Peaches scowled. “Intermission. Gotta drain the snake. Take me to Donna’s bakery on King.”
Nino bobbed his head and slid behind the wheel. The engine purred to life. He checked his mirrors and eased the sedan out of the parking spot and into the street.
“Who were you talking to?” Peaches said to the back of his head.
Nino’s throat tightened. He shifted his eyes up to the rearview mirror and met the old guy’s eyes. He reminded himself of his rule: All half-truths. No outright lies. It was the safest way to play it.
“Friend of mine with an interest in one of the girl’s at Trixie’s.”
“Bah. Whores, the lot of them.”
Nino nodded his agreement and exhaled.
After a moment of silence, Peaches spoke again. “Funny you should mention Trixie’s. I got a job for you.”
“Oh?”
“We’ll talk about it later. Now, get the lead out before I piss myself.”
Nino accelerated, blowing through the stop sign. His pulse sped up and thrummed in his ear. Any jobs that came out of the meeting at the strip club were likely to involve the violation of more serious laws than failure to obey the motor vehicle code. The line he trod was already pretty blurry. He hoped he wasn’t going to have to seek Cashion’s blessing to commit a felony.
Behind him, Peaches said, “You’re doing good, kid.”
He blinked, unsure of how to respond, then he settled for a nod. They drove in silence the rest of the way to the bakery.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Leo balanced the hot pizza boxes against his midsection and waited while Sasha coaxed Mocha out of the back of the car.
“C’mon, good dog. Let’s go see the kids.”
At the sound of the word kids, Mocha’s ears perked up. The dog cocked its head toward Leo as if to say, ‘Is she serious?’
Leo started walking toward the house. “Kids, Mocha,” he called.
The dog leapt over the tailgate and bounded past him, racing up the steep stairs leading to the rambling Victorian that Hank rented to house his brood of charges. Leo still found it difficult to believe that his hard-nosed, no-nonsense, confirmed bachelor boss had volunteered to serve as the guardian for six motherless children. Their father, Jeffrey Bricker, was out of the picture because he was serving consecutive life sentences at Florence Supermax, the super-maximum security prison in Colorado that was home to the country’s most violent offenders. And the six Bennett children had begun a new life with Hank Richards. Leo shook his head in amazement as he mounted the steps.
Sasha traipsed behind him, taking the stairs with caution in her stiletto-heeled boots. His amazement at Hank and the kids was rivaled only by his wife’s instance on wearing the most impractical shoes imaginable whenever possible. He twisted and looked over his shoulder at her.
“Try not to break your neck, okay? I don’t think Fiji will be nearly as much fun if you’re in a body cast.”
She shot him a look that made clear she wasn’t amused.
“Fiji, huh? Does this mean you’ve finally stopped dithering and settled on a destination?”
“Maybe. Or maybe I’m lying.”
He suppressed a grin. He’d booked their trip weeks earlier, but he’d enjoyed taunting her about the locale. Given the way she packed, though, he’d decided he’d had enough fun. Well, almost enough fun.
She mumbled something under her breath.
“Pardon? I couldn’t quite make that out.”
“I said I love you so much,” she huffed, as she caught up with him and hip-checked him out the way. She jabbed a finger at the doorbell even though Mocha had already alerted the kids to their arrival by banging on the door with his oversized paws.
Cole opened the door and ushered them in from the cold.
“Hey, guys. Here, I’ll take those.” He reached for the pizza boxes as Mocha circled his legs, tail thumping against his shins.
“Thanks. Someone’s excited to see you,” Leo remarked.
“Good dog,” Cole said as the puppy followed him into the kitchen.
“Pizza!” Leah shouted from the top of the stairs. Squeals and shouts drifted down from the upstairs. A moment later, the kids streamed down the stairs and Leo and Sasha were overtaken by several squirmy hugs and excited greetings. She caught his eye over the top of Mark’s head and smiled.
Hank appeared in the upstairs hallway, straightening his bowtie. The children fell silent and gaped at him.
“Very dapper,” Sasha said with a nod toward the tuxedo.
“Thanks. And thanks for watching this crew so I can attend this blasted retirement dinner.”
“Are you kidding?” Leo said. “We’re always happy to hang out with the Bennetts, and it got me out of attending.”
Hank shot him a jealous look, as if he, too, wished he could scarf down some of Pittsburgh’s finest pizza while watching the latest Pixar movie. “Way to rub it in.”
“Hey, that’s why you earn the big bucks. Anyway, I don’t think I could stomach the display of everyone wishing Director Filbert a happy retirement and thanking him for his, uh, leadership.”
Hank arched a brow at that. They both knew the director of the U.S. Marshals Office was being forced out, in part, because of his mishandling of the murder of the Bennett kids’ mother. A meaningful silence hung in the air between them for a moment. Then Hank descended the stairs.
“Did I hear correctly that you brought dinner?”
“Mineo’s,” Sasha told him. “Two extra-large pizzas. Will that be enough?”
“As best I can tell, their stomach capacities expand to consume whatever amount of pizza is provided. If you two want to eat, take a word of advice, and grab your slices early.”
