1 Executive Lunch

by Maria E. Schneider

I peeked around the cube. "What happened?"

  Sean's face had absolutely no color. For a second I thought Brenda had shot him and that he was about to tumble to the ground like a felled tree.

  Brenda gulped and backed away from her husband. Sean had never raised a hand to her, but he looked like he might want to start.

  "Next time," he took a deep, living breath, "wait until my arm is away from the gun before pulling the trigger."

  I swallowed bile and stepped back into my booth. There were three targets. While I shot at the first, the other two moved forward and back before popping up again. I set the thing to the slowest speed and braced my arms.

  Brenda didn't scream again so she was either dead or she had killed my brother and fainted. I hit the first three targets before they ran full up to me. If they got up to the end of their tethers without getting shot, a bell would ring, and I guess that meant I was technically dead. Since I hadn't set the reload number, I got killed after the first round, plus I missed a target entirely. Dad had taught us to shoot with both of our eyes opened, but in the last couple of years, my sight had diverged, and I was having a hard time of it.

  Five rounds in, I gave up. I could hit the targets. I could even hit them where it counted most of the time. What I didn't know was whether or not I'd do it.

  Sean probably intended to practice also, but he changed his mind. It wasn't good to practice when you're tense, and it looked like it would be a few days before he calmed down enough to speak without yelling.

  On the way out, his shoulder twitched. I decided it would be a good idea for me to get back into karate. Sean would feel better, and his wife might not shoot him accidentally.

  He left the thirty-eight and a large box of extra bullets with me. I was thrilled, of course.

  Chapter 8

  Tuesday morning it was raining. Thinking about Turbo and his Fed friends made me nervous so I ate leftover cookies from my fridge, and then stopped at McDonald's for a breakfast burrito and orange juice.

  Once inside my office, I booted my machine to check my email. There was a reminder about the nine o'clock meeting. Too bad it hadn't been a dream. Turbo had sent me a couple of reports to look at, and I still had some tests that needed to be run.

  I went to the lab to get one of the tests started. Paul and Turbo were both there. "Hi guys."

  Paul looked up. He tugged on his mustache and frowned. "I thought you were going to wear something nice."

  "What's wrong with sneakers and jeans? They're clean."

  Paul looked a little like my dad the first time I wore pants to church instead of a dress. That isn't the point," he huffed.

  Clean pants at church hadn't impressed my father either. "I haven't decided if I want the job, Paul."

  "Why not? You don't want to be stuck testing the rest of your life, do you?"

  I shrugged. "Maybe I'll have a great idea one day and get a patent or two. Then I can be like you."

  Paul stroked his mustache again. He opened his mouth, shut it and looked unhappy. I imagine he was trying to find a nice way to tell me that if I hadn't made it already, it wasn't ever going to happen. Funny, until the patent dinner I didn't know he secretly felt sorry for me.

  Nine rolled around before I even got the correct software loaded. With little choice, I followed Paul and Turbo downstairs to the meeting rooms. We rarely had visitors upstairs because our hallways were filled with old equipment or new equipment that hadn't been unboxed yet. No need for anyone important to see our mess.

  My heart, though I had prepared it, beat a nervous tune when the three of us entered the narrow meeting room. Huntington, the guy from the awards dinner that looked so much like the attacker, and four other men in suits were waiting. A coffee urn sat on the low counter attached to one wall. From the cups on the table, these guys had been here long enough to get settled.

  Two of the suits looked like they had guns; forced relaxation, hands on the table, their jackets roomy enough to accommodate shoulder holsters. They sat funny, looking a lot like my brother's cop friends when they were carrying.

  Huntington sat between two other board members that I recognized from the awards dinner, Christopher something and Vic Towers. Vic was either nervous or impatient. He tapped his fingers against the table in a choppy rhythm.

  Huntington didn't make it any easier for me to separate him from the attacker when he started off with a snide remark. "I thought you said she was capable of playing the part of up-and-coming executive?"

