What She Gave Away (Santa Barbara Suspense Book 1)

by Catharine Riggs

  Kathi

  May 6, 2016

  I’m seated in Leo’s office wishing myself someplace else. His words drone on like the buzzing of a bee. Embezzlement. Fraud. Complicity. Theft. God knows I could use a goblet of wine, but it’s only two in the afternoon.

  “What do you mean I’m under investigation?” I ask him.

  “Let’s see . . .” Leo slips on a pair of gold-rimmed glasses and rifles through the papers in my file. He’s sixty going on eighty, a divorcé living alone. He has jowls and thinning hair and walks with an awkward limp—not the type of person who typically made it onto my husband’s advisor team. Rich liked to be surrounded by good-looking people. But Leo has a pedigree that can’t be denied. Harvard undergrad. Stanford law. Chicago MBA. In this town, he’s the best you can get.

  He sighs and sets down his pen and places his fingertips together in a thoughtful way. He has small hands—perfectly smooth and white. They look odd next to his gnomelike face. “We’ll get down to business in a moment, Kathi, but first I’d like to hear how you’re doing. How are you handling life?”

  “I’m fine. Just fine.”

  “Really?” He searches my face with his hangdog eyes. “Because you’re looking a little frail.”

  “I . . . I think I’m doing okay . . .” I choke on my lie and dab at my eyes. Then the truth tumbles out of my mouth. “It just seems like everything’s falling apart. My debit card wouldn’t work yesterday, and a bill collector’s been calling day and night. And then my housekeepers asked for a raise, and the gardeners didn’t show this week. And then there’s the broken air conditioner. I begged Rich to replace it last summer, but he insisted it would last another year.”

  “Can’t Jack help out?”

  I swallow and straighten my shoulders. “He would, but he’s so very busy. He has a major part in a successful TV series, you know.”

  “Impressive.” Leo jots something down. “How about relatives? Anyone live nearby?”

  “I don’t have anyone,” I say, wiping my nose. “My parents died when I was young, and the aunt that brought me up passed away in 2010.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that. But surely you must have an abundance of friends willing to offer support.”

  I nod fast and hard. “Of course I do. I’m just saying after all of these years, it’s terribly hard to live on my own.”

  “It is hard.” For a moment I think he might share a personal story, but he retreats into his businesslike self. “I suppose we should return to the subject at hand. I spoke with George Taylor at length yesterday. He was quite helpful. A pleasant man, I must say.”

  “And?”

  “Well . . . apparently the FBI believes you may have colluded with Rich.”

  “Colluded? Me?”

  “Not that they’ve proven anything . . .”

  My thoughts spin round and round like the wheels of a runaway bus. “But Rich never talked to me about his work. I know nothing. I really don’t.”

  “Do you recall signing a loan application that contained erroneous information?”

  My voice grows shaky. “Yes, I do. I mean, I didn’t know the information was wrong. As I told that Agent Sykes, Rich was always having me sign documents. It’s not like I read them. I just did what I was told.”

  Leo blinks several times. “I believe you, Kathi. I really do. I know how wealthy men behave in this town. But these days it’s unlikely a judge or a jury would let you off with that excuse. Any prosecutor would argue that you’re a college-educated woman living in the twenty-first century.”

  “I know, but . . .” I pinch my wrist. But what?

  Leo pages through my file and pauses. “Oh, yes. George says they’ve located video footage of you accessing the safe deposit box.”

  “That’s impossible. It’s just not true.”

  “It was recorded at nine fifteen on the morning of Rich’s death.”

  “But I wasn’t there.”

  “Where were you?”

  “At home, of course. I rarely get out of the house before ten.”

  “Is there anyone who could testify as to your whereabouts?”

  “Maybe the gardeners.”

  “You spoke with them?”

  “I don’t recall.”

  “But they were there?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “Now, Kathi—”

  “It wasn’t me. I swear!” I begin to sob. I can’t stop myself.

  Leo takes a deep breath. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to upset you.”

  “Well, you are upsetting me,” I say, snuffling. “I would think you of all people would believe me.”

