by Meryl Sawyer
“Rossi Designs also imports—”
“Not the way we do. We’re bringing in ship after ship with containers. Rossi Design’s orders wouldn’t fill a tenth of a container.” At least they were finally working their way around to Alyssa. Before Clay laid his story on Jake, he had to persuade him that switching the accounting was a terrible idea. Clay couldn’t afford to have anyone knowledgeable in the sophisticated area of importing inspect his books too closely.
“TriTech is acquiring another importing company, Pacific Rim Imports. You’ve heard of it?”
All Clay could do was nod. Pac Rim was the leader in Asian imports and made Duvall Importing look like a third tier company.
“I’m moving their accounting team here. They’ll take care of all the import accounts. They’ve done it for a long time and have a superior track record.”
“I’d rather keep Duvall’s accounts with Wyatt. He’s always handled us and understands our business.”
“I know Wyatt’s your brother-in-law and this is difficult. Just blame me. Tell him I didn’t like that IRS fine and insisted on the change.”
“What IRS fine?”
“For understating your earnings.”
“Understating?” He scrambled to think what Jake could mean. If anything, Duvall Imports overstated—everything—but Jake couldn’t know that.
“Two years ago you were fined for understating earnings.”
Jake sounded so sure of himself Clay couldn’t respond. He had absolutely no respect for a man who grew up on the Redneck Riviera and never graduated from college, taking night courses instead. But he had to admit Jake didn’t blow smoke. He had his facts down and kept numbers in his head like a computer chip despite his lack of a formal education.
“We’ve never—ever—been fined by the IRS.” Clay could feel the heat creeping up his neck and knew his face would be scarlet in a second. It rarely happened, but when he was really angry, he turned red and pinpricks of sweat appeared on his upper lip. “Before my father retired, we were in financial trouble, but that was straightened out. We’ve never had an IRS fine or any other problem with them.”
“You might check with Wyatt,” Jake said. “He probably forgot to tell you about the fine.”
Clay knew enough to keep his mouth shut.
Jake continuted, “Pac Rim won’t come onboard for another two months. That’ll give Wyatt time to prepare the books for transfer.”
Clay’s swallowed hard and resisted the urge to wipe away the film of moisture on his upper lip. He wanted to throw Alyssa in Jake’s smug face but couldn’t think of a way of doing it and still sound professional.
“On your way out,” Jake said, picking up the telephone, effectively dismissing him in a rude way, “there are two detectives from the NOPD. They want to talk to you about a missing baby.”
Flushed with humiliation and furious, Clay made himself a promise. Jake Williams was going to pay.
Bewildered, Jake watched Clay leave. The man seemed dead sure his company had never been fined by the IRS. Jake’s first reaction was to reread the forensic accountant’s brief report, then he changed his mind. He was over double-checking himself all the time. He’d made damn few mistakes and this wasn’t one of them.
Was Clay lying?
He didn’t trust him—not for one second. Clay had mastered the art of being convincing and charming, but this time he seemed really nervous. Clay’s face had become flushed and he’d been sweating. Live and learn.
Jake picked up the phone and punched Spencer’s line. His secretary answered immediately. “Are those detectives questioning Duvall?”
“They’ve taken him to the station.”
Jake detected an undercurrent of glee in Spencer’s voice. Who could blame him? Clay Duvall was about as homophobic as they came. He put down Spencer to Jake every chance he had until Jake told him to mind his own business. A pinup for silicone implants might be what Clay needed in his office, but Jake wanted someone a hellava lot smarter working for him.
“Really? They’re interrogating Duvall?”
Jake suspected his voice betrayed some inner sense of satisfaction as well. He told himself it wasn’t Clay’s fault Alyssa still loved him, but it didn’t quite ring true. He could still feel the suffocating sensation of his throat tightening, the way it had last night when he’d seen Clay’s arm around Alyssa.
“Yes. They took him away.”
Jake couldn’t help smiling. He hoped the police had something to go on besides coincidence. Two babies abducted. Clay on the scene both times. Somehow he doubted any man as slick as Clay would be caught this easily, assuming, of course, he’d done it.
“Is Troy around? I need to talk to him.”
“Hold on. Let me check with Thelma and Louise.”
Jake almost smiled—for the first time today. Thelma and Louise were the nicknames Spencer had given Abigail and Alexis, two middle-aged lesbians who worked as Spencer’s assistants. They did all of Jake and Troy’s work that wasn’t important enough to demand Spencer’s personal attention.
