For Love of Money

by Cathy Perkins

  “I get the message. But let me make something perfectly clear. Business always comes first. You’re my client. I don’t even discuss client business on a cell phone in public. What you implied—that I’d blab about your business—is the equivalent of me accusing you of building a new office tower with substandard materials.”

  “I didn’t mean—”

  “Yes, you did.” She didn’t bother to curb her impatience.

  “I wasn’t smearing your rep, honestly. Ah, hell.” He scrubbed a hand over his face. “Alex called. Between that detective hounding both of us and his seeing you two together… The guy’s got a lot of pride.”

  “Make up your mind. Alex is into me. He thinks I ‘screwed him over.’ He has so much pride he couldn’t say, ‘Excuse me, Mama, my friend’s here all alone, and it looks like she needs some help.’”

  Tim’s hand rocked. “Nobody’s perfect.”

  “Including you.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You knew about Lee Alders. Why didn’t you say anything? If you had, maybe JC wouldn’t be hounding you.”

  Tim flinched, but didn’t bother denying he knew about Lee. “What was there to say?”

  “Everything. He came here. He threatened Marcy.” She raised frustrated hands. “Was Marcy seeing him again?”

  Surprise and what might have been anger flitted across Tim’s face. “Not that I was aware of.”

  That wasn’t much of an answer. Arms folded, she waited for more. He’d witnessed a key exchange between Marcy and Lee and still hadn’t admitted it. Why the lies?

  Tim pushed away from her Beemer and paced to the front of the vehicle and back. “I saw the newspaper this morning. The police think Alders killed her?” He raised a questioning eyebrow.

  Like JC would tell her about the latest police theory. Holly shrugged. “Do you think he could’ve killed her?”

  Tim focused his gaze on the car fender, his face a study in concentration. “Maybe.”

  “Maybe you should put talking to the cops on your priority list.” Holly opened the driver’s door to slide in.

  “Hmm?” Tim glanced in her direction. “Yeah. I have to do that eventually.”

  Holly stopped, surprised. “You really haven’t talked to them?”

  “I’m supposed to meet with them today.”

  “Alex and I talked to them days ago.”

  “I had to reschedule. I have a lot on my plate.”

  “We are talking about Marcy’s murder.”

  “What am I supposed to tell them? I don’t know who killed her.” Tim’s expression was more irritated than concerned. “My foreman says the cops are questioning everybody at the Yakima site. The construction guys, delivery people. All the surrounding businesses. Hell, they even talked to the guys in the Taco Truck.”

  “Can’t say they aren’t thorough.”

  “All they’ve done is waste a lot of time I have to pay for.”

  “So give them a better suspect.”

  “Alders could’ve done it.” Tim shoved his hands into his pocket and rocked on his heels. “The guy’s such an asshole, he probably did.”

  Thank you, Captain Obvious. “I need to go. I’ll see you and Alex on Friday at eleven.”

  “Right.”

  She hopped in the BMW. “Unless I dump your files on one of the managers,” she muttered.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Holly entered the now-familiar office at the Tom-Tom Casino. If she hurried, she could still make it to her meeting on time.

  Peter rose from his desk and met her halfway across the room. He greeted her with a handshake. “Do you have the engagement letter?”

  “Ready for your signature,” she said. “It has everything we discussed.”

  Within minutes, Peter had signed the contract and they’d scheduled the initial accounting fieldwork. “Let me walk you out,” he said.

  In contrast to Monday’s easy conversation, a tense silence lay between them. Holly tried to think of something she might’ve said or done to upset him, but drew a blank.

  “Listen, Holly.” Peter rubbed his chin. “I got to thinking about Tim Stevens, what we talked about. The brunette.”

  Ah. So that was bothering him.

  “She wasn’t his wife.”

  Big shock. “How did you know?” she asked.

  He studied the floor, not meeting her eyes. “Tim threw a Texas Hold ‘Em tourney a while back. Invited a bunch of his contractors and their wives.”

  “Oh.”

