Suddenly a metal lid clanged to the ground as the other two raccoons opened the can. Resourceful little critters. No wonder there were no skinny raccoons.
A female voice pierced the darkness from the balcony above.
“Who’s there?”
Kat was silent. So were the raccoons. The break in the action felt almost like an intermission. Except there was no popcorn. A woman’s voice interrupted.
“Hon? Someone’s outside.”
Hon? Clara, in her Susan disguise, hadn’t mentioned a significant other. Kat just assumed a workaholic like her would live alone. She had no boyfriend, kids, or even friends to speak of.
The door opened and Kat heard heavy footsteps on the deck above. She needed to move fast. The raccoon’s eyes remained locked on hers. He and his clan continued to stand guard over the cans, despite the fact that she towered over them. Kat glanced upward. A man peered over the balcony, his face obscured by the darkness.
“Hey! What’s going on down there?”
There was no time to lose. She charged the raccoons and grabbed the bag out of the open can. The raccoons scattered, but not before the larger one took a swipe at her leg. His claws pierced through her track pants, making her wince at the first sting of pain. This garbage better be worth a tetanus shot.
She turned and began to run just as the man came down the stairs. She half carried, half dragged the bag across the back lawn as the man ran towards her diagonally, trying to cut off her path to the gate.
“Stop! What the hell are you doing?”
Kat turned. Under the motion sensor light she saw a tall, stocky man bounding towards her, no more than twenty feet away. She wouldn’t be surprised if the attack raccoons gave chase too.
“What the hell—? Hey! Put that down!”
Kat’s heart raced as she reached the gate. She swore she had left it open, but now it was shut. She cursed as she fumbled with the handle, but it was stuck. The man’s panting grew louder behind her. She turned just enough to see him closing in, less than ten feet from her now.
Panicking, she punched the lever and finally it released. It opened just as he clutched at the collar of her jacket. She screamed and pulled her jacket off as she raced through the gate.
She landed on sand outside the gate, trying to run as her feet sank deep with every step. Her finger caught on a tear in the plastic where the bag had split. She felt something sharp poking out, hitting her right thigh with every stride. The garbage bag wasn’t made for all this action. She ran as fast as she could through the sand, hoping the bag would hold long enough to get to the car.
Kat turned the corner and listened for the man behind her. No footsteps or panting. She didn’t dare slow down yet. Fifty more feet and she would be back at the dirt trail that led to the street. She ran as fast as she dared with the garbage bag, bracing it against her side to minimize movement. As she turned the corner, the Lincoln finally came into view. At least her marathon training had given her enough speed to outrun the mystery man.
She deposited the bag in her trunk and fired up the engine. The street was still empty; no one had followed her. Still, she didn’t breathe a sigh of relief until she hit the on-ramp. Frank Sinatra played on the radio as she accelerated and merged onto the highway.
A musty smell wafted forward from the back of the car. Overripe fruit. She debated opening the windows; it was cold outside. But the smell was overpowering, so she lowered the windows and cranked up the heat. Harry would freak if he knew his car was being used to transport illegally obtained, stinky garbage. Maybe the raccoons were lucky to miss out on this one.
She again thought about the man at Clara’s house. He seemed oddly familiar, even in the dark. Where had she seen him before?
31
Kat sat cross-legged within a circle of garbage, piles neatly sorted according to type. She felt like a homeless Martha Stewart on a dumpster dive. Vegetable matter occupied the heap to her right, plastics at nine o’clock to her left, and metals behind her. There was a profusion of paper directly in front of her, which she was now carefully separating. It would be hours before the paper was dry enough to unfold and handle. She had fashioned a makeshift clothesline out of string across the front of the reception desk. It reminded her of a hobo yuletide display, though people with no fixed address probably didn’t get Christmas cards.
Then Harry walked in. He stopped in his tracks, mouth agape. He was speechless for a few seconds before regaining his composure.
“What the heck is going on here?”
