Wipe Out

by Jeff Shelby

  “The truth isn't always something you wanna hear.”

  She leaned forward. “Well, now I'm curious.”

  I looked out the window for a moment. It wasn't that I hadn't told the story to others before. I distinctly remembered sharing all of the details with Sarah, a woman I'd met and dated briefly when I was entangled in the Benavides thing. It hadn't been difficult and despite the fact that she'd made some snap judgments about me before she knew the whole story, she'd accepted what I'd told her. Said she'd understood.

  But I always wondered how people would react.

  And, for some reason, telling Shannon, this woman I barely knew but was most definitely attracted to, felt...different. Like the stakes were bigger.

  And that made me nervous.

  I looked back at the gorgeous woman sitting across from me. “You Google me after I told you my name?”

  She appeared amused by the question. “Google you?”

  “Just curious.”

  She shook her head. “I did not. I like a little bit of mystery and I don't want to see your inappropriate pictures on Facebook.”

  “I'm not on Facebook.”

  “Brave man. But I will reiterate. I did not Google you. About all I know about you is that you're a decent surfer, you smell terrific, and you have excellent taste in Mexican food.”

  “Still with the decent surfer stuff,” I said, shaking my head. “Gimme a second.”

  I slid out of the booth and walked back to the counter and bought two more beers. I took them back to the table and slid one across to her. She polished off the little left in her first one and moved the empty to the side.

  “You are very good at building the suspense,” she said.

  I spun my bottle around slowly. “There's no going back. You know that, right? Once I tell you the truth, I can't untell you.”

  “I'm not sure untell is a word.”

  I laughed. “I'm not kidding.”

  “I can tell,” she said, nodding. “Yes. The truth. I'm listening.”

  I glanced out the window. Cars were moving slowly on the boulevard. People were strolling past on the sidewalk.

  I looked back to Shannon.

  “Her name was Liz,” I told her, picking up my beer. “And I wasn't kidding about killing someone.”

  THIRTY FIVE

  I pointed across the street. “What do you think of that place?”

  Shannon and I had walked down the boulevard to a make-your-own ice cream sandwich shop called The Baked Bear. We'd gotten our sandwiches and walked back up Mission and I'd stopped right across the street from The Blue Wave.

  “I think if you're trying to get me into bed, at least pick a more expensive place,” she said.

  I laughed and shook my head. “No. I'm asking for your architect's opinion. That piece of land. What do you think of it?”

  She stared at it for a few moments. “The motel itself has some good bones, but needs to be updated. Especially down here. Even a quaint motel needs to look inviting and right now, it doesn't.” She paused. “Now the actual physical property? That's a no-brainer. It's beachfront and it's commercially zoned.” She looked at me. “Sky's the limit.”

  I nodded. “Right.”

  “Why?”

  “I've been working on this thing for a friend,” I said. “Involves the motel. She's trying to decide whether to sell or keep it or whatever.”

  Shannon nodded and looked at the motel again. “You could do some fun things with it, if you had the money. Retro-chic is kind of fashionable and there are other motels that have capitalized on it. But I'd think selling it would be the money play.”

  “I think so, too,” I said. “Thanks for your opinion.”

  She smiled and nodded and we headed back toward the stairs and the house.

  At some point during the walk, her hand slipped into mine.

  “I, um, don't have a story that compares to yours,” she said, as we turned the corner off Mission.

  I laughed. “Who does?”

  She laughed and it carried in the air. “Good point. But you asked me last time about moving from Miami to UCLA. I gave you the vague evasive maneuver.”

  “You did.”

  “It's nothing dramatic,” she explained. “I didn't get along with my mother. At all. She expected certain things of me and I was not interested in those things. So I looked for the furthest school away from her I could find that I could get into. UCLA accepted me before the University of Washington did.”

  I nodded. “Makes sense.”

  “I haven't spoken to her since I left,” she said.

  “Wow.”

  She squeezed my hand. “I'm not that old.”

  “I was gonna say six years is a long time.”

  She laughed. “Excellent recovery.”

  We reached her car and we stopped.

  I felt something in my stomach that I hadn't felt in a very long time.

  “I had a very nice night with you,” Shannon said. “And I appreciate the truth.”

  I leaned against the car. “You're not running scared?”

  She shook her head. “Not even a little.”

  “But you're going to Google me now.”

  She burst out laughing, then nodded. “I most likely will.”

  I laughed and shrugged.

  The stars were bright above us in the dark sky. The water was falling against the shore down below us. Voices carried in the distance.

  “This is the part on second dates where we should kiss,” she said.

  “Yeah? Like I said, haven't been on many second dates lately.”

  She squinted at me. “I am not upset about that in any way.”

  I nodded, watching her. “I do have one question, though.”

  “Fire away.”

  “What the hell is your last name?”

  She smiled. “McCarthy.”

  “Shannon McCarthy,” I said.

  “Noah Braddock,” she said.

  I stepped closer to her, put my hand on her cheek, and completed the second date.

