Game Theory--A Katerina Carter Fraud Legal Thriller

by Colleen Cross

  “Sorry, sir. I’m going.” Kat stood and inhaled the aroma of fresh coffee and muffins that wafted over from the Starbucks across the great hall. She reached into her pants pocket, searching for change to buy a coffee. Nothing. She glanced down at her clothes. Same sweats and t-shirt she had worn last night. Thank goodness she had put on shoes before going to the adjoining hotel room.

  She reached into her other pocket for her cell phone but came up empty. Of course it was still at the Tides Resort, along with her purse, money, laptop, and World Institute documents. Had Nathan, Victoria, or even Landers found her Edgewater report? She shivered at the thought.

  Would they have caught her if she hadn’t gone into the adjoining suite last night? Probably. Landers knew where she was and was obviously cooperating with Nathan and Victoria. Then there was Jace. Gone, perhaps suffering a fate worse than hers.

  Jace would never leave without her, despite their argument. The only people that knew his whereabouts were the ones in the room last night—Nathan and Victoria Barron and Roger Landers. Had they dumped Jace somewhere too? Her mood lifted as she realized it meant she would be able to find him. The only question was where.

  Kurt’s cabin was a distinct possibility, as it was within hiking distance of Hideaway Bay. Unlikely, since the sub-zero alpine temperatures required winter clothing and he hadn’t taken his jacket. Had they dumped him at the train station too? Then he might have made his way home. And called her, but of course her phone was still at the resort. Finding Jace at home was a long shot but not impossible.

  Her spirits lifted when she realized how close she was to home. She just needed bus or cab fare to get there. She might be able to scrounge up some change at her office eight blocks away.

  Kat exited the train station, only to be met with a blast of cold air as she pushed the heavy door open. The rain pelted sideways, driven by the wind. Sleet stung her face as her hair whipped across it. Commuters trudged by, faces turned into their coats for protection. She shivered as the frigid air penetrated her thin t-shirt.

  A panhandler accosted a couple as they strolled by. The man held out a baseball cap, hoping for loose change. The couple quickened their pace and waved him off. Kat strode through the parking lot towards the street where the vagrant stood. His outstretched hand reminded her that she needed at least a couple of bucks for bus fare home. Forget about a cab.

  The panhandler caught her stare and pulled his cup protectively closer, as though she might to grab it. “My corner. Git your own.” He scowled, revealing missing front teeth.

  “Huh?” It suddenly dawned on her that he thought she was a panhandler too. Competition. Did she really look that bad? Only eight a.m., but for the second time today she felt utterly worthless.

  Kat walked along Water Street to her Gastown office building, arms crossed against the cold. The cobblestone sidewalk was slick beneath her sneakers as the snow turned to slush. It seeped into her shoes, reminding her of her warm boots still at Hideaway Bay, abandoned with the rest of her belongings.

  Despite the above-zero temperature, the bite of the wind and rain chilled her to the bone. Her teeth chattered and she shivered as she made her way along the deserted street. Most of the homeless people had gone inside, seeking shelter from the damp cold. She passed the Café Marseilles as a group of vagrants stood against the building, hands wrapped around paper coffee cups.

  By the time she reached her building, she was completely frozen. Her hands were so numb she couldn’t feel her knuckles knocking on the glass doors. The building was usually locked in the mornings, particularly in the wintertime when homeless people searched for shelter from the cold.

  After what seemed like forever, the building super finally came out of the side door to investigate the noise. He glanced over quickly and waved her away.

  “Marcus, it’s me—let me in.” Kat waved at him frantically, but he retreated back through the doorway. Carter & Associates had been a tenant at Hudson House for almost three years. How could he not recognize her? She pounded again on the door, as loud as she could. “Marcus!”

  Several passers-by in raincoats and umbrellas scowled at Kat and scurried by. She avoided their eyes, ashamed of her appearance. She didn’t need a mirror to know that her torn clothes, stringy hair, and lack of makeup made her look like a homeless person. Is this what it felt like to have people hate you all day?