“Not much, Uncle Harry. Just doing a bit of recycling.”
“Since when are you an environmentalist?”
“Since when do you arrive at six a.m.?”
“Don’t change the subject, Kat. What’s with all this mess?”
“I’ve always been green. I’m just really getting into it now.”
Harry picked up an empty plastic bottle and turned it around to read the label. He studied Kat, confused.
“Just a minute here. This is fabric softener. You don’t use this—you’re allergic to the stuff. What’s the deal?”
“I might have picked up a few things lying around. Just trying to do my part with the three Rs.”
“Are you crazy?” Harry scanned the room. “You’re so broke you’re dumpster diving? Why didn’t you just say something?”
“Uncle Harry, it’s not what it seems.”
“You don’t have to stoop to this, Kat. Why not just ask for help? You’re welcome for dinner anytime, and if it’s money, well, I can help you out until things pick up.”
“You don’t understand. This is Susan Sullivan’s garbage. I’m going through it because I need to find something.”
Harry cast a skeptical eye.
“I don’t care whose garbage it is. Never thought my niece would turn into a scavenger. Lord knows we’ve given you everything we could. What’s happened to you?”
“Relax, Uncle Harry. People leave a lot of interesting clues behind in their garbage. And I’m desperate enough to go to extremes. I need to find dirt on Susan. Literally.”
“This is ridiculous. Give me that bag right now. I’m throwing it out. We’re going to Safeway to buy you some groceries. You’ve stooped to a new low, Kat. I’m surprised at you.”
“Calm down. As I said, this is Susan’s garbage. Only she’s not Susan Sullivan. She’s masquerading as Susan, but she’s actually Clara de la Cruz.” Kat filled Harry in on Susan’s double identity.
“I don’t care whether it’s Susan, Clara, or the Pope. Garbage is garbage.”
“Don’t you see? Susan, Clara, or whoever she is—is mixed up in the Liberty–Opal trading fiasco, and I’m going to find out how.”
“By picking through her garbage? That’s gross.”
“It’s all I’ve got. I’m hoping she’s thrown out something that will give me a clue. Something that will help us catch whoever stole the money.”
Harry appeared to be thinking it over. Disgusting as it was, if it solved the case, his Liberty stock might rebound.
“Okay. Got another pair of gloves?”
“Here. I’ve got a system, Uncle Harry. Vegetable matter goes over there. Papers are carefully separated and spread out to dry.” Kat made an arc with her arm. “Anything not fitting into these piles goes over in the corner. We’ll take care of that stuff later.”
Kat turned towards the glass wall as she heard the elevator door open.
It was the interior decorator from across the hall. He emerged from the elevator and gave Kat a thinly disguised sneer before flipping open his cell phone and madly punching in numbers. No doubt rescheduling his early morning appointments to prevent his clients from seeing the freaks in latex gloves across the hall. Or maybe he was calling the building manager for the second time this week. Not that it mattered. Her missed rent payment meant Kat’s days were already numbered in the building anyway.
Kat knew it wasn’t pretty. Garbage in various forms of decay covered the floo
r and every horizontal surface of the reception area. She turned her attention back to Uncle Harry, who had picked up a corduroy shirt, eyeing it with interest.
“Look at this! Such a waste! A perfectly good shirt, thrown in the garbage.” He peered at the label on the collar.
“Hey, this is expensive. At least they could have given it to Goodwill.”
“Yuck! Don’t be gross. Put it back.”
“A good wash and it’ll be like new. And it’s even my size.” Harry held the offending shirt up against his chest.
“You just complained about me dumpster diving. What are you turning into?”
“Oh, all right, I’ll put it back. But it’s more clutter for the landfill.”
Suddenly it came to her.
“Wait—don’t throw it away!”
“But you just told me to.”
In a flash she realized who the shirt belonged to. It was the man chasing her from Susan’s house. She remembered where she had seen him before.
