “I’m sure the police will ask you the same thing,” Max said. She’d suggested that Sean return Marie’s phone to her so the police could conduct their own investigation, but it was very nice having the information before the police did.

  “Why would they?”

  “Because very few people knew that Stan had been released on bail. Simon, because he was there in the courthouse during the hearing. You, because Stan called you. His lawyer, me, his sister. And one other person he called after you. Spoke with you for two minutes, then three minutes to someone else. Untraceable number—for now. But the police have resources. So do I. Stan called you first, and I want to know why.”

  “I don’t have to tell you anything, Maxine. Nothing. It’s personal between me and Stan.”

  “Convenient, if he dies. You can say it was about anything. You can even say he confessed to you, maybe with the purpose of shutting down any further investigation.”

  “You’re making no sense.”

  “Do you think Stan killed Victoria? I have my doubts, but I can be convinced.”

  “I—” He was torn. He hadn’t expected her to ask him. He cleared his throat. “I don’t know,” he said.

  She couldn’t tell if he was lying. Either he was an amazing liar—definite possibility, considering how he was obfuscating the entire conversation—or he was truly not certain.

  “Was Stan gambling again?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You’re not on a witness stand, Mitch. I’ll take your opinion on the matter, weigh it accordingly.”

  “This feels like a goddamn interrogation.”

  “I’m going to find out exactly what happened to Victoria. If Stan killed her, I’ll figure it out. I might not be able to prove it in a court of law, but I don’t need a court of law to give Grover and Judith peace of mind. If Stan didn’t kill her, I’ll find out who did. You don’t know me well, Mitch, but I don’t give up.”

  “Well, good then. You figure out whether Stan was lying then, or is lying now. Good luck with that, especially if he dies.” His voice cracked.

  Stan’s shooting had really gotten to him. Max didn’t quite know what to make of it, but he seemed to be genuinely emotional. That didn’t mean he didn’t know something more about it, and it didn’t mean that he didn’t set his friend up. But guilt … guilt was a complex emotion, and people felt guilty over a myriad of things, some small, some big.

  If Mitch honestly believe
d that Stan killed Victoria, would he be so upset about the shooting? Maybe.

  It didn’t feel right.

  “I don’t have time for your games, Maxine.”

  “I don’t play games.”

  He laughed. “You’re a piece of work. I hope you’re more sensitive with Grover than you are with me.”

  “If Stan didn’t kill Victoria, who do you think did? Someone must have had a reason. And Victoria wasn’t close to many people, her life revolved around this business, according to her parents.”

  “I thought it was a robbery until Stan confessed,” he said. “Then I didn’t know what to think.”

  “There was nothing taken from the house, according to the police reports.” Yet … what if something was taken that the homeowners didn’t want the police to know about? Or what if something was taken from Victoria herself?

  Sean had run a background on the homeowners of the stately home in Alamo Heights that Victoria had listed, where she had been killed. They were out of the country at the time of the murder, but what if they weren’t as squeaky clean as Sean said they were?

  Sean was good, but it was only a cursory background. Max would ask him to dig deeper because maybe they’d missed something. She doubted it, but investigations meant going over every possibility from every angle, layer after layer, until every truth was known.

  Mitch said, “Look, Max, I appreciate that you came all this way to give Victoria’s parents peace of mind. But you should let the system handle this.”

  “And if Stan dies? What then? Are you content with not knowing whether he killed Victoria? Whether he was blackmailed or threatened into making a false confession?”

  “I need to check on Marie. She’s probably sick with worry. So please, if you want to talk later, call me and I promise to make the time, okay? I know your family is close to the Millses, I get that you’re just trying to help. But right now you’re stirring everything up. Maybe you should just let things settle down and it’ll all work out.”

  No comment at all about Stan being blackmailed or threatened. No reaction.

  He knew.

  Because Stan told him? Or because Mitch was behind it?

  Earlier today, Simon had been in complete disbelief that Stan had been threatened. He thought it was a ploy, and maybe it was.

  Maybe Mitch helped Stan come up with the ploy. After all, he visited him in prison several times.

  And Simon visited him twice.

  Max rose and so did Mitch. In her heels, she was as tall as he. She used her height to her advantage—it seemed to intimidate some people. She extended her hand; he shook it. Damp, but soft. He didn’t do a lot of manual labor. She considered when she saw Stan—he had callouses on his hands. From working in the yard or working out at a gym or what she didn’t know, but he used his hands. Mitch didn’t. Not that it was a bad thing. Just interesting.

  At the door, Max turned and Mitch almost bumped into her. “Who’s Harrison Monroe?”

  He stared at her. He was trying hard to keep his face impassive, but his pupils widened and a small tic jerked the side of his mouth up.

  “I don’t think I know anyone by that name,” he said.

  “Why are you lying?”

  She might be playing with fire here, but she was really enjoying how easy Mitch was to rattle.

  “I—I’m not. I might have heard the name, I don’t know, I really don’t. Are you always this suspicious of everyone?”

  “Not everyone,” Max said, and walked out.

  Chapter Fifteen

  TUESDAY, LATE AFTERNOON

  Lucy got off the phone with Sean. Nate frowned.

  “You didn’t tell him about the accident?”

  “He doesn’t need to worry about me when he is dealing with the shooting,” she said. “He’s tracking someone for Max, he didn’t give me the details. He was clipped.”