  THIRTY SIX

  I woke up the next morning and did my thirty minutes of running in about twenty. My legs felt good and they turned over easily as I moved over the sand. The air was cool and crisp and it felt more like fall than summer. The water was dotted with surfers, as a nice consistent swell was bringing in heavy four-footers.

  Carter was stumbling around in the kitchen when I got back.

  “What are you doing here?” I asked, still out of breath.

  “I live here?”

  “Besides that.”

  He pulled a box of cereal down from on top of the fridge and poured himself an enormous bowl. “Anne woke up this morning and said she was fine. Said I could go. I told her it was cool, but she wasn't having it.” He shrugged. “I think she just needed to be by herself for a while.”

  I nodded. “Okay.”

  He splashed milk into the bowl and pulled a spoon from the drawer. “Why are you so chipper today?”

  “I'm not chipper. I went for a run.”

  He eyed me, then shook his head. “No, you're chipper. What gives?”

  “Nothing gives,” I said. “I'm taking a shower.”

  I showered, rinsing off the sweat and sand, then put on a pair of shorts and a T-shirt and rejoined him in the kitchen. I shoved two pieces of bread into the toaster and waited on them.

  He was sitting at the table, paging through the file I'd gotten from Rose Henderson.

  “What are you doing?” I asked.

  He held up a finger, studying the pages in the file.

  The toast popped up and I buttered it. I filled a small bowl with cereal, poured milk over it, and carried it over to the table.

  “Where'd you get this stuff?” Carter asked when I sat down across from him.

  “The file? Rose Henderson. She gave it to me.”

  He grunted and flipped another page.

  I ripped off a piece of the toast. “Why?”

  “
These aren't right,” he said, shaking his head.

  “They aren't right? What are you talking about?”

  “These aren't right,” he repeated. “They don't match up.”

  “With what?”

  He picked up the gallon of orange juice by the handle and drank straight from the carton.

  “You know, that's supposed to be for both of us,” I said.

  He held out the carton to me. “Go ahead.”

  I made a face. “What doesn't match up?”

  He set the carton down. “The numbers. These are off from what we took to my financial friend.”

  “Off? You memorized the numbers?”

  “No, I didn't memorize the numbers,” he said. “But I looked at those figures enough over the last few days to know they're different from these.”

  I tore off another piece of toast. “Which numbers?”

  “Nearly all of them,” he said, sliding the file toward me. He ran his finger down the columns. “This one. This one. Definitely this one. This one.” He paused. “And that's just on this balance sheet.”

  “Off in which direction?”

  “Well, I guess a better direction,” he said, shrugging. “But these aren't nearly as bad as what I saw.”

  That seemed extremely odd that we'd have two different sets of financials that were so mismatched he'd remember the numbers.

  “You still have the file?” I asked.

  “No. Anne has it. But I'm not wrong.”

  “I didn't say you were,” I told him. “Would just like to do a side by side comparison.”

  “Rose gave you these?”

  I nodded. “She said she'd meticulously put them together herself. She made a point of saying something like that.”

  We ate in silence for a couple of minutes.

  “So maybe Anne wasn't wrong about her,” he said.

  “I'm not sure how doctoring the books would leverage anything in her direction,” I said. “How would that convince Anne of anything?”

  “Maybe thinking it's not in as bad of shape as it actually is? So the sale would look cleaner, without having to clear so much debt?” He pointed to the file folder. “Because the other file, there's a shit ton more debt.”

  I nodded and thought. I wasn't sure that made great sense, but it did seem that Rose had given me something that was less than authentic. Anne had been adamant when she was telling us about how much Rose disliked her, and she seemed dubious of the fact that I'd believed Rose after she'd denied having anything to do with the vandalism at the motel.

  Maybe I'd been wrong.

  “I wanna take a look at the other file,” I told him.

  “You don't trust me?”

  “I do trust you,” I said. “That's why I want to take a look. I want to know exactly how badly they're off.”

  “Okay. I'll call Anne and tell her we need to run by.” He paused. “If you tell me why you're so chipper.”

  “I'm not chipper.”

  “Come on, dude. You're more chipper than a woodchipper this morning.”

  I stuck my spoon into the cereal. “That's not even a thing.”

  “It's the redhead, isn't it?” he said. “That ginger demon from the beach?”

  “Jesus fucking christ,” I muttered. “Are you following me?”

  “No,” he said, grinning. “But I guessed right and you just gave yourself up. Spill it.”

  I sighed. “We went out last night. That's it.”

  “That's it? She's not in your bedroom?”

  “She's not in my bedroom.”

  “I know. I already looked when I got here. Just checking to see if maybe you stashed her in the closet or something.”

  “Could you just fuck off?” I asked politely.

  “That's rude.”

  “I know.”

  He grinned at me with his stupid giant mouth. He picked up his now empty bowl and carried it over to the sink. “You know, if you'll just tie a sock around the knob on the front door, I can—”

  “Just fuck off,” I said.

  THIRTY SEVEN

  The numbers were, indeed, off.