  “His wife ran around, talking to everybody, but you could tell she didn’t like it.”

  “Didn’t like what?”

  He shrugged. “Being here. Gambling.”

  “I guess you must be pretty good at reading people.”

  “Occupational hazard.”

  “So the brunette wasn’t his wife. She could’ve been a friend.”

  “Nope.” Peter scuffed his toe along a peeling seam in the carpet. “Look, I’m not here to be the morality police. It’s just my security chief started seeing her. I told him not to get involved with a woman who’d cheat with a married man, but…” He grimaced.

  Part of her wanted to defend Marcy—if it was Marcy—while the rest of her was appalled. Marcy was seeing Creepy Security Guy?

  Maybe she was attracted to weird guys. Look at her husband.

  “Your security chief was dating her?”

  Peter shrugged. “A couple of days after they were in here, he said he was seeing her.”

  “Hang on a minute.” She propped her briefcase against the closest machine and pulled out the group picture. “Is this the woman you’re talking about?”

  He laid a finger on Marcy’s image. “Like I said, pretty and upbeat. I can see why men are attracted to her.”

  “She’s dead,” Holly blurted.

  Peter froze. “Are you sure?” He raised a hand. “Of course you’re sure. Damn, what a waste.”

  “That’s one way to put it.”

  She watched the other shoe drop. His head turned, his gaze darting around the room. “I’m sure my security chief didn’t have anything to do with it.”

  “I’m sure he didn’t.”

  Holy crap, JC needed to know about this.

  Holly hurried to her car. What had Marcy been doing with Peter’s chief of security? That didn’t track with the Marcy she knew. Then again, did the possibility of Marcy having an affair with Tim ever really register?

  Movement at the casino entrance caught her eye. Creepy Security Guy was leaning against the doorframe, a familiar posture she couldn’t quite place. He raised a hand, a finger-gun pointing at her.

  Her mouth went dry and a band of tension made breathing difficult. Had he heard Peter tell her about Marcy? Was the finger-gun a threat?

  She started the car, then sneaked another peek. A chill sifted down her spine. He was still staring at her.

  The exit was on the other side of the parking lot. Great. Now she had to drive past him. She eased the car forward, determined to focus straight ahead.

  The figure by the door drew her gaze like hooks were anchored in her eyeballs.

  He touched the brim of his hat, a casual salute, his face lifting from the shadow for a split second.

  Her breathing stopped.

  No. It couldn’t be.

  Black spots crowded the edge of her sight, left tunnel vision that obscured the pavement. Somehow, she made it out of the parking lot, then pulled to the side of the road.

  She gripped the steering wheel with shaking hands.

  Oh, my God. She knew the guy was freaking her out but now she knew why. Creepy Security Guy looked just like Frank Phalen.

  But it couldn’t be him.

  Could it?

  Chapter Twenty-four

  WEDNESDAY, LATE AFTERNOON

  Three hours later, Holly drove away from a disastrous meeting with Fred Zhang. With stiff fingers, she crammed the Bluetooth into her ear, punched the office contact, and jammed the phone into
her pocket.

  “Desert Accounting.”

  “Is Mother in the office?”

  Tracey hesitated a beat. “She didn’t make it to the meeting?”

  “Would I be asking if she did?”

  Tracey cleared her throat. “Good point. She called, said something came up and to let you know she’d be late. But your phone went straight to voicemail.”

  “Dammit.” Holly slammed her fist against the steering wheel. “Fred Zhang was so ticked off Mother didn’t show up. He didn’t even try to hide it.”

  “I’m sorry,” Tracey murmured.

  Holly didn’t know who she was angrier with: her mother, Fred, or herself. “I spent a lot of time and energy getting this meeting arranged, coming up with good ideas for his company.”

  Tracey maintained a tactful silence.

  Her initial snit aired, worry poked at Holly. “Should I start calling the hospitals? I mean, where is she? She isn’t answering her cell.”

  “I’m sure she’s okay.”

