“Let me see it.”
She handed it over.
George examined it for a few minutes. “I can tell you a couple of additional things. First, the date is in March, but the reference number is 0012. Assuming they operate on a calendar year, it’s a low volume business to only have twelve invoices in a three-month period.”
Hollis nodded. “I’m impressed. What else?”
“Most importantly, the name of the company is at the bottom of the page.” He pointed to the name in the lower left corner. It was in a tiny, embossed eight-point font.
“Let me see that.” Hollis snatched the paper from his hand.
George laughed.
“Templeton Group.” Hollis laughed, too. “I’d hug you if it wasn’t sexual harassment. Thank you. I didn’t see either of those things. I’ll check them out.”
“You didn’t see them because you’ve been working too hard. You need a break. You got the Koch matter settled; take an hour off for lunch.”
“Very funny,” she said. “I’ll slow down once this matter with Cathy is resolved. And then I’ll take some time off after I get my scores.”
He got up. “I hope your life can wait for later.”
She was being followed.
She had the same feeling when she left Mark’s office the day before. Now the feeling was back, and stronger.
At first Hollis thought her peripheral vision was in too high a gear, but as she wandered through the mall, she sensed, more than saw, someone watching her. She pulled out her cellphone and held it up. It made an adequate mirror for seeing behind her. She whirled around.
“Vince?”
The young man walked slowly toward her, hands shoved in his jeans’ front pockets, the gray hoodie pulled over his straggly brown hair, “Hey, Hollis.”
“Are you following me?” Hollis pointed to a nearby bus bench then tugged his sleeve for him to come with her.
He allowed her to lead him. “Ah, just hanging out. I wasn’t doing anythin’.”
“So why follow me?”
“I didn’t have nothin’ to do. I saw you with Stephanie last week while I was waiting for my mom.” His head was down, his words mumbled.
“How’s your mom?”
“Oh, she’s out now,” he mumbled. “But she has to put more time in out-patient rehab.”
Hollis felt a twinge of sadness. Her own family kept their distance from one another so they wouldn’t have to get involved—or be inconvenienced. Then here was this youth whose care and involvement with his mother was so integral to his purpose in life.
She gave him a half-smile. “Still, why follow me? I’m not that fascinating. Shouldn’t you be in school? Or at a job?”
“Nah, I dropped out of high school. I work at the Fast Stop at night, cleaning up.”
She noticed his eyes would not meet hers.
“Are you still getting over the drugs?”
Vince’s voice rose defiantly. “I ain’t touched those in weeks. I’m clean. I didn’t have to do no rehab. I did it all myself.”
“I believe you.” Hollis smiled back at curious onlookers and said in a low tone, “I’m glad.”
For some reason she felt a tie to this young, ungainly youth. He reminded her of no one she knew, but she felt drawn to his story. It was the same with Margaret. The compelling stories of people who dig deep to change, grow in character and overcome odds were the ones she clung to, only she hadn’t realized it until she found that picture in Cathy’s condo. It gave her hope.
Chest heaving from emotion, Vince sought to regain a steady breath, all the while continuing to nod.
Hollis pointed toward the food court down the block. “Are you hungry? Want to get some lunch?”
He jerked his head up with a look of such amazement that Hollis was taken aback.
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
“Nothin’.”
“Well, do you want to get something to eat, or not?”
“Yeah, okay.”
They picked a table with facing seats. Hollis ordered salad and Vince, hamburger and fries. With his head held down, Vince responded to her attempts at conversation with one word responses.
Hollis took a sip of tea. “Now tell me why you were really following me.”
Vince pulled his hood closer to his head. “’Cuz like I said, I didn’t have anything to do. I saw you in the parking lot and I just followed you.”
A slightly different story than the one he had given her before, but Hollis held her tongue. “Did you follow me yesterday?”
Vince’s hood could not hide the flame of red that crept up his neck to his face. “Nah, that wasn’t me.”