  “I do believe you, Kathi. But I must ask you these difficult questions. It’s my job.” Leo takes a box of tissues from his top drawer and slides it across his desk. “I’m not saying you did anything wrong. I’m just trying to get a full understanding of the situation.” He searches my face, trying to read my mind. I drop my gaze and fidget with the hem of my shirtdress. It’s a little too short and snug.

  Leo’s cell phone throbs. “Excuse me a moment,” he says. “I have to take this.”

  He steps out of the office, and I focus on the floor-to-ceiling bookcases lining the windowless wall. They’re filled with an assortment of leather-bound books, some of them old and frayed. On the top shelf sits an ugly gold clock, naked cherubs surrounding its base. Its ticking reminds me of the annual cricket invasion at Aunt Genny’s Iowa farm. Tick. Tick. Tick. The thing grinds on my nerves.

  “What kind of clock is that?” I ask Leo upon his return.

  He takes his seat. “It’s a French ormolu clock from the 1850s. My wife bought it for me the summer we lived in Paris.”

  My smile freezes, and my face grows warm. He must know that I know there’s no wife. She left him for a younger woman a few years ago. Older wife snags babe in the woods, as my friend Jane likes to say. Their breakup was all the talk of the town. And such an ugly divorce. His wife got the house and the kids. I’m surprised he didn’t move away.

  Leo clears his throat with a froglike croak. “Have you ever heard your husband mention something called a SAR?”

  “SAR? Never. What’s that?”

  “It’s an acronym for suspicious activity report—something a bank files with the federal government when they get wind of questionable activity. It’s typically used to target terrorists and money launderers. Part of the Bank Secrecy Act.”

  My brain has that fuzzy feeling again. “They think Rich was a terrorist?”

  “No. But banks are required to file a SAR when they suspect insider abuse.”

  “Insider abuse? That’s impossible. My husband was a good and decent man. Who would accuse him of such a thing?”

  “My understanding is that the ball got rolling through some anonymous tips to the feds. The feds then contacted the bank’s compliance department, which had no choice but to investigate. Apparently the compliance officers found enough evidence to file a SAR.”

  “Did Rich know about this?”

  “Not at first. Investigations are strictly confidential.”

  “So when did he find out?”

  “About four months ago.”

  I mull this over. “Two whole months before he died?”

  “Yes. He never mentioned anything to you?”

  “No.”

  “Did you notice any change in his behavior? Had he been acting a little strange?”

  Strange? I slowly shake my head. Had he? Maybe. Maybe not. He’d been spending less and less time at home, but that had been going on for years. “There must be some kind of mix-up,” I say. “Rich maintained the highest of ethical standards. He would never do anything wrong.”

  “And the money in your safe deposit box?”

  “I told you I don’t know anything about that.”

  Leo searches my face. “But Rich did.”

  “I don’t know. Maybe he didn’t.”

  “Then how would you explain its presence?”

  “
I don’t know.”

  Leo’s eyes narrow. “Please don’t raise your voice.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  He shuts my file with a snap. “The thing is, Kathi, I’m a business attorney. I handle leases and contracts and that sort of thing, so this issue is outside of my purview. Even so, Rich and I were friends for many years, so I’m willing to try to help. But only if you’re honest with me.”

  “I swear I’m telling the truth.” Tick. Tick. Tick. I wish that clock would explode.

  Leo gnaws his lower lip. “All right, then. Let’s move on to another difficult subject. As of today, the FBI has frozen your assets.”

  “What assets?”

  “Bank and investment accounts.”

  “You mean I don’t have any money?” My heart flutters. I think I might just faint.

  “Unfortunately, no. They’re also placing liens on your home and your vacation cabin.”

  “They can’t do that, can they?”

  “They can and they will.”

  “But how? Why?”

  “Among other things, they believe you knowingly signed a fraudulent loan application.”

  “But I didn’t.”

  “Unfortunately, they think you did.”

  I can barely catch my breath. “So I have no money? Nothing?”

  “Not until the investigation is complete.”

  “But how can I possibly live?” I feel like I’m in a dream. A nightmare without an end. I pinch my wrist, harder this time, but I don’t wake up.