  Hadn't I had this argument already this morning? "I haven't decided I want the job, Mr. Huntington. No point in getting dressed up if I'm not going to the party."

  Unlike Paul, Huntington's blue eyes didn't waver. "Was the dinner the other night the best you could do?"

  Turbo sat down and rolled his chair sideways. He was either trying to get out of my way or get within kicking distance of Huntington.

  I kept from snarling, but my voice was strained. "I wasn't trying to dress like an executive, then or now."

  "Let's just hope you weren't trying all that hard to impress your date."

  For a minute I was confused. Then my face colored. I had forgotten about Paul's escort claim. I sat down, off-balance.

  Vic, the board member closest to me, hurriedly started introductions and explanations. He had a slight accent and a nice tan that indicated that at least some of his managing was done in the great outdoors. "We really need an inside person on the team, someone that the embezzlers can approach now that Allen has made enemies in his own camp," he said. "I think you'll be very intrigued by our plan."

  Huntington continued to glower, obviously not a big believer. I noticed that his shoulders were wide. He could be carrying a gun, like the other two. He had huge hands. I remembered those hands; grabbing, shaking, threatening.

  Turbo leaned over and touched my hand. "Did you understand the question?"

  I hadn't even heard it. "What? Uh, no, I wasn't paying attention, sorry."

  Huntington rolled his eyes heavenward. "She hasn't got the brains to pull this off."

  I frowned, trying to shake the image that kept intruding, but other than blue eyes, this guy was the attacker. That thought prompted my first question. "Do I get to carry a gun?"

  Fed number one, a black guy named Bruce, looked startled and shook his head sharply. "No way. Executives don't go around packing." He was a broad-shouldered man, but unlike Huntington, he held himself inside as though he didn't want to appear threatening. His hair was short; his clothes neatly pressed. He looked to be in his mid-thirties, probably a few years younger than Turbo.

  "Executives aren't supposed to go around stealing either," I said. "I think I deserve some sort of protection. Those guys already attacked once." I very carefully didn't look at Huntington when I said it.

  Bruce shook his head again. "You aren't going to be Rambo, you're going to be a civilized executive. You're going to act a part. You'll have signature power. Hopefully someone will approach you and offer you the same deal they made with Allen."

  "Don't you think it would be a little strange for someone to approach me? I'm pretty unknown. Maybe they don't want to run anymore deals since this one didn't work out so well for them."

  Bruce didn't smile, but his brown eyes were friendly, helpful. "Yes, but they are missing a lot of cash. We don't know where it went and neither do they. Allen isn't talking, but if we can catch one of them offering you a hand in, we can get the goods on all of them. Once we have something, Allen will spill everything he knows."

  "Why don't one of you just step into the director's spot and take over?" I dared a glance at Huntington. "You're new, and you're already an executive. Maybe they will approach you now that Allen has been caught."

  Huntington's blue eyes narrowed. "I have too much of a reputation. They wouldn't approach me or any other board member. I can run the operation and provide direction, but I can't play stoolie."

  I ignored the possible insult. "But why me?"

  "We
need someone they aren't afraid to approach," Bruce said. He shifted in his seat and looked down at the table. So did Vic.

  Huntington cut to the chase. "What he means is, you're a woman trying hard to get ahead. You're approachable--and probably easy to manipulate."

  My face froze.

  He held up his hands in an innocent pantomime. "So the thinking might go."

  Bruce cleared his throat and started talking before I could think of an appropriate reply. "Let's go over the details. Your part of the job won't be that difficult. All you have to do is wait for someone to approach you like they did Allen."

  I forced myself to concentrate. "And then I report to you?"

  Bruce nodded.

  At this point, the job sounded a little like someone saying "test this, I know it works." Engineers never wanted to give details. They wanted the least amount of work possible to get testers to sign on the dotted line. Just like with my lab job, I didn't think this was going to be as easy as everyone hoped. "Tell me about this scheme of theirs. How did it work? What am I supposed to watch for?"