  Marcus finally reappeared. He stormed towards the door and swung it open.

  “Get going or I’ll call the—”

  “Marcus, don’t you recognize me? Kat? From upstairs?”

  Recognition dawned on his face and he stopped in his tracks. His mouth dropped open. “What the hell happened to you?” He held open the door and motioned her in.

  “Can’t talk right now.” Kat brushed past him and shuffled to the elevator as the feeling slowly returned to her legs. She pressed the up button and waited, turning her back to Marcus. She wasn’t in the mood for explanations right now, and he didn’t deserve one anyway.

  He trailed after her. “Kat—I’m sorry. I had no idea it was you.”

  She ignored him and stepped into the elevator. This was a side of Marcus she hadn’t seen before, and she wasn’t sure she liked it. She pressed the button for the fourth floor.

  Nathan and Victoria weren’t getting away with this.

  What had they done with Jace, and why had he disappeared but not Landers? She doubted Nathan would take Landers at his word if he simply said the documents were not his. Nathan would want to get rid of them both, as they had both seen the World Institute plans. Unless Landers was already in on the conspiracy, whatever it was. Obviously Landers had cooperated with them. Looking out for himself, as usual.

  Nathan Barron had said Jace had met some sort of “accident.” That sounded more ominous than what had happened to her. She was relatively unscathed except for a few bruises and a headache from whatever they had injected her with. Could Jace have suffered a fate similar to Svensson? Despite different occupations, both had spoken out against the World Institute and the power elite. Was it reason enough to die? Kat shuddered at the possibility.

  Svensson met his demise shortly after he reversed his position and disagreed from the World Institute dogma. Jace’s disappearance could be related to his exposé on the mortgage fraud. After all, they had been fire-bombed because of it. But Jace’s disappearance had happened at Hideaway Bay. Did that mean the suppression of his real estate story was connected to the World Institute? If so, how? Or maybe the goal was something simpler—like silence of dissent against any of its members. With voices silenced, the WI could carry on with impunity. That was how things worked in the corridors of power. Eliminate the roadblocks. Greed did ugly things to people.

  Maybe it wasn’t the World Institute documents they were after. While they were damaging enough, it wasn’t just Jace’s story they wanted to suppress. It was more powerful than that. It was his opinion, his voice. He was a respected journalist people listened to, just as they did Svensson. Their voices could not be discounted or denied. But they could be eliminated.

  Although she hadn’t looked at the rough draft he’d been working on at the resort, she knew his World Institute exposé meant to implicate all the World Institute members, although giving star attention to Nathan and Gordon Pinslett in particular—Nathan for diverting investor funds from Edgewater to fund WI’s mandate, and Gordon Pinslett for suppressing coverage unfavorable to WI. It was one thing to try to push through a politically unpalatable theory. It was quite another to profit exorbitantly from it with currency manipulation and insider dealings. Then there was the media censorship and fraud that went along with it.

  One thing was clear. Those with the courage to speak were silenced. Jace had been fired, and had his story killed by the Sentinel, which happened to be owned by Gordon Pinslett. Had Jace been silenced in more ways than one? She shuddered at the thought.

  Jace was right. It was fine to say nothing until it happened to you. But
then no one would defend you either. With silence came the risk of losing your freedom, economic well-being, and right to free speech. If she didn’t take a stand, who would?

  Some things were worth fighting for at any cost.

  Chapter 35

  Hillary stood in the kitchen doorway and watched her dad unload the dirty dishes from the dishwasher. One by one they went in the cupboard: dirty plates, coffee cups, and glasses. Loading and unloading, the same unwashed dishes. Like pressing the rewind button over and over again. Boy, was he losing it. Is this what his life had become?

  “You need to move, Dad.” She checked her watch. It was already after one and all they’d done all morning was drink soapy-tasting coffee. She had better things to do on a Monday. “Into one of those care homes.”

  “Care home? Over my dead body.” Harry dropped dirty knives into the cutlery drawer. “I don’t need a care home. I’m just fine here.”