Hank removed his overcoat from the hall closet and addressed the assembled kids. “Have fun, and be good for Sasha and Leo. When they say it’s time for bed, skedaddle.”
“We will,” the littlest one promised solemnly.
He bent to hug her. “You have sweet dreams tonight, you hear?”
“You’re not coming home?” she asked, lower lip trembling.
“I’ll be back in the morning in time to get you off to school,” he promised. “That’s why Sasha and Leo are here, they’re going to stay over.”
The oldest girl, Brianna, rolled her eyes behind his back. “Cole and I could have taken care of everyone, you know. We don’t need a babysitter.”
“Of course not,” Leo agreed. “But Sasha and I miss you guys. Besides, we did bring pizza.”
Her posture softened. “Yeah, you did.”
Hank headed for the door. “Good luck,” he said as he pulled it shut behind him.
Leo turned just in time to catch Calla, who had launched herself toward his arms. She buried her face in his neck. He stroked her silky hair for a moment until he felt her breathing relax.
“Pizza?” he suggested.
She wriggled out of his arms and hit the ground running, her little legs chugging toward the kitchen as fast as they could.
CHAPTER NINE
Sasha stopped outside Naya’s door and listened. She was streaming Christmas music. Again. Or still. It was hard to say. Naya put on the holiday tunes on November first and played them on a near-constant loop until December thirty-first. The effect was partially holiday-spirit-inducing, partially maddening. And Sasha was a great lover of Christmas music herself. Naya just took her enthusiasm to a whole new level.
She knocked loudly.
“Come in,” Naya called over the music.
She pushed the door inward.
“Hey, do you have time to help me with something?”
Naya lowered the volume on her speakers and narrowed her eyes. “Depends.”
“Fair enough.”
Naya had final exams looming. She wasn’t quite the lunatic she’d been during her first year of law school, but she wasn’t what anyone would call serene. Sasha and Will were careful to respect Naya’s heavy workload, particularly around exam time.
Naya folded her arms and contemplated Sasha. “I have my Constitutional Law exam on Thursday. What do you need?”
“Strategic advice.”
“Strategic advice?” Naya echoed. Her voice held a hint of suspicion and a smidgen of curiosity.
“Yep. I got the document production in the Maravach case and—”
“Nu-uh. No way. I’m not taking on a document review in your horrible insurance coverage case. What are you, Ebenezer Scrooge?”
“Simmer down, Tiny Tim. I’m not asking you to do it. I’ll do it. But … well, I don’t know how to tackle it.”
Her honesty seemed to disarm Naya.
“You just want me to give you a game plan?”
“Exactly!”
Naya softened. “Electronic or paper documents?”
“Electronic.”
“Which vendor’s software are you using?”
Sasha shook her head, ruefully. “None. We’re fronting the costs for the Maravaches, so I told defense counsel to just send me raw data.”
Naya groaned. “Penny-wise and pound-foolish, Scrooge.”
“Really?”
“You gotta pony up for software. It’ll save you tons of time.”
“How many hours?”
“Hours? More like days. Maybe weeks,” Naya snorted in disbelief. “Lord, Mac.”
Between her failing vision and her apparent lack of tech-savvy, Sasha suddenly felt like a dinosaur. “Okay, well, usually you take care of this stuff, but you were busy with your mock trial in Trial Advocacy, so I talked to Will—“
Naya held up a hand. “I need the firm credit card, access to your laptop, and the CDs they sent you. Give me an hour, maybe less.”
“Thank you, you’re a lifesaver!” Sasha felt thirty pounds lighter.
“Aww, did your heart grow two sizes today?”
“That’s the Grinch, not Scrooge.” Sasha informed her, happy to share the knowledge she’d gleaned from the eight encore readings of The Grinch Who Stole Christmas that Calla and Hal had demanded.
“Have a holly, jolly get out of my office,” Naya deadpanned.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Sasha stared at the spreadsheet on her computer screen. She blinked and looked again. The data didn’t change. She sorted the columns. Still unchanged.
She pushed back her desk chair and stood. She paced in a tight circle, glancing out into the dark night. The snow that the meteorologists had been shouting about for at least twenty-four hours had begun to fall. Slow, lazy flurries tumbled past the window, illuminated by the yellow glow of the streetlight. She leaned her forehead against the cool windowpane and ran through the possible explanations for the pattern she’d just spotted in Mid-Atlantic’s claims information.
Coincidence? No such animal.
Mistake? Maybe.
Malfeasance. God, she hoped not.
She turned back to the monitor and scanned the rows of data. She’d spent the better part of the past three days populating those seemingly endless cells with data pulled from the insurance company’s electronic document production. Now that she’d seen the common threads running through the claims, she could see nothing else. She pinched the bridge of her nose and forced herself to think calmly. The worst thing she could do was jump to the conclusion that the Maravaches’ insurance carrier was actively engaged in evil.
This is a dull-as-dirt insurance coverage case, she lectured herself silently. There was no reason to imagine a heart-pounding criminal scheme. She needed to relax and proceed rationally. Surely, she’d made a data entry error. She’d just scrap the spreadsheet and start over.