  “Did he get checked out?”

  “No.” Which irritated her, but she didn’t really have the right to complain. She hated going to the hospital, too. “I’ll look at it when I get home. Grant’s on life support, and the prognosis isn’t good.”

  They were in a small conference room going over all the files from the Denise Albright case from three years ago, waiting for Laura Williams, the White Collar Crimes agent who had originally been assigned the embezzlement case. Lucy was looking through photos of the Albright house, but nothing was jumping out at her.

  Rachel Vaughn walked in. “I just read your report, Nate. What happened?”

  Nate told her about being followed yesterday but unable to verify the tail, then being followed today and run off the road. “It was a tag team. We’ll be prepared next time.”

  “If you’re being followed, that tells me this isn’t a simple homicide.”

  “It’s never been simple,” Lucy said.

  Nate said, “Lucy and I don’t think they left the country. That tells us that more than one person was involved—likely several people. To stage the house so it appeared that they’d left, to drive the car across the border, to bury the bodies. Honestly, it sounds like organized crime.”

  Rachel looked surprised at Nate’s comment, then said. “I’ll reach out to headquarters. We’re going to need more resources if this is organized crime. Denise Albright was an accountant—could she have been working for a criminal organization? What about Kiefer, the company she embezzled from?”

  “We’re looking into him, but on the surface he has no ties at all to a criminal network, and he’s the one who lost everything when the money went missing,” Nate said.

  Lucy said, “We considered that Denise feared one of her other clients—that’s what we’re going over now—and took the money to run, because she felt threatened.”

  “And not go to the police?”

  “It’s just speculation right now, but what if she wanted to get her family someplace safe, then turn herself in? Especially if she had committed a crime. Or if she uncovered a crime but was too scared to come forward. The Kiefer money was easy for her to access,” Lucy added.

  “We need more to back this up,” Rachel said, “but I’ll find out if there’s anyone or any organization we need to look at. We can compare the names and businesses to her client list.”

  “That would be helpful,” Nate said.

  Rachel left, passing Laura Williams as she walked in.

  “Lucy, Nate, sorry that I haven’t been able to talk at all this week. This trial is insane.”

  “We appreciate your time.”

  Laura dropped her briefcase and coat on a chair in the corner of the room and sat down with a sigh. “Too bad we couldn’t have met at a bar. After today I need a glass of wine.”

  Nate smiled. “We won’t keep you long.”

  “Don’t worry about me, I’ll live. I hate this part of the job. Sitting around waiting and waiting and then giving your testimony and having some jerk lawyer try to cross you up by throwing irrelevant questions into the mix. But I think we’ll be okay. Go back tomorrow.”

  “Thank you for all this.” Lucy waved to the stacks of paper she and Nate had been going through.

  “Not me, our analyst pulled everything out. But I read my notes when I had a break today, I’m up to speed.

  “First,” Laura said, “while three million dollars is a lot of money, it’s only three million dollars, if that makes sense. We had another case shortly after this that we needed all hands for—a graft and corruption case in Austin. Took down three corrupt officials and a half-dozen employees in a kickback scheme that ultimately cost hundreds of senior citizens their homes when they couldn’t pay fees they should never have been charged. These were things you and I might not notice—but someone on a fixed income, they get slammed and then threatened with levies and fines and it adds up. I wish I could prosecute those bastards all over again.”

  “I take it you won.”

  “Damn straight. But it took over a year of my life. I was practically living in Austin. And we had the photo of
Albright and her family crossing the border. We sent out BOLOs, sent the file down to our legal attaché in Mexico, but there’s not much we can do until they’re spotted, and then we have to play jurisdictional footsies to get them back. Not for a minute did I think they were dead. What do you think happened?”

  “We believe they never left the States,” Lucy said.

  Laura frowned. “I didn’t make that up. We had the photo. It should be here.”

  “It was their vehicle, but they weren’t driving—that’s our theory. Based on our interviews and the timeline, it simply isn’t plausible that they left and returned a week later. Possible, but unlikely. Their vehicle was found dismantled in Mexico, so they’d have to find other transportation—they couldn’t fly because their passports were flagged. So Nate and I think they were killed the day they disappeared. Buried, and someone tried to make us think they left the country.”

  “That’s awful,” Laura said. “Give me graft and corruption any day over mass murder.”

  “What we’re looking at now are Albright’s clients. We have a list of them here, and your notes. No one, other than Kiefer, had lost any money.”

  “Correct. We interviewed everyone she worked for based on her files and calendar. We compared that information to her most recent tax returns, which were honestly the most flawless set of tax returns I’ve ever seen. The individuals involved all had independent auditors review their accounts. I followed up a year later—called everyone, reviewed the file, confirmed that they were still considered at large. No one was missing funds.” She sorted through a stack of files, looking for something specific, then pulled it out. “On the Kiefer funds, she committed fraud—by forging Kiefer’s signature to transfer the money to a separate holding account which she controlled, and then she transferred those funds to a shell corp that was closed down a day later. The money rolled through multiple shells for a week before it disappeared.”

  “Money doesn’t just disappear,” Nate said.

  “On paper it does. We have the last withdrawal—on Friday, September 28. But we don’t know where the money went. It was transferred to a numbered account overseas, which has since been closed.”