  Bruce looked at Vic for permission. When he nodded, Bruce said, "We know Allen was skimming. He approved checks written from Strandfrost to various charities, but cashed them himself. He had help filtering them through false accounts, and he got a small percentage."

  I interrupted. "He took money from Strandfrost and only got a small percentage? Why not keep it all?"

  "Because he didn't dream up this scheme on his own," Bruce explained. "Someone helped him set up a bank account that could accept deposits in the charity name. Then, at least two names were listed on the temporary charity accounts as executors, but the names were always tied to false IDs."

  "Fake names? Not Allen?"

  Bruce nodded. "If Allen's name were on the accounts it would be too obvious. All charity accounts have someone listed who manages the money. Two or three people usually have the authority to deposit checks, move money around or withdraw money for expenses. In this case, several local banks allowed temporary accounts to be opened for deposits from a local charity drive. The IDs used to open the accounts were accepted as legit until the money was taken out in a large cash withdrawal. In the second case, the money was transferred to a different account that was then cashed out immediately."

  "And you think Allen was working this scheme with a few people, but once he learned the process, he found a place to deposit a couple of checks and didn't give a share to his buddies?"

  Bruce nodded.

  "Why not just arrest Allen and be done with it?"

  Huntington took over explaining. "We could arrest him, but we'd miss the people he has been working with--remember they used false identities to open the accounts. While Allen would probably finger one or two under enough pressure, he may not know enough about the organization for us to get them all. We'd like to catch them in action--follow them, photograph them, and catch them red-handed. We can't use Allen, because he's a liability. Not only was he skimming from Strandfrost, he was skimming from his cohorts. No one is going to deal Allen in anymore."

  Generally I preferred pacing when I was thinking, but since the room wasn't big enough, I settled for rolling the chair forward, then pushing it back. "What if the amount his buddies is missing is more than the charity checks? What if Allen was taking money out of the budget for say, equipment that he didn't really order?"

  I managed to surprise them. Huntington hid it better than the others; his eyes only widened for a fraction of a second. I didn't tell them that Sally had given me a hint about a funny expense report. Let them think I was brilliant. My reputation needed a little enhancing anyway.

  Turbo smiled like a proud parent.

  "What makes you ask that?" Bruce asked cautiously.

  "I order equipment all the time. The records are such a mess, in some cases it would be hard to tell if the equipment is missing or if it had ever been ordered in the first place. We get things in all the time that we didn't order. Then there's the stuff we order that never shows up, so we order it again. On items over ten thousand dollars, the signature authority would go up to Allen's level. He could claim things in his budget that were never ordered." I shrugged. "How he got his hands on the payments…I don't know."

  Bruce exchanged glances with the men. "It's possible."

  I looked around the room. Turbo was the only one that didn't look smug and secretive. This wasn't going to work unless I had more details. These guys knew more than they were sharing. "Gentlemen," I said, "if you're going to ask me to help with the laundry, I need to know what kind of dirt is on the clothes. And I want to know about all of it, not just the easy stains, because if I'm going to help, I don't want to be the next person they come after."

  Huntington said, "We are attempting to protect you. The more you know the more dangerous it will be for you."

  I shook my head. From my line of work, I knew it was necessary to know what made a machine tick before I could make sure it ticked the way it was supposed to. "If you tell me what it is you are really trying to find out, maybe I can help you. I'm guessing Allen must have taken more money than just a few thousand charity dollars to cause all this trouble."

  I waited, but instead of telling me that my guess was correct, Huntington sat back and folded his arms. "Before we get into too much detail, we need to know if you can do the job."

  "You tell me what really needs to be done, and I'll tell you whether or not I can do the job." I gave him my stubborn stare, the one that I used when engineers didn't want to give me the information I needed. Unless he pulled a gun or slammed me against the wall, I could afford to wait him out.