He’s lying.
“So, you left high school.” Hollis picked at her roll. “Are you working on getting your GED?”
Vince jerked his head up. “What? No, well, maybe. I don’t need school no more. They kicked me out for being a truant. But I had to take care of my mom.”
Hollis sighed as she nibbled on a cucumber slice. “What was your favorite class?”
“I don’t know, maybe … maybe,” he stopped eating and looked past her, “maybe history.”
His answer surprised her. It was not a subject she would have thought he’d be interested in. “History? Why history?”
“Because it’s all over. Everybody knows how things turn out. I like to know how things turn out.”
She tapped her lips lightly with her fingers. “I never thought of it that way, but I see your point.”
They each took another few bites in silence.
When Hollis finished her salad, she said, “You know, if you wanted, I could get you the forms to go to continuation school and see about that GED.”
Vince frowned.
Hollis held up her hand. “It’s no big deal. I can download forms off my computer at work.”
With his head still down, Vince pushed back his hood. With his tow head uncovered, he looked even younger. “I’m not ready. I gotta help my mom get through out-patient rehab.”
Hollis nodded. “Okay, okay. Let me know if you’re ever interested.”
“I’m not ready,” Vince repeated.
She checked the time on her cellphone. “I’ve got to get back to the office, but you stay here and finish.”
“Er … thank you for buyin’ me lunch.”
Hollis smiled. “It was my pleasure, Vince.”
“Why did you?” Vince hesitated. “Why did you spend time with me?”
Hollis raised her eyebrows and shrugged, remembering her friend, Cathy.
“Because I could.”
Hollis put her purse in the lower desk drawer and pulled out the Templeton invoice. George was right. The side trip to the mall and lunch with Vince was just the break she needed.
She Googled the Templeton Group and watched the screen load with ads, sidebars, and quotes—none of which actually indicated what business they were in. The icons at the top were generic descriptions. After hitting the “Contact Us” tab, she took down the San Francisco phone number and punched it in.
“Yes, my name is Miss Hollis Morgan. Can I speak with someone in your accounting department regarding an invoice we received?”
A few seconds later the same voice who answered the phone came back on line. “This is Nancy, how can I help you?”
Hollis smiled. “We have your invoice number 0012. I had a couple of questions.”
“Oh, yes, I know that invoice. What’s the problem? I know we cut the check about three weeks ago. You should have received payment.”
Hollis bit her lip. The invoice was for Templeton to pay, not owed to Templeton. She scrambled to recast her inquiry. “Oh, no problem with your check, I’m calling to see if our service was satisfactory.”
“I suppose.” Nancy paused. “Mr. Mueller handles that account. I don’t know anything about it. I just cut the checks.”
“Arlo Mueller?”
To say her voice had cooled with suspicion would have been an understatem
ent. “Yes.”
“Is Mr. Mueller available?”
“No, you’ll have to call back.”
Click.
That went well.
Hollis grabbed her purse and keys. Let’s see what they would do if she showed up on their doorstep.
But by the time she pulled her car up to the three-story office building on San Lorenzo Boulevard, she was having second thoughts. The ground floor windows were shuttered closed. The second floor windows were boarded over. Surprisingly, the entry door opened easily into a stark, dilapidated, and empty lobby. On a rear wall, a tarnished metal case contained a directory. Templeton was on the top floor.
The elevator lumbered noisily and eventually opened up to a hallway containing four doors, one of which was glass and touted Templeton Industries, Inc.
Hollis handed her card to the woman sitting at a long narrow table that substituted for the receptionist desk. “I called earlier. But I’m willing to wait for Mr. Mueller until he returns.” She took a seat on an uncomfortable green metal chair.
“I told you on the phone he wasn’t available.” Nancy, who appeared to be in her seventies, wore her blond waist-length hair styled like Alice in Wonderland—held back with a black headband. However the skin on her face—unlike Alice’s—fell into small folds with a dot of red on each cheek.