She pulled her desk phone toward her and hit the speed dial button to call her home number.
Connelly answered on the second ring. “Tell me you’re walking out the door.”
“Umm…”
He sighed. “Again?”
“I have to get through these documents before I take the 30(b)(6) deposition on Friday.”
“Can’t you bring them home?”
She glanced at her laptop. One would think, but no. Everything was electronic. All the tens of thousands of pages of documents had been reduced to pixels. But if she packed up and went home, she’d eventually find herself curled up under a soft blanket with a dog at her feet, a cat lodged in her lap, and an attention-starved husband at her side. As enticing as that was, she knew she’d be more productive in her silent, moderately uncomfortable office. And, in this particular case, the judge had given her everything she’d asked for but had done so subject to the most onerous protective order she’d ever seen.
“Sasha?” Connelly prodded.
She suppressed a groan. “I really wish I could, but the protective order in this case is crazy. I can’t review the documents from a computer that’s connected to the Internet.”
“So don’t connect.”
“And I signed a statement swearing that the disk they produced the documents on wouldn’t leave the premises. It’s in the firm safe, that’s how worked up the insurance company was about it. It might not violate the letter of the agreement if I bring the data, but not the disk, home, but the spirit of the order contemplates that I’ll keep this stuff in the office.”
“Okay.”
“I’m sorry.”
“No, don’t apologize. It’s your job. But please stop talking about it before you bore me to death.”
“Har har. I promise I won’t bring any work on the anniversary trip.”
“Scout’s honor?”
“Sure, Scout’s honor. You know I was never a Girl Scout, right?”
He laughed. “Well played.”
“But I’m serious. The reason I scheduled this deposition for this week is so I can do all the follow-up next week and get this case in a holding pattern before the holidays and our trip.”
“Well if the payoff is you’re going to have your toes buried in the sand and not your nose buried in a pile of papers, then stay as long as you need to. I want you all to myself on this trip. No work.” His voice turned husky, half-purr and half-growl.
Desire fluttered in her belly and she nearly lost her resolve to stay and work.
“It’s a deal,” she managed.
“Call me before you leave, so I don’t worry.”
“I will. Love you.”
“You, too.”
She ended the call and turned back to the spreadsheet. She cleared the fields then began to recreate the metadata searches. She worked steadily, stopping only to stretch once an hour and get the occasional glass of water.
At ten o’clock, she rummaged through her workout bag and found a partially crushed protein bar. She ate it standing at the window while she watched the passing cars create tracks in the light dusting of snow that now covered the ground.
She finished the bar and drained her water glass. She returned to her desk and studied the nearly completed spreadsheet. Even though she hadn’t finished repopulating the chart, she could already see the pattern emerging again. She swallowed around the lump in her throat and considered what the data revealed: A tiny network of brokers, agents, adjusters, and fire inspectors who consistently submitted and approved claims under fire insurance policies—consistently, as in one hundred percent of the time. Laura Yim, the Maravaches’ claims adjuster, was, of course, not among them. In fact, her denial rate made her an outlier on the chart. But, at the moment, Sasha was more interested in the other group—the cluster of names that showed up together time after time: the same broker, same agent, same inspector, same adjuster, and the same result—claim paid. Something was going on at Mid-Atlantic Fire & Casua
lty. And it sure looked like that something was insurance fraud.
CHAPTER TEN
Laura blinked down at the papers in her hand as if doing so might change the words. No dice. The document still read “Notice of Deposition of Corporate Designee Pursuant to Rule 30(b)(6).” She skimmed the text, but her mind was racing and her heart was pounding and the words weren’t making sense.
“You okay, Yim? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
She glanced up, startled. Jim was staring at her with something approximating genuine concern. It must have been the combination of his unexpected kindness and her rattled mental state, but before she could stop herself, she was thrusting the deposition notice at him.
“Look at this. Some lawyer just emailed this to me. No explanatory email, nothing. Just a two line message: ‘please handle.’ Am I … am I being sued?” she managed to force the question out despite the fact that she could barely breathe.
Jim scanned the document for a moment. He handed it back to her and shook his head.
“Nah, this is no big deal. The company’s been sued, not you. Was the lawyer’s name Chadwick?”
She exhaled. “As a matter of fact it was.”
Jim nodded. “Yeah, Chadwick defends us on coverage claims. He’s a pro.”
“Okay, thanks. I was pretty confused. I’ve never gotten one of these before.”
“Really? He must’ve assumed it wasn’t your first time at the rodeo. When you meet with him, he’ll explain it to you.”
“Oh, good.”
“Well don’t get too happy. You still have to sit through a deposition. And that’s no day in the park, let me tell you. It sucks hard.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah. Freaking lawyers and their freaking questions. ‘On what documents did you base your decision, Mr. Moraine?’ ‘To whom did you speak about this claim, Mr. Moraine?’’ ‘Did you take any contemporaneous notes during that conversation, Mr. Moraine?’” He made his voice high-pitched and whiny as he imitated whatever attorney had busted his chops.
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