That man was Paul Bryant.
32
“Don’t argue with me. Leave now.”
Clara’s throat tightened as anger welled up inside her. Her father never gave her any credit, no matter how much money she made for him.
His voice boomed through the receiver. “I never should have let you become Liberty’s CEO. It’s too risky.”
“Why? Because I’m a woman?” Clara’s hand tensed around the cordless phone as she listened to her father’s voice thousands of miles away.
“Because you’re my daughter, that’s why. Don’t argue with me.”
Funneling the conflict diamonds through Liberty allowed them to be sold as legitimate diamonds, at full market price. But her most brilliant stroke was to disguise the payment as a theft, allowing the payment to the Ortega empire to escape detection and reporting under anti-money laundering laws. She got the idea after reading about the fledgling diamond industry in the Canadian north. Diamond mining in Canada had been around for less than ten years, and a short track record meant no comparisons to arouse suspicion. It had worked so well until Kat started asking the wrong questions.
“Father, the shareholder vote is in two days. The whole takeover could derail if I’m not around.”
Clara studied herself in the hall mirror. Her dyed blonde hair was pulled back into a chignon, matching the formal cut of her grey wool suit. It suited the role of Susan perfectly. She could hardly wait to ditch the staid clothing and get back into something more attractive. Something sexy, so she could feel alive again.
She walked over to the window and pulled back the curtain. It was early morning and still dark, the water choppy as a rainstorm brewed outside. It would be noon in Buenos Aires, bright and sunny. Her father was probably calling from the corner table of his favorite Recoleta restaurant, where he had a standing reservation.
Vicente was supposed to become Liberty’s CEO to keep an eye on Nick and ensure he kept his promise. That was before her father found out about Vicente’s secret fund, and whacked the love of her life. She was just a contingency plan, simply because he trusted no one else.
“I’ve got the vote locked up, Clara. It’s taken care of.”
“But what if Nick—”
“I’ll handle Nick. Just pack your bags and get on the next flight.”
“How do you know he won’t pull a fast one?” Clara knew better than to argue with her father, but Nick’s vote was needed for the deal to go ahead.
“I’ll deal with him.”
She knew what that meant.
“Okay. But give me a few more days.” She needed more time to move her profits from the short sales and set herself up for the future. A future that didn’t include her father.
“Fine. But I want you back in Buenos Aires right after the vote.”
“How will I explain my sudden absence?” Clara asked as she walked into the kitchen.
“I don’t know—tell them you’ve got cancer. Or women’s problems and you need surgery. Figure something out.”
Her father controlled governments, wars, and the global arms trade, but he was an idiot when it came to people. If they didn’t cooperate, he killed them. Clara knew some people were much more useful alive. Human nature could always be used to her advantage.
“Where does that leave me? Will I return to Liberty once the takeover is complete?”
“When it’s over, we’ll discuss your future.”
Which meant she didn’t have one, at least not in the Ortega empire.
Clara ended the call, fuming. She threw the phone across the kitchen, watching as it smashed against the coffee carafe. The glass shattered into pieces, but the phone stayed in one piece as it fell to the floor. Glass scattered across the countertop and the floor.
She eyed the 1940s Lalique vase on the counter, a graduation gift from him. She had brought it all the way from Argentina, but now it only reminded her of his control over her. She picked it up and hurled it against the microwave. It made a long crack on the microwave door as it too broke into dozens of pieces.
Always under her father’s thumb. From governesses to boarding schools, to the watchful eye of whomever was assigned to babysit her. Liberty was her first taste of relative freedom in her thirty-plus years, and she didn’t want to go back.
There were only dim memories of her mother, who had fallen from a balcony at one of the many Ortega estates. Clara was only four, but there was one thing she knew for sure. The official version of events was always a lie. Her father was responsible for eliminating the only two people who had ever mattered in her life.
“What’s all the noise?” Paul padded into the kitchen and stopped when he noticed the broken glass on the floor.
