Sweet Caroline
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Sweet Caroline
by Micqui Miller
Chapter Fifteen
CAROLINE PAID NO attention to the rest of the conversation, until Travis paused to take a breath. "Thanks for checking this out, bro. Gotta go now." Over his protests, she hung up. She couldn't listen to his chatter. She needed time to think, to strategize.
You are so dumb. Why hadn't she seen it coming?
Someone had set her up, and they'd begun the elaborate plan when she was a teenager. The invitations to the Mahoney family reunion, the postcard with the photograph, the Smith child's birth certificate—they'd been sent to pique her curiosity. Her mother must have intercepted all of them. But why had she saved them?
That always troubled Caroline. It was obvious her parents never planned to tell her the truth about her birth, so why had they carelessly left the information in a place Caroline and Travis would find it? It made no sense.
"Oh, Mom, what do I do now?" Caroline asked under her breath. She drummed her fingers on the arm of the loveseat and tried to figure out the next step. She'd been a dunce and violated one of her cardinal rules—if coincidence factored into the equation, the hypothesis was flawed. This time, she'd swallowed the hook along with the bait.
"One day I can't even pronounce Sebastopol, and the next I'm living here." The job with ZyQyx had been the carrot that brought her there. But who was behind it? Why were they manipulating her? And where did the Mahoney clan fit in?
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She wasn't frightened anymore. She was angry. Someone had invaded her privacy, and he'd decided to let her know he held all the cards. She thought she'd been so clever, that she'd been in control, when all along she was being controlled.
Caroline looked around the room. Had they hidden more bugs since she'd found the shank? Were they listening or, worse, watching her move from room to room, judging by her expression whether she'd finally "gotten it" or not?
If her adversary were a woman, she'd know the truth. Women were so much smarter and better at duplicity than men. We come by it naturally. We have a keener eye for body language, especially in other women, and would not have acted so prematurely. Who showed their hand while the players were still betting? And what did they have to gain by letting Caroline know they'd been using her?
She picked up the pad of paper again and began writing in her private shorthand. She wrote down the names Brian, Ian, Mick, the Mustafas, and even Luke—anyone at all who might be remotely affected by her leaving Dallas or coming here. There had to be a common link between or among them. But what?
Given: someone was stealing money from ZyQyx, someone with access to the system and more knowledge than Caroline had given them credit for.
Given: someone involved was connected to the Mahoneys. The scheme to lure her here had been far too elaborate to discount their participation.
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Who needed money? Despite the thefts, ZyQyx was financially stable, a rock that had weathered the dot-com storms and remained standing.
The Mahoneys certainly didn't need it—not with the value of the property that comprised the Golden S & T Ranch. The siblings were comfortably employed and none held any appreciable debt.
Caroline knew she was missing something, but what?
Sitting in the living room, hair a mess and a clump of toothpaste on her chin, didn't help make anything clearer. She'd dress, and hope she'd find a message waiting from Travis. Or maybe the call would even come from Luke this time. He'd tell her that they'd traced Darrell Dakis to Cleveland and that the man in Dallas wasn't the real Dakis. She wiped the smudge of toothpaste from her chin and pushed her hair out of her eyes. She couldn't guess what would come next, she could only prepare for it. She turned on her phone and dialed ZyQyx.
"Good morning, Gerard. This is Caroline Spring."
"Oh, dear, Caroline," he twittered. "You missed Mr. Foy by seconds. He was on his way to a meeting. I did, however, give him your message. Said he'd call you later."
"That won't do, Gerard. I need to speak to him—now." Her tone bridged no excuses.
"He's staying at the Plaza in New York. I can give you that number although I doubt he's still in his room. Said he was running late."
"Fine, then give me the number of his cell. I don't think he'd leave without it."
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"I can't do that, Caroline. That number is private." She mentally counted to five. "Gerard, this is an emergency. I'll make sure he knows I insisted. You won't be blamed."