Hollis ignored the glare. “Yes, well, I was in the neighborhood.”
Nancy pushed a button on the phone, murmured in response and stood. “Please stay in your seat. I’ll inform the manager, Mr. Green, you’re here.”
Stay in my seat.
It wasn’t three minutes until Nancy shuffled back to her desk.
“Mr. Green will see you once he completes a phone call.”
Hollis beamed a fake smile.
It took another five minutes for Green to appear. He strode into the room with both hands in his pockets. Rumpled, balding, and middle-aged, he wore a dark brown belted sweater and an open-collared, peach-colored shirt.
“Miss Morgan, if you’d come this way.” He pointed toward an office.
“Mr. Green, my law firm is working with Transformation in defending an article written by Catherine Briscoe, We—”
“My assistant gave me your card.” They were in his office, and she took the chair he offered. “I don’t see how I can help you.”
“I’d like to show you a photo of Cathy. It might trigger your memory. I also wanted to talk to you about a receipt.”
“Yes, I understand that from my assistant. She told you that we don’t know a Catherine Briscoe. She also told you our accountant paid the invoice.”
“Mr. Green, please, our client died a couple of weeks ago. We discovered this receipt among her papers. We just need to know what the service provided was.”
He was silent. Then, “Who did you say you were again?”
Hollis paused. “My last name is Morgan, and I’m with Dodson Dodson & Doyle. As I mentioned earlier, my firm is working with the McClouds law firm and their attorney, Mark Haddan. We’re defending Transformation magazine in a lawsuit filed by Dorian Fields.” She leaned in. “Could you tell me your connection to Dorian Fields?”
“Fields, the philanthropist? I don’t know Dorian Fields at all.”
She sank back and reached inside her purse, thrusting the photo across to him.
“This is a picture of Catherine Briscoe. Do you recognize her?”
He gave it a brief glance. “Pretty lady, but no, I don’t remember her.”
She was running out of threads. “Mr. Green, a few moments ago you reacted when I asked what service you provide. Now, I’m just a paralegal. I’m only interested in an article that Cathy wrote for Transformation, so you can tell me about your business, and I will not reveal any confidences.”
“Look, I don’t know you and I don’t know Fields and I sure don’t know Briscoe, but I do know that the receipt you showed my assistant is for the association fees.”
Hollis frowned. “Association fees? What association?” She mentally checked possibilities but nothing clicked. This wasn’t making any sense.
“Your question says it all. Clearly, you’re not privy to the confidential transaction involved here. I need to get back to work. So I’m going to have to show you out.”
“I’m sorry if I said something to bother you.”
“You can tell him for me that he doesn’t have to send messengers by to see if I’m playing by the rules. I’m a big boy and I don’t appreciate it.”
He escorted Hollis to the door, a firm grip on her elbow.
Who’s him?
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Hollis sat on the edge of Cathy’s bed. She was grateful that Friday was a slow day in the office. She was able to leave and come here to finish packing her friend’s personal belongings. She didn’t mind; it helped her to say goodbye. Tomorrow she would call Mrs. Briscoe and tell her that her daughter’s things were ready for the movers.
She sniffed. The air still held the faint scent of Cathy’s favorite Jo Malone fragrance, Red Roses.
“Talk to me, Cathy,” she said in a whisper. “What were you up to? What do all these pieces mean? There’s Templeton Industries and Joe Morgan’s photos, the Muellers. What are the connections? What’s the link? What does one have to do with the other? Fields’ nonprofits were a little sloppy on the management side, but they appear to be doing good works. What did you see that I don’t?”
Engrossed in thought, she was brought swiftly back to the present by the click of the lock on the front door. Her body stiffened, and moments later Hollis looked up into the startled eyes of a medium-height, brown-haired, good-looking guy with beard stubble. He carried a large backpack.
“Who are you?” he said, looking around the room.