  Carter called Anne and arranged for us to stop by. She was a little baffled why we were coming back after she'd just sent him home, but he told her we just wanted to look at some of the paperwork, and she was fine with that. When we got there, she looked a little better than she had the previous day. Her body didn't seem to be sagging from all of the pressure and the dark circles beneath her eyes had begun to recede. She had the file ready when we got there and sat quietly while we compared them.

  It was hard to find any two bottom line numbers that matched, yet we couldn't find any inconsistencies in the math. It appeared as if each set had started from different figures and never looked back. The set of financials that she'd received from the estate definitely portrayed a more dire portrait of Mitchell Henderson's financial health. The one I'd received from Rose Henderson, while still bad, wasn't nearly as horrific. The discrepancies seemed too large to simply be using different original sources. If you lined them up anonymously, you would've assumed they were for two different companies.

  But they weren't.

  And I wanted to talk to Rose again.

  I took several photos with my phone of the file Carter had, took the one Rose had given me, and left them to go find Rose Henderson.

  She was just coming out of her house as I pulled to the curb. When she realized it was me, her entire expression frosted over.

  “I don't know what you want, but I'm not interested,” she said. “And I have an appointment to get to.”

  “Were you the sole accountant for The Blue Wave?” I asked, coming up the walk.

  Her face screwed up with agitation. “As I told you the other day, I handled everything. It wasn't Mitchell's forte.”

  “What do you mean by handle?”

  She adjusted the purse strap on her shoulder. “I don't have time for you.”

  I held up the file she'd given me. “Why do I have two sets of financial records for the motel?”

  “Because you made a photocopy?”

  “They aren't the same.”

  She glared at me. “What are you talking about?”

  “You gave me this file,” I said. “On my phone, I have copies of the file Anne was given. They don't line up.”

  “What exactly are you accusing me of now?” she asked sharply.

  “I'm not sure yet, but I'll figure it out when we get there.”

  She stared at me for a long moment, her eyes narrow slits of anger. “You think I've given you misinformation. Correct?”

  I shrugged. “You tell me.”

  She started to say something, then bit off the words. She turned and stormed up the walk to the front door. She fished for a key in her purse, then jammed it into the door when she found it. She whirled around. “What are you waiting for, Mr. Braddock? Let's get this over with.”

  I followed her inside.

  The small living room was immaculately decorated with an antique coffee table, two small love seats and an expansive rug. It looked like it had been dusted five minutes before I'd walked in. A large window on the back wall looked out over a rectangular, very green backyard.

  She dropped her purse in a huff onto one of the sofas. “Don't make yourself at home. This won't take long.” She hustled down a long hallway toward the other end of the house.

  I stood and waited.

  She returned quickly with what looked like a MacBook Air. She perched herself on the edge of the same sofa she'd dropped her purse on, flipped open the thin laptop, and tapped at the keyboard.

  I waited.

  She stared at the screen for a few moments, then held the computer up to me. “Take a look.”

  I took the computer from her.

  The screen was logged into what looked like a bank account.

  “That's the business account used for the motel,” she said, icily. “I assume you are able to read, therefore you'll see the pertinent i
nformation at the top.”

  I could and I did. “I see it.”

  “Lovely,” she said. “Now. I'm not sure which banking institution you use, so I'll walk you through this. Click the tab that denotes the statement for last month. It's on the left side of the screen as you look at it.”

  I found it and clicked it. The statement opened, revealing all of the transactions, debits, and credits for the previous month, as well as a final balance.

  “Now, sit down so you don't drop my computer and open the file I've given you,” she said.

  I sat down, set the computer on the coffee table, and opened the file I'd brought with me.

  Rose didn't say anything.

  I found the corresponding statement for the month I had on the screen.

  It was identical.

  “I'm good with computers, Mr. Braddock, but I do not know how to log into a financial institution's system and falsify account information,” she growled. “If you look at the spreadsheets I've given you, the ones I did by hand, you'll find that they correspond to the penny by what you'll find in the account.” She paused. “I am many things, Mr. Braddock, but I am not a liar nor a thief.”

  I opened the tab for the month before that and flipped the pages in the printed file next to the computer.

  Identical again.

  I looked at her. “I know you're not. I'm sorry.”

  “Then why do you keep accusing me of being one?” she said, her voice low, tinged with fury.

  “Because I thought you might be,” I told her honestly. “And because I'm not quite sure what's going on here. When we finished our conversation here the other day, I believed you. I got suckered into thinking I was wrong. I apologize.”

  Rose Henderson's lips were pursed tightly. “Is there anything else I can do for you?”

  I closed the laptop and handed it back to her. “No. I've bothered you enough and I'm sorry.”

  She took the computer and clutched it in her lap. She stared down at it for a moment. Then her body began to shake and tears fell on top of the laptop.

  “I complained for years,” she said, her voice strained. “I complained to him for years about the motel. It was eating us alive and I complained. And I know he thought I hated it. I know that because he told me that. So I know that's why he left it to someone who he believed cared about it.” Her body shook, more tears fell. “I just miss my husband.”