  “The FBI has agreed to release twenty thousand dollars to cover your personal expenses.”

  “That’s not much, is it?”

  “Not with your current lifestyle.”

  I rack my brain. “What about Rich’s life insurance? Shouldn’t I be getting that soon?”

  Leo shakes his head. “There’ll be no distribution until a determination is made about the cause of Rich’s death.”

  “I’m not following you.”

  “They need to rule out suicide.”

  “Suicide?” My eyes grow blurry. “But it was an accident. He would never kill himself.”

  “He was under a lot of pressure.”

  “It doesn’t matter. He didn’t do it. I’m one hundred percent positive of that.”

  Leo nods. “I’m sure you’re right. But the train’s video footage tells a complicated story. Why was he on the tracks at that time of night? And why wouldn’t he stand up?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe he tripped. They haven’t found those homeless women?”

  “No. Neither of them have turned up. So for now, we’ll need to be patient. In the meantime, I’ll keep checking in with the insurance company. Hopefully they’ll know something soon.” Leo glances at his watch. “I’m sorry to have to cut our meeting short, but I have back-to-back appointments this afternoon, and I’m running a little late.”

  “I understand. Thank you for seeing me on such short notice.” I dab at my eyes and stand, feeling a little wobbly at the knees.

  Leo comes around his desk and takes me by the arm. “You’ll get through this, Kathi. It’s hard, but I promise you will.”

  “I hope so.”

  He walks me to the door and opens it wide. “One thing. Don’t discuss the investigation with anyone. Not even with your closest friends.”

  “What about Jack?”

  “Well, yes. I suppose he’ll need to know. But no one else. Promise me?”

  “I promise.”

  “Good. And one last piece of advice. Consider letting the gardeners go. And your housekeepers too. You’ll need to eliminate all extraneous expenses. Understand? That includes no shopping except for the basics.”

  I try to work my mind around a life with no money. If there’s an upside, I don’t see it. I have a sudden, terrible thought. “But won’t my friends and neighbors know I have a problem?”

  His sad eyes get sadder. “I’m guessing they already do.”

  May 15, 1980

  Aunt Genny tries. She really does. But it’s lonely out on the farm. She’s always telling me to invite my girlfriends over. Have an old-time slumber party with popcorn and ghost stories. I tell her people don’t like to drive the distance—she lives over twenty miles from Des Moines. But the truth is I haven’t made any friends. It’s hard enough to start over in a new school, but when kids learn about my parents, they think I’m some kind of freak. I mean, they’re nice enough to my face, but I always know when they’ve found out. They get this scaredy-cat look in their eyes. Like what happened to me just might rub off. Like losing a family is some kind of disease.

  Crystal

  May 19, 2015

  Dipak is the closest thing I’ve ever had to a friend. We’re tied together at the hip. I don’t play the mind game with him anymore, and I don’t wish him hell on earth.

  He’s had a hard life. Not as hard as mine, but still. Parents that emigrated from India to live the American dream. Just enough money to make the down payment on a one-star motel in the desert. A childhood spent cleaning toilets, changing sheets, and tossing condoms. Targeted by high school bullies for his brains, ethnicity, and size. We have a lot in common, except his parents love him more than life itself. They pepper him with texts and phone calls all throughout the week. Can you translate this? Can you explain that? He says he hates the badgering, but I know that isn’t true. His voice goes soft when he speaks to his mother. Oozes respect when his father takes the phone.

  “Can you believe it?” he asks me one day over lunch. “My parents think they’re role models of immigrant success.” He laughs. “Who are they kidding? A run-down motel in the Mojave? A son that slaves away in a second-rate bank? Meanwhile they spend their days scraping shit off floors while thanking the Hindu gods for their blessings.”

  “Maybe what they left behind was worse.”

  “Maybe.”

  We’re alone in the office this week. The boys are in San Francisco for advanced analyst training. Dipak almost quit when he got passed over. George had to talk him down.

  “Check this out.” Dipak sets one of Tyler’s loan files in front of me. It’s nowhere as neat as my own. I want to organize and smooth the papers, but I know better than that.