Caroline heard indecision in his "tsk, tsk" but he relented.
"Try the hotel first. Room six-oh-three. Please don't call his cell unless it's life or death."
"You can trust me," she assured him. Two seconds later, without trying the Plaza, she dialed Ian's cell.
"Ian Foy," he answered after the fourth ring. The connection was horrible, as if he were stuck in a tunnel or an underpass.
"Ian, it's Caroline," she shouted into the phone.
"What? You're breaking up. Who is this?"
"Caroline. Caroline Spring."
She heard static and then fragments of words.
"Ian, I can't make out what you're saying. Call me as soon as you're somewhere we can talk."
Twenty minutes later, he still had not called back. Time to implement Plan B. She left a message at the Plaza.
* * * *
LIKE SHE HAD been all day, Caroline was running late. She pulled out of the carport and coasted to a stop at the end of the side street that intersected the Gravenstine Highway. A left turn would take her due west, straight to the ranch and Mick. A right turn, due east, to the freeway and ZyQyx. The instincts she'd trusted all of her life yelled at her to go to Mick, that he'd protect her and help her find the truth. 213
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Wasn't that exactly what Luke wanted from her? To rely on him if the going got tough? Not this time, Caroline, the investigator, vowed. She'd been in tougher scrapes before and managed to prevail.
She couldn't deny her heart, no matter how tough she wanted to act. Hearing Mick's voice, even just to say hello, would strengthen her resolve for what she had to do. She glanced at the clock on the dash. Not quite eight-thirty. Did she dare wake him the morning after a bachelor party? She remembered his double set of clocks and the clock radios. Issue closed, she turned east and headed for the freeway.
* * * *
CAROLINE SAW SHE had three messages waiting on her office voicemail. She tossed her purse in a drawer, and began keyboarding. Ian, Travis or Luke could all wait until she checked the network and the progress of the program she'd missed before, the one "they" were using to shadow hers. She'd already decided to conduct business as usual. If the thefts at ZyQyx were only a lure to draw her to California, she'd let "them"—whoever they were—continue to think they'd tricked her. This was more about her than ZyQyx, the thefts only a smokescreen. Each time Dakis & Company started the transactions, money flowed out to their six accounts. The program she'd overlaid on theirs diverted the flow back to ZyQyx. As of yesterday, they were on neutral ground, with money flowing out and back. It was such a simple scheme. That's why she'd missed it. It was too simple. Since she knew what she was looking for in the code, she 214
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found it in less time than it took to finish her first cup of coffee.
While she watched the screen for any new code patterns that might emerge, she typed in her voice mail password, and listened to a far clearer sounding message from Ian.
"Caroline, sorry we couldn't quite connect. I'd just boarded a ferry, and I suppose that might have had something to do with the bad line. I'm in a meeting, page me. I'll call right back."
Less than two minutes after she'd paged him, her phone rang. "Go
od morning, Ian, thanks for returning my call." Instead of the voice she expected, she heard nothing except someone exhaling a slow, irritated breath. "Sorry to disappoint you. It's Mick."
Mick! Suddenly her heart sang. "Oh, Mick, I wanted so much to call you. But with your party last night, I didn't want to bother you."
"Stop it," he said, and although the words were harsh, his voice was warm and caressing. "You bother me if you don't call." Before she could respond, he added, "I'd hope to find you home."
"You're at the apartment?"
"I told you, I'm ready to listen whenever you're ready to talk."
Dear heaven, what did she do now? It was time to tell Mick the truth, more now than ever. Yet until she had a handle on what was going on here, she knew nothing she said to him would make any sense.
"Caroline?"
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"Mick, don't be angry. I do want to talk to you, but I can't get away right now. What about tomorrow? We can meet for dinner. I'll even cook."
"What about tonight?"
"Not at the wedding."
She heard him pause again. This time his tone held such wanton desire, a shiver of delight raced through her. "No..." he said. "Afterward."