Spencer came back on the line. “He’s still at lunch.”
“Again? It’s almost four.”
Spencer was strangely silent. “I guess.”
“Okay.”
Jake hung up. Spencer never guessed. He knew. That’s why Jake had hired him. He’d known from the moment he’d met Spencer that he was the epitome of efficiency and intelligence. Nothing got past Spencer Farenholt. Nothing.
Jake walked out to Spencer’s desk. “What’s going on?”
Spencer looked him in the eye, and Jake realized he was right. There was something Spencer wasn’t telling him, and it concerned Troy.
“Tell me. I won’t say a thing.” Jake knew Spencer had divided loyalties since he reported to both Jake and Troy. “I promise.”
“Something … is wrong.” The words came out slowly as Spencer looked up at Jake. “Troy isn’t himself. He’s gone most afternoons. He keeps calling Paris.”
“Paris?” Troy was returning home to run one of his father’s businesses. It shouldn’t surprise him. Troy had done nothing to explore New Orleans even though it offered a rich selection of arts and music and women. Troy’s heart belonged to Paris.
Jake didn’t get it, but then, you either loved Paris or you were intimidated by the Parisians. He had to admit he didn’t get it. Maybe a youth spent in Mobile, Alabama, ruined your ability to go bananas over a bunch of frogs who spent hours eating and the rest of their time talking about wine and art. Oh, well.
“He’s also contacted a travel agent. I think he’s planning to leave … with someone.”
Two beats of silence while Jake tried to imagine being on his own without Troy. He’d realized it would happen eventually. Face it. You’re on your own.
Jake expected to feel a second of unease, but he didn’t. He’d known this day was coming from the moment he’d persuaded Troy to stay on with TriTech. Jake figured he might not be totally ready, but hey, would he ever be one hundred percent confident? Now was as good a time as any. He needed to get his mind off Alyssa. What better way to do it than to be forced to concentrate on TriTech’s business?
“Spencer, don’t mention any of this to Troy,” said Jake. “I’ll take care of everything.”
His mind was on Alyssa. How was she doing? he wondered. This had to be an ordeal for her. Even if he blamed her for being involved with Clay, he still didn’t believe she had anything to do with either baby’s disappearance.
He picked up the telephone and instructed Spencer to connect him with Overton and Overton. The forensic accountants assigned to analyze Duvall Imports were in Chicago. He explained who he was, and they transferred him to Simon Overton.
“I’ve read your investigation of Duvall Imports’ books,” he said. “I’m curious about the IRS fine.”
“What fine?” Simon asked. “I prepared the report. There wasn’t any IRS fine.”
“A-a-a-h, perhaps I was mistaken—”
/> “It was an interesting scam. If you don’t straighten it out, you are going to have big-time trouble with the IRS.”
Son of a bitch, Jake cursed under his breath. “How long was your report?”
“Don’t you have a copy of it?”
“I don’t think so.”
“It was about two hundred and fifty pages.”
“No wonder it took so long.”
“Long? I analyzed that company in less than a week.”
“Of course, sorry. So much is going on around here.” Where in hell had that report been? “Could you have your secretary fax me another copy?”
“We sent four copies. Can’t you find any of them?”
Jake didn’t give a damn if he sounded incompetent. “No. Have her fax me another copy at this number.” He gave Overton his home fax number.
Jake thanked him and hung up. He rocked back in his chair and studied the ceiling. It took some time before his mind adjusted to what could only be a cover-up on Troy’s part. Why? What did the report say that he would want to cover up? It was possible, more than possible considering the way Clay had acted today, that he’d paid Troy to keep quiet.
Someone had altered the report. It would be easy enough with the computer scanners to scan Overton and Overton’s letterhead. Writing the report, using forensic accounting lingo, would be more difficult. That’s why the report was much shorter than the original.
Then it dawned on him. Max was responsible for this, not Clay. Troy wouldn’t have risked his professional reputation for someone on a lower level. Even though Max had retired, there were a lot of people who thought of him as the owner of TriTech.
Assuming his analysis was correct, why would Max want a company like Duvall Imports? The answer had to be in the report itself. His split-second decision to send it to his home was dead-on. He didn’t want anyone to know he suspected a thing until he knew exactly what was happening.