  “What am I looking for?”

  “Start with the credit report.”

  I page through it and see a mess. The guy’s got $50,000 in credit card debt, five charge-offs, a foreclosure, and collection accounts. “A loser. So what?”

  “Now look at Tyler’s analysis.”

  I flip through the twenty-page loan report. There’s a short explanation blaming the bad credit on the recession and predatory banks.

  “That’s bullshit,” I say.

  “What about the tax returns?”

  I compare the tax returns to the income analysis, then the financial statement to the balance sheet. I find a few key mistakes. Or deliberate adjustments. I do a quick scan of the spreadsheets. The mistakes on the page interrupt the beauty of the numbers. That makes me fume. “Is Tyler stupid or a liar?”

  “Both.”

  “Why do this?”

  “I’m guessing he wants George’s job.”

  “So we’re making the loan?”

  “It got approved at the board meeting last week. Seven million for spec construction.”

  “But that’s impossible. The guy clearly doesn’t qualify.”

  “It’s not impossible. It happened.”

  “But George didn’t sign it.” As the chief lending officer, George was supposed to stamp his recommendation on any loan that made it to the board.

  “He refused to. But look who did.”

  I spot the president’s signature scrawled across the recommendation box. “Something’s not right,” I say, my cheeks burning with excitement.

  “Exactly. Something’s not right.”

  “What’s not right?”

  We both look up in a panic. Dipak recovers first.

  “Why, hello, Mr. Wright.” His voice is
shaking. “Can we help you with something?”

  I’ve never been this close to the president before. He rarely makes small talk with the staff.

  “I’m looking for Tyler,” he says, his blue eyes sparking with annoyance. He’s dressed in a dark suit with a white shirt and red silk tie. His peppered hair is neatly combed.

  “He’s away at training.”

  “Oh, yes.” His lips twitch, and he holds out his hand. “You must be Dipak. I’ve heard good things about you.”

  Dipak beams like he’s been blessed by the pope.

  Rich releases his hand and turns to me. “And you are?”

  I take hold of his hand. It feels moist and limp. “Crystal Love.”

  “I heard we hired a female analyst. Welcome aboard. How do you like it here?”

  “It’s a wonderful place to work.” I want to point out I’ve been here for two months, but I’m sure he’d think that rude.

  “Good to hear.” He tries to extract his hand, but I fold my other hand over his.

  “I’m so happy to finally meet you, Mr. Wright.”

  He looks confused and tugs his hand away. “Call me Rich,” he says. “We aren’t so formal here.” Pulling a handkerchief from his pocket, he wipes his hand while he scans the room. His gaze settles on the open loan file.

  “You working on this credit?”

  “No,” Dipak stutters, shutting the file. “We were just putting it away.”

  “Well, that’s what I’m here for. The board has a few more questions. May I borrow it?”

  “Of course.” Dipak hands him the file.

  “Thank you. And keep up the good work.”

  Dipak waits until Rich leaves before dancing a jig. “Can you believe it? He’s ‘heard good things.’ How cool is that?”

  “I thought you didn’t like him.”

  “I don’t, but . . .”

  I turn my back on Dipak. “Credit files aren’t allowed out of our office.”

  “But he’s the president.”

  “And who are you? The next Tyler?”

  We skip the beer after work.

  Kathi

  May 8, 2016

  Dear Harlequin Editor,

  I’ve just reviewed your website, and I am excited to learn that you are actively seeking new novelists. I don’t have an agent, but after reviewing your categories, I believe my novel, Honest Love, will fit perfectly into the Heartwarming series. Honest Love is a wholesome and heartfelt romance featuring Emma and Robert—think Scarlett and Rhett. In summary, a handsome young bank manager falls in love with a beautiful teller, but they must hide their love from the evil bank president, who forbids all interoffice dating. Through both passion and perseverance, they defy the rules and emerge with bonds that cannot be broken. The young couple doesn’t believe in sex before marriage, so the grand finale comes right after their private beach wedding when Robert lifts Emma into his muscular arms and carries her into the bedroom of their recently renovated Victorian cottage. The final scene is of Robert shutting the door with his foot.