  “Look at you—you’re a crazy old man! Can’t even figure out a dishwasher. Look at this mess!” Hillary waved her arm at the cluttered kitchen counter. “It’s too much for you.”

  “No, it’s not. It’s my mess and I like it.” He wiped his forehead with his sleeve. “I’ll keep my house the way I want it.”

  Not if she had any say. So pathetic—was he really going to cry? Hillary swiped her arm across the stacks of books on the kitchen table, knocking them off and sending them cascading to the floor. She sat down, annoyed. Can’t pay his bills or even clean the house. Since when did that become her problem? “I can’t even find a spot at the table. How can you eat in this pigsty?”

  “Aw, Hillary, why’d you do that? I said to leave them.” Harry closed the dishwasher door and shuffled over to the table, a dishtowel draped over his shoulder. His gaze dropped to his books splayed open on the linoleum. Wounded soldiers, all creased pages and banged up spines.

  “Because you’re nuts, Dad. You’re living in a pile of junk.” Hillary rolled her eyes. Why was he creating all this trouble for her? She certainly wasn’t going to cook and clean for him.

  “It’s not junk, Hillary. Some of these books are collector’s items. Put them back,” Harry said. “We’ll eat in the living room.”

  “No way am I eating here. This is disgusting.” Hillary slammed her coffee mug on the table. “How can you live like this?”

  “Easy. I like my things just the way they are. You’re not living under this roof, so don’t tell me what to do.”

  “What if I was living here? Then would I get a say in how things go?”

  His face lit up.

  Just the effect she had intended. “Maybe I’ll move back home.”

  “Really? That would be wonderful. It’s been real lonely around here since your mom died.”

  “I’d consider it. But we’ll need some ground rules.” Hillary rose from the table and headed to the fridge. She could stand maybe another week of this, tops. Just long enough to wrap things up and get her overdue Porsche payments caught up again.

  “We can work something out,” he said.

  “Good.” Hillary pulled a pitcher of orange juice from the fridge and poured a glass. She dumped in a tablespoon of the powder, stirring until it dissolved. She pocketed the vial before turning back to face Harry.

  “Here. Drink this.” She handed the glass to her father. Not that she really had to sneak around. She could have shot a freaking cannon through the kitchen and he wouldn’t have noticed. Stupid.

  “Thanks.” He sipped the juice and smiled.

  Hillary sighed. Five more minutes and he’d pass out in his ugly plaid chair. Then she could start tossing some of his crap. She sure as hell wasn’t waiting till he died to do it. The clutter was smothering her.

  He cared more about this junk-filled hovel than her, even though she’d put her life on hold to come back to this shithole, to this crappy little neighborhood. For what? Nothing had changed in ten years. Except the neighbors were older and crankier, and Kat’s tentacles dug in even deeper. Kat pretended she cared about Dad, but Hillary knew better. As if. He was nothing but a demented old man.

  Kat had another thing coming if she thought sucking up to Harry was going to give her a cut. That’s why the checks had stopped; Kat was keeping all that money herself. She was sure of it. Why else would she hang around here at thirty-four years old? Wasn’t it enough that her parents had adopted Kat after her father abandoned her? Who adopted fourteen-year-olds? Next thing Kat would be contesting the will.

  She’d put a stop to that.

  Chapter 36

  Hillary shifted her weight from her right foot to her left. She didn’t dare take off her shoes in this dump. Her four-inch Manolo Blahnik’s were killing her, but she couldn’t possibly remove them. Who knew what vermin were crawling around this dive?

  “Eat it, Dad,” she said, depositing another glass of orange juice beside his plate.

  “I did. Can’t eat any more. I’m full.” Harry sat at the kitchen table, fork in hand and napkin tucked into his shirt collar.

  “You have to. Finish it.” Hillary felt her face flush. He needed the same dose every day. It was cumulative, and missing a day meant starting over again. She sure as hell wasn’t investing any more time or money than she already had.

  “I did, Hillary. I’m not hungry anymore. You want the rest?” Harry pointed at the hash browns with his fork.