  Traffic thickened into the evening homeward rush by the time Holly reached the center of Richland. She turned left beside the central park. The city had a town square, but instead of a picture-perfect historic courthouse, two butt-ugly federal buildings lined the west side of the square. Holly wasn’t sure if they were built in the 50s or 70s. Neither decade produced exceptional architecture. The hulking pre-cast concrete walls and slit windows of the courthouse looked like a bunker, or a fallout shelter. Given the Hanford nuclear site’s proximity—and Richland’s reason for existing—the resemblance was most likely deliberate.

  “This town is going to drive me crazy,” Holly muttered.

  “What do you mean?” was Tracey’s cautious response.

  She turned onto George Washington Way and joined the throng crawling away from the park. Flat-topped, one-story buildings with metal awnings lined the street. Mom and Pop stores, insurance co-op, a restaurant/diner. “This place reeks of the 50s.”

  “It’s not that bad.”

  Holly heard the smile in Tracey’s voice. “Yes, it is. Fred Zhang’s Neanderthal attitude came through loud and clear. He only agreed to the meeting because Mother and his wife are friends. He had absolutely no interest in anything I had to say. ‘What could a young, unmarried woman possibly know about business,’ should’ve been hung on a banner over the man’s desk.”

  “What do you want me to do besides listen?” Tracey’s sympathetic voice filled Holly’s ear.

  Let it go.

  Holly slumped in her seat, propped her elbow on the window ledge, and rested her head on her curled fingers. “Sorry. I’m venting.”

  “I figured that out a few minutes ago.”

  “The meeting with Fred was just the crowning glory to a crappy day. Marcy’s funeral was a major sobfest. I wanted to go to the graveyard, but no, I had to fix my makeup and show up for this stupid meeting that was a complete waste of time.”

  “There are always going to be close-minded men like Fred. Brooding about the wasted time won’t change anything.”

  With a twitch of her shoulders, Holly channeled the hakuna matata dude, and relegated the mess to the past. “You’re right. I just had to get it out of my system.”

  But she was so going to have it out with her mother.

  If she could ever find the woman.

  “Are you coming back to the office?” Tracey asked.

  “I’m not sure.”

  Holly ended the conversation and flipped over to her messages. JC still hadn’t called her back. The guy had dogged her for days, but now that she actually had news—Frank Phalen might be in town and he may have been dating Marcy—JC had vanished.

  Her fingers tapped a nervous dance across the wheel. Had it really been Frank? Would he really have left Seattle to follow her here? Why would he do that—and not try to contact her? Besides, the Frank she knew would never work as a security guard. He’d been a royal asshole, but had he been obsessed enough with her to do that?

  Or had she simply tacked Frank’s features onto Creepy Security Guy because she’d been scared and upset about Marcy? Learning this stuff about Marcy was stirring up all her bad memories of Frank.

  After just a few dates, he’d starting calling constantly, insisting on knowing her schedule, attempting to control who she saw and where she went. That was when she told him it was over.

  He hadn’t taken it well, to say the least. He’d threatened enough to scare the crap out of her, but he’d never beaten her the way Lee hit Marcy. Frank’s threats were psychological rather than physical.

  Why hadn’t Marcy turned to her family? Her friends?

  Frustration followed her down G’Way and perched on her shoulders at the red light. Small, wooden houses lined the street, resisting the encroaching business district. She stared at the newest mixed-use building as she inched toward the highway. What had the developer been thinking when he painted it that awful color? Thank goodness Stevens Ventures hadn’t built it—she didn’t have to pretend to like it.

  She pressed the Bluetooth again and said, “Mother.”

  To her surprise, her mother answered.

  “Are you okay?”

  “I’m sorry I missed the meeting.”

  Was that okay or not? “What happened?”

  “I’ll tell you about it later,” her mother said hurriedly.

  And disconnected.

  Like that explained anything.

  Well, at least she knew she was alive.

  Traffic stalled completely at the next intersection. Holly sat at the red light at Bradley, staring at the overhead road signs. Pasco. Kennewick. Interstate 82.