"All right," she whispered. "Afterward."
"You know what I'm asking, don't you?" A tiny yes found its way across her lips.
"You'll stay with me tonight?"
She wanted to say yes so badly, she thought she'd burst, but reason told her she could not, not until she knew the truth.
"I want to, Mick. You can't imagine how much." He answered with a chuckle. "Oh, I think I can. Tonight it is, Sweet Caroline. No excuses, no lies." Let's see how you feel after we talk, and to Mick she said,
"No more pretense."
Whatever Mick whispered in return was lost in the ringing of her other line. She heard only the click from his end then nothing.
It took her until the fifth ring to compose herself enough to say hello.
"Caroline, it's Ian. What's wrong?"
"Nothing's wrong," she lied. "I wanted to give you an update. You left on your trip before we could meet." 216
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She heard his exasperation. "You dragged me out of a meeting to tell me something that could wait until I returned?"
"I'm sorry, I thought you'd want to know."
"That Brian Mahoney is stealing my money? I already know that."
"You're wrong. It's not Brian and I can prove it."
"What?" he sounded genuinely shocked.
"Furthermore, he and Ramona are not leaving the country. They're driving to Disneyland, not flying to Ireland."
"Good Lord, I was so sure." He sounded almost dazed by the notion. "If it's not Brian, then who?" How much did she want to tell him now? How much could she?
"We're dealing with sophisticated stuff here, Ian. I have everything under control. I've stopped the bleeding and I'll have the rest of the answers for you by Tuesday."
"Oh, Caroline, that is good news. You've done splendidly, my dear. Much better than I'd hoped."
"I'm only doing my job." His low expectations rankled.
"Oh, no, I'd say you've gone far beyond." She picked up a piece of paper on which she'd written a name. "Tell me, Ian, does the name Darrell Dakis mean anything to you?"
A second passed before he answered. "I went to school with a Darrell Dinsmore."
"No, Dakis, D-A-K-I-S."
"Can't say that it does. Is it important?"
"Not really. Enjoy your trip. We'll catch up on Tuesday." 217
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"Indeed we shall, my dear, indeed, we shall. Good job!" She replaced the receiver and rolled up her shirtsleeves. Whoever was behind this only thought they knew with whom they were dealing. She flexed her fingers. "Let the games begin."
* * * *
CAROLINE DUCKED OUT for a quick sandwich at noon and found another message waiting when she returned, this one from Luke. He sounded cautiously friendly at first and all business when he informed her that the real Darrell Dakis had been dead for nearly two years. She'd known that for more than an hour, had hacked it on her own. But he'd caught her off guard by suggesting she call in the FBI because using a stolen identity to commit a felony was now considered a terrorist act.
Bring the Bureau into it and she'd never find out the truth. Sighing, Caroline dialed Luke's number and tapped her foot impatiently while his voicemail message droned on. After the beep, she said, "Luke, it's Caroline. Don't do anything more until we have a chance to talk. This is simply a big, fat practical joke. You know Travis can be such a little old lady. Honestly, I'm not worried at all." She softened her voice, and added, "Thanks for caring, Luke. I honestly appreciate it." After the call, she scratched two more names off her list—
Luke's because if he were willing to bring in the FBI, he obviously had no clue what was happening. And Ian's. He couldn't be in two places at once. Besides, all he cared about was his money.
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Caroline looked out her window at mid-afternoon and saw only a dozen cars left in the ZyQyx lot. Her co-workers had either taken off early to prepare for the wedding, or with the Big Cat away, the mice decided to play.
She'd planned to leave early, too, some time around four. She wanted to take a leisurely bath to soak away the worries of the day, and decide how she'd deal with Mick. Sleeping over was out of the question.
Caroline rested her head in her hands and closed her eyes. She'd been fighting that same headache for two days, medicating against it, but now the crescents of colors that arced across her closed lids told her she was losing the battle. She grimaced. She'd been fighting a migraine the morning she'd met Mick, on that awful flight from Dallas. That had been only two weeks ago but seemed like years.