  “I already ate.” Hillary imagined her life a few weeks from now. Sell this dump and she’d be flush in cash again. Maybe skiing in Switzerland, like the royals did. She might even meet a prince.

  “When? I didn’t see you.”

  “Of course you did. You forgot. You’ve got Alzheimer’s, old man.” Hillary drew circles around her ear with her forefinger. “You’re nuts, remember? Or did you forget that too?”

  Harry shook his head and he put his fork down.

  She grabbed it and shoveled a forkful from Harry’s plate. She held the fork an inch away from his mouth. “Open up. Eat the rest.”

  Harry held up his hand to protest.

  “I said—eat!” Hillary shoved the potatoes in her father’s mouth as he opened it to object.

  “Stop it!” Harry deflected her hand with his forearm. He spit out the potatoes, scattering hash browns all over the table and floor.

  “Look at what you’ve done!” Hillary screamed as she slammed the fork down on the table. “Who’s going to clean up this mess? You don’t deserve to have anyone taking care of you.”

  Her father lowered his arm and shrank into his chair. This was a total waste of time. The house was disgusting, with clutter, dirt, and dust almost as bad as the houses on that Hoarders TV show. Except Dad’s worn out Sears furniture was still visible amongst the outdated seventies décor. It sickened her just to stand in it.

  Each day in the Denton dump was one more stolen from her new life, the life she deserved and had waited far too long for. After months of hiding from the neighbors and Kat, her plan had worked perfectly. A new life awaited. It was just within her reach, now that she’d met the man she was going to share it with.

  She just needed her father out of the way first. And to keep him away from that prying bitch, Kat. There was no time to waste.

  Chapter 37

  Hillary stood in the doorway of the living room and studied her father. His snores reverberated throughout the house, competing with CNN on the television. He slouched in his La-Z-Boy, head drooped to his chest. It bobbed up and down with each snore.

  The reporter droned on about the Paris riots, interviewing a tearful shop owner in the Latin Quarter while masked thugs kicked in windows behind her. It was nighttime and raining. A police car’s siren wailed, the siren lights leaving streaks of color as the car raced by in the background.

  Hillary jumped at the sound. She tiptoed into the room and grabbed the remote from the arm of the La-Z-Boy. She turned down the volume, worried it would wake up Harry. She relaxed when she remembered the dose. Enough to knock out an elephant.

 
She had at least a couple of hours. Where to look first? The safe? She decided on the bedroom first. That way she’d be finished by the time Harry woke up. She could convince him to go upstairs for a nap while she searched the rest of the house.

  She changed into sneakers one foot at a time, careful not to let her feet touch the dirty floor. Then she took the stairs two at a time to her father’s bedroom, anxious to get started.

  She searched the drawers of his bureau first, then his closet. Her efforts yielded nothing but old clothes, shoes, and a box of photographs. She dumped the box contents onto the bed and sifted through them. Baby pictures of her, then pictures of the whole family, later on with Kat. She snapped open a plastic garbage bag and tossed the photographs in. Harry wouldn’t need those where he was going. Soon he wouldn’t recognize the people in them anyways.

  It didn’t take long to realize that what she was searching for wasn’t here. She padded out to the hallway, reassured by the sounds of her father’s snores drifting up the staircase. She opened the hallway linen closet and felt along the wall until she found the safe. She pulled on the door. It was unlocked. She opened it and pocketed the papers and five hundred dollars in crisp new fifties. It would be hers sooner or later anyways.

  She needed to keep Kat away for a few days while she worked her plan. She hauled the black plastic garbage bags down the stairs in pairs and carried them out to the back lane. Sixteen bags, all just from one room. The old man wouldn’t even notice the missing junk. She returned to the kitchen, wiping sweat from her forehead.

  The kitchen calendar was still on June. She flipped it over to December and ripped off the notes in Kat’s handwriting. Kat’s phone number, Jace’s phone number, a grocery list, and reminders of meals in the fridge. That ingratiating bitch had her claws dug in everywhere, and she was sick of it. She ripped the notes off and crumpled them into a ball.