  The room was silent for a few heartbeats. Huntington didn't look happy, but eventually he reached into his briefcase and pulled out a list. It was in Powerpoint and many, many pages long.

  Chapter 9

  Exact details of my new job could have been jotted down on the back of a grocery list, but executives couldn't keep things that simple. Boiled down, the basics entailed a few thousand dollars to advance my wardrobe and a bunch of nonsense ideas on how to invent a whole new persona: a desperate-to-impress manager one.

  I listened to about half of Huntington's ideas, but when it came to dressing for success, I would look to my mother. Huntington might serve on the company board and have lots of money, but my mother could wear clean clothes from the Salvation Army and make them look good. Through many reluctant lessons, I knew about tasteful elegance, even if I couldn't carry it off with anything close to her grace.

  I could have bought off the rack, but most clothes would require altering for a perfect fit. My mother would have been happy to make a classic outfit or two, but that would have meant a lot of explanations. I called my hairdresser, Angela, instead, hoping she could recommend a seamstress.

  "Angela, I need someone that can make me a really nice outfit or two. Do you know anyone that can sew?"

  "You need a seamstress? You pregnant or something?"

  I nearly choked. "You just saw me!" Maybe my fashion instincts were worse than I thought. Of course, she had known me a while and I had never shown interest in needing special outfits. "I'm just, um, it would be easier to, you know, get promoted and stuff if I dressed better."

  "Well, well, well." I heard her put something down against a hard counter top. "I have been telling you that you need a new hairdo for how long? Don't you worry. I have the perfect style--"

  "Angie!" I broke in desperately. "Clothes! I'm starting with a new wardrobe."

  She didn't stopped prattling. "And your nails could use buffing too."

  "Angie, do you know anyone or not?"

  She laughed. "Calm down, girl. You sound desperate. Must be one hot date, is all I can say." I heard her tell someone she'd be with them in a minute, and then she typed on the shop computer. "I got a friend that can help you out. But once you get this outfit made, you come straight in here, and we'll fix the rest of you up."

  "Okay, okay." I jotted down the number.


  "Get yourself something in a deep purple or dark blue," she advised. "It'll bring subtle attention to your gray eyes. You're a winter, girl. You need dark colors to enhanced that olive skin of yours."

  "Whatever you say." Although O'Hala sounded Scottish, my grandfather was at least half American Indian. I had his angular face and skin tone, but my mother's Irish temper.

  "You want to make your hair appointment now?"

  "No, no, later. Not until I have the outfits ready."

  She didn't believe my excuse, but she hung up, and I called her friend.

  We met at Barbette's Bobbins just past the mall. She knew a guy in Hong Kong and, if I was willing to pay, she could get certain raw and silk twills. I was a big fan of cotton also, so she promised me some comfy kick-around pants.

  On Friday, Turbo stopped by my office and closed the door. He sat down and dropped a huge stack of papers on my desk.

  "Tests to run?"

  "Tests?" He shook his head and looked stern. "You're being promoted, remember? This is your new house."

  It took me a few seconds. "My--" I blinked rapidly. "My what?"

  He pushed the papers over. I looked down and read the address. Denton wasn't a very big city. There was still a touch of country, a quiet air that outsiders liked. We had the Whispering Pines Resort for skiing, golfing and mistress boffing, and next to it was a section of town that was known as the place to live.

  "I'm moving to Alpine Hills?"

  Turbo nodded. "Don't get too excited. It's not one of the estate homes," he said apologetically.

  I looked at the address again before typing it into my computer. The Hills had mostly estate homes, but on the very edge--gasp, there was set of condominiums for those that wanted to be in the place of money, but couldn't actually afford one of the mansions on the winding hillside.

  "I'm moving to a condo in Alpine Hills?" I was impressed. "Wow."

  Turbo handed me a pen.

  With my eyes half popped out of my head, I signed.

  He shuffled the papers around, handing me another bundle. "Just one more thing."