  Those signs were the story of her life. Three directions. Three choices.

  She could turn left to Pasco and confront Alex. He’d left a dozen messages in her voicemail. They ranged from his initial tirade after Marcy’s wake to a three-o’clock-in-the-morning, plaintive, “Call me.”

  She could go straight and take Highway 240 back to work. Joy of joys.

  Or she could turn right onto the interstate and go home. To her house in Hills West. To Seattle.

  She sighed. Either way, she’d be alone.

  Again.

  The light changed.

  She turned left.

  …

  The parking lot at Alex’s restaurant held only a few cars. Mostly small econo-boxes, they clustered beside the employee entrance. Holly parked near the front door and started laughing. The pig crate sat at the restaurant’s front entrance.

  Alex would go ape-shit when he saw it. What was JC thinking, sending it to the restaurant? The health department would go crazy. But oh, if anybody deserved to get a pig, it was Alex.

  Did he even know it was here? Surely the FFA guys wouldn’t just dump it and run. She’d missed the delivery at her own office, but there had to be a process for transferring the crate.

  She approached the entrance. At least outdoors the pig didn’t smell as bad. A huge tag sat on top of the crate, taped to the green instruction sheet she’d already seen. She turned the tag to the light and read:

  Holly Price had the crate.

  Paid the fee.

  Chose another’s fate.

  A new address for the pig.

  Tag, you’re it.

  Her name was written on the sender’s line in JC’s bold slanting script.

  Oh my God. She stared at the tag, horrified. She was screwed. He’d gotten her back—and made things even worse with Alex, all with one line on a form. She ripped the tag off the crate and crushed it.

  She was so sending that llama to JC’s department.

  She pulled her cell from her pocket, expecting to call since the front entrance was usually locked. To her surprise, the door swung open when she tugged the handle.

  She paused near the hostess stand and let her eyes adjust to the dimmer light.

  The pig was just another huge complication. Maybe she could get it out of here, send it to Tim, without Alex ever knowing it was there
. She could call Rick, ask him to arrange for its relocation.

  She rubbed her temples. Or Alex could learn to laugh and deal with it himself.

  Jeez, why was she here?

  She wasn’t in love with Alex, wasn’t even sure she liked him right now. But he’d been fun at one point.

  Ugh. Please say she wasn’t about to do something incredibly stupid, like patch things up with Alex, simply because on too many levels JC scared her. She could walk away from Alex at any time.

  JC? She couldn’t go through that again.

  Not that she’d actually consider getting involved with JC.

  But if she and Alex were going to try again, the rules were changing, starting right now.

  She moved further into the restaurant. A clatter of industrial silverware and Spanish chatter came from the main dining room, where several men and women were preparing tables for dinner. Salsa music pulsed from the speakers and the women swayed between the tables with an easy grace.

  One of the men noticed Holly and stepped in her direction. “We’re not open yet.”

  “I’m looking for Alex. Is he in the office?” She headed toward the hall without waiting for an answer.

  “Hey! You can’t go in there.”

  Her gaze swiveled from the office door—closed—to the server’s face—worried. So, Alex wasn’t alone.

  Alrighty.

  “It’s okay.” Head held high, she strode forward. Was he carrying on with one of his staff? And he had the nerve to be angry with her for talking to JC?

  “But—” The waiter shrugged and returned to the dining room.

  Alex’s raised voice came through the closed office door. She slowed her footsteps. Maybe he wasn’t sweet-talking another woman. Maybe he was chewing out an employee.

  The door flew open and JC strode from the office.

  Oh. Crap.

  Alex appeared behind the detective. Anger rippled from every pore of Alex’s body, but JC was doing his impassive cop thing. Stalking toward her, his face remained expressionless, but his heels hammered sharp blows on the Mexican tile floor. His eyes swiveled in her direction, registering her presence, but his pace didn’t change.

  She looked from JC to Alex. The tension between the two men had passed “uncomfortable” and was headed straight for “danger zone.” Her attention swung back to JC. “What’s going on?”