Clara, so furious with her father, had forgotten he was in the next room.
“Nothing. An accident.”
“You’re upset.” He encircled her in his arms and stroked her cheek. “What did he say to you?”
“He wants me to leave before the vote. He treats me like a child.”
“You stalled him?”
She nodded, resting her head against his chest. Clara had used the five billion for a little while before it wended its way to the Ortega organization. Before transferring it, she had increased it tenfold by shorting Liberty’s stock. She was richer than any man or woman on the Forbes list, but no one would ever know it, especially not her father.
“Good. Leaving now will only raise suspicion.”
Clara sighed as she surveyed the damage from a few moments ago. She could clean up later. Right now she needed to get an early start at Liberty. It was time for her exit strategy.
Clara was about to disobey the most powerful man in Buenos Aires. People just didn’t do that and live, not even his daughter. Still, she reminded herself that instead of starting a new life with Vicente, she was salvaging what was left of hers. Her father would rue the day he killed her husband.
33
A flash of white on the oak floor caught Kat’s eye as she opened her office door. Nothing good ever came in a hand-delivered envelope. Maybe going out for lunch was a mistake. No, she had to eat, and she deserved a reward after sorting through Clara’s garbage all morning. She had treated herself to lunch at Athena, the new Greek restaurant down the block. Whatever the envelope held, at least one hour out of her day had been good.
Kat bent down to pick it up. It was typewritten, addressed to Carter & Associates with no return address. She rubbed the envelope with her thumb to see if she could make out the contents, but the paper was too thick. The longer she waited to open it, the longer she could remain oblivious to the latest demand for payment, overdue bill, or other unfortunate aspect of her financial meltdown. While it was tempting, she would have to open it sooner or later.
She took a deep breath and ripped open the envelope. It was even worse than she thought: Carter & Associates was officially evicted. She had missed her rent payment for the last time.
Kat’s shoulders slumped in defeat as she shuff
led over to the couch and sat down. How did she manage to go from a six-figure salary and hefty bonuses to six figures in debt in less than a year? Being downsized was one thing, but starting her own practice? A pay cut and a job at a lower-tier firm would have at least minimized her debts. Of all the stupid things she had done, starting her own forensic accounting practice had to top the list.
Getting fired from Liberty meant it would be even tougher to attract new clients, and having no office made her appear like an amateur. She would give anything to erase the last year of her life and go back to her old job, even if it was dull. At least she would have a bank balance and some future prospects. Nick was right about her—she was just a two-bit operation. It took getting evicted to finally drive the message home.
She jumped at the sound of the phone ringing, something she hadn’t heard much of lately. It was Cindy.
“Kat, I’ve got the test results back on the diamonds. Guess what?”
“I don’t want to guess. Tell me.”
“Okay, grumpy. It turns out the diamonds aren’t from Mystic Lake.”
Kat leaned forward on the couch. It wouldn’t help her current situation any, but at least she felt vindicated.
“I knew it! Don’t you wish you believed me in the first place?”
“All right, Kat, I’ll say it. You were right. But here’s what you didn’t guess. The diamonds tested are actually from three different mines. Two are from the Democratic Republic of Congo, and the other is from the Ivory Coast. Both countries are hot spots for conflict diamonds.”
“Three different mines just bolsters my theory. Whoever is behind this is doing it on a large scale, and has easy access to diamonds from a multitude of mines.”
“Do you have any idea of who that might be?” Cindy asked. “Not many people could pull this off. They’d need very good black market connections."
“I’ve got a few leads, but nothing definitive yet.” Kat couldn’t share her find about Clara the mafia princess just yet. If she did, Cindy would consider Kat’s involvement with organized crime too dangerous and insist she stop working on it. But there was one area where Cindy could help. Kat would just have to make sure she had her part tied up before Cindy got her answer and discovered the Clara connection.
[Katerina Carter 01.0] Exit Strategy Page 16