"Caroline," she remembered her doctor saying at the time he prescribed her migraine medication. "I've been treating your family since you were a baby. Watched you grow up, so I know you're a healthy girl. I hate prescribing this. We're treating the symptoms, not exploring the cause, even though we both know what that is."
Sage words from an old doc who ascribed to the same philosophy as Luke—a husband and a baby, the treatment for all that ailed her.
Oh, Doctor, you'd better keep that prescription pad handy, because I'm in love with a man who is as drawn to marriage and babies as fire to snow.
With that, she popped a pill in her mouth, washed it down with lukewarm coffee, shut down her computer, and headed 219
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home.
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Chapter Sixteen
CAROLINE SURFED FROM radio station to radio station a dozen times while she inched along with the stream of cars that clogged the two-lane Gravenstine Highway a mile east of the Golden S & T Ranch. For the first time since she'd arrived in California, the weather had turned uncomfortably hot. The late afternoon sun, still high at 6:15 p.m., seemed to burn especially bright in the still air. No fog billowed over the western ridge as it usually did at this time of day to cool the valley. If she was warm sitting in an air-conditioned car, she knew Ramona had to be sweltering in full wedding regalia. Ramona had shown Caroline a picture of a dress similar to hers in a bride's magazine—high neck, long sleeves, a bustle and train. Caroline could feel her hair curling tighter at the thought of it. If this were her wedding, her hair would be a mass of orange kinks and knots about the time she said "I do."
But it wasn't Caroline's wedding, and attending this one would be as close as she'd ever stand to Mick while marriage vows were exchanged. With that glum thought, she realized it was finally her place in the auto queue to turn into a parking lot that had not been there last Saturday when she and Mick drove by.
Sweet Caroline
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inside the lot, guests left their cars with one of a dozen young valets all dressed alike in Kelly green polo shirts and white chinos. Another six or so staff, teenaged boys and girls armed with clipboards, checked names off the guest list and escorted the people to waiting trams, replicas of San Francisco cable cars on wheels, that transported them a half-mile into the ranch.
"Your name, ma'am?" a blond, rosy-cheeked teenager, not more than seventeen asked.
"Caroline Spring."
He didn't hesitate a second before saying, "Ah, Mick's girl." Mick's girl? Had she heard right?
"Come with me, please." He offered his arm, giving her little time to think about what he'd said. The construction crew that cleared the area to make room for the parking lot had covered the soil with a layer of lava rock. It did a great job of keeping the dust down but wreaked havoc on spiky strapped sandals.
Aboard the tram, Caroline had a few minutes to consider what lie ahead as the trolley lumbered through neat rows of vines before ending at a paved drive leading to the DeSantis/Mahoney residences.
The main house, a three-story brick Tudor, served as a beacon for the group. Fanning out into a crescent from the north and south wings of the main house were smaller dwellings, each single-family residences of complimentary design. Three looked homey and lived in, with swing sets on the porches and toys, wagons, and trikes on the lawns. The fourth house was still under construction but close to 222
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completion. The fifth, the one that looked like it had been standing the longest, appeared vacant, without shades or window coverings, no outdoor furniture or lights on inside—
only a Jeep parked in the drive—Mick's Jeep. He hadn't exaggerated. He loved his family, but he obviously loved his independence more.
The houses formed a semi-circle around a large expanse of lawn about the size of two football fields. Tonight, only patches of the deep green grass were visible among the large white tents, tables and chairs decorated with flowers, bows and candles, and the dance floor and bandstand. The tram pulled to a stop in front of the main house where a second corps of young people helped the passengers disembark and guided them to a path cordoned off by white satin ribbons and large-globed kerosene lamps. This time, Caroline had a good look at the polo shirt her escort wore, and saw the insignia of the Calla Lily Inn. She had no doubt now who'd been placed in charge of logistics—