Hollis jumped up from the bed and stepped backward to the nightstand, ready to defend herself with the lamp, if necessary. Adrenaline pumped through her body.
“Who are you?” Her hand felt for the lamp base.
“Where’s Cathy?” he said. He dumped his gear inside the room but didn’t approach any closer. “What’s going on?”
Hollis took a breath. He knew Cathy. He seemed okay, and he had entered with a key. Her heartbeat was slowing back down. She didn’t feel threatened, but she wasn’t comfortable either.
“I’m a friend of Cathy’s.” She motioned toward the door. “Let’s go sit in the living room.”
He looked doubtful and held his ground until Hollis pointed him into the next room.
She took a seat in the single chair by the window. He sat on the sofa, on the other side of the room.
“My name is Hollis Morgan. Did Cathy ever mention me?”
He shook his head.
“What’s your name, and how do you know Cathy?”
“Michael, Michael Carver. Cathy and I are … together.” He leaned forward and gripped his knees with his hands. “What’s going on?”
Hollis sensed he was the real deal and wished she were anywhere else but there.
“She never mentioned you to me, either, Michael. I’m afraid Cathy was killed about three weeks ago.” He looked as if she had punched him. “I’m sorry.”
He stood and ran his hand over his brow.
“I don’t understand. How was she killed?”
Hollis debated whether to give him the full version or to parcel it out in segments. She opted for the former. His reactions went from disbelief to anger to pain. She finished.
“The funeral was two weeks ago. I’m sorry.”
He was silent, his disbelief visible.
“She was always so independent. She was funny and cre—” His words seemed addressed more to himself than to Hollis. He looked taken aback.
“I know. We were good friends.” Hollis paused then said, “Cathy never told me about you. Where’ve you been?”
He looked at her with red-rimmed eyes. “Camping. I’ve been camping in Yosemite. I go every year for one month.” He put his head in his hands. “I didn’t think she
wanted me to go this time. We hadn’t known each other that long. She didn’t say anything, but … I knew …. If I hadn’t ….”
Hollis came over and sat near him. “Don’t even go there. I’ve known Cathy for years. She wasn’t one for hand-holding or holding hands. At least not in a non-romantic way.”
He gave her a half-smile and wiped at his eyes. “Why do you think she didn’t tell you about me?”
Her first thought was that Cathy didn’t consider him a real contender. But it could also be that she wanted to be sure. She had given the guy her key, after all.
“She was funny that way,” Hollis said. “I’ve been pretty busy these past months studying for the bar, so we hadn’t seen each other for a while. The night she died she came by my condo. That was the first time we’d seen each other in months.” Hollis reflected on the truth of her words. “She was preoccupied with her work and I was focused on the bar. We really hadn’t talked.”
“You a lawyer?”
“I’ll know in a few weeks.” Hollis smiled. “What do you do?”
“Risk management. I sell insurance.”
Hollis’ stomach fluttered. Insurance was a field she was intimately familiar with. She flashed forward to memories of her ex, who had no qualms about setting her up to take a prison term for his insurance fraud scheme.
Michael said, “What’s the matter? You look like … like you just remembered something.”
She shook her head. “No, I’m okay.” She went to the kitchen for a glass of water. She pointed to a glass. “You?”
“No, thanks.” He cleared his throat. “Do they have the guy who did it?”
“No. The police don’t even know if it is a guy.”
He looked pensive. “Is there a motive? Why was she killed?”
Hollis shrugged. “The police don’t know. But I think it was because she was writing an inflammatory article about a celebrity, a celebrity who couldn’t afford to have his reputation sullied.”
“You mean Dorian Fields?”
Hollis turned to him in surprise. “You know about the article?”
“Yeah, sure.”
He took a step back at Hollis’ reaction. “Cathy gave me an early draft to read. I took it along on my trip, but to be honest I didn’t get a chance to read it.”
Sticks & Stones (A Hollis Morgan Mystery) Page 16