CHAPTER 20
It had taken Alyssa over an hour to go back to the hospital and sneak into the parking lot to retrieve the car she’d rented when she’d arrived from Italy. She’d wasted another half-hour going to the French Quarter only to find a coven of reporters outside Aunt Thee’s house. She hadn’t bothered going inside. She called Clay’s house from a pay phone and found out Phoebe was spending the next several days at her parent’s home.
The guard at the gate of Audubon Street, where she had once lived with the LeCroix family, still remembered her and waved her into the compound of expensive homes. The LeCroix home was at the far end of the street, where Jake’s father had bought a mansion. The other night when Alyssa had been there, she’d blotted out memories of her youth, but now they rushed back into her consciousness with a vengeance.
A small child walking up the street alone, not realizing this was among the most exclusive neighborhoods in New Orleans. Nothing was going to bound out from behind the immaculately clipped shrubs to pounce on her. Later, she saw herself as a middle school student trudging her way up the street in the pouring rain, her books in her backpack. In either scenario no one would be there to greet her. Hattie LeCroix was always gone or upstairs resting. Verna, the housekeeper, who was formally in charge of Alyssa, was too swamped with work to be bothered.
Alyssa had been all alone, the way she was today. Now, there was one difference. Someone cared—Aunt Thee.
“They have company,” Alyssa mumbled under her breath as she approached the place she’d called home for so many years. Luxury cars lined the drive. No doubt, Hattie was having a tea or a committee meeting for one of the myriad charities she joined in order to show off her home, her clothes, her jewelry.
Alyssa rang the bell and waited, hearing the faint murmur of voices. Finally, a uniformed maid Alyssa didn’t know answered the door.
“I’m here to see Phoebe Le—Duvall,” she said.
“They’re in a meeting, Miss—”
“Tell Phoebe it’s an emergency. Alyssa Rossi is here to see her.”
The maid backed away, and Alyssa couldn’t tell if she’d recognized her name or if her firm tone had persuaded her. She didn’t care. What mattered now was talking to Phoebe.
After Sanchez had left her in Jake’s loft, Alyssa had paced the rooftop deck with Benson, thinking. Bloated clouds with leaden underbellies had clustered overhead, promising rain soon. Benson had taken his time, but finally left a healthy deposit on the turf that had been planted especially for him.
By then, Alyssa was determined to talk to Phoebe. They’d lived under the same roof—this roof—for all those years, but they hardly knew each other. They looked alike, but had little in common except a father who had rejected them.
And a brother. Wyatt was closer to Phoebe, of course, being her full brother. Still, he was also related to Alyssa. Looking back, she realized Wyatt had been kind to her—in his own way. Hattie had been absorbed with comparing the two girls and ignored Wyatt. She guessed he’d never felt the same level of competition that Phoebe had.
“This way,” the maid said a few minutes later.
She led Alyssa into the small library adjacent to the living room. Alyssa rarely had been in this room when she’d lived with the LeCroix family. It had been Gordon’s exclusive domain even though he was seldom in the house.
She glanced around, inhaling the sweet scent of the Cuban cigars Gordon smoked in here, indulging his bad habit despite Hattie’s disapproval. The shelves were lined with books and golf trophies. She’d forgotten how good a golfer Gordon was. He’d won the club championship several times and had other trophies as well. Among the many photos of his golfing buddies, there wasn’t a single photograph of the family.
“Alyssa … what are you doing here?”
Phoebe spoke in a hushed voice as if she didn’t want the women down the hall to know what was happening. Alyssa faced the person she’d always thought of as her cousin. Her half-sister. Her father’s other daughter.
“I need to talk to you.” She motioned to the two wing chairs opposite Gordon’s desk.
Phoebe took the chair beside Alyssa, like a reigning queen, her back rigid, her chin tilted upward. “Hurry up. The committee is waiting for my report.”
For a heartbeat, Alyssa studied the face that was so much like her own. They were sisters. They shouldn’t be enemies.
“We’re sisters. I just found out.”
Phoebe arched one plucked eyebrow. “You should have realized the truth a long time ago.”
True. Alyssa silently admitted she had been too intimidated to look beyond what she’d been told. She was stronger now, thanks to Aunt Thee’s love.
“Don’t you think it’s time we acted more like sisters?” she asked.
“What?” The single word echoed through the small room like the brittle crack of a rifle. “Don’t you dare come waltzing in here expecting me to welcome you just because you figured out we’re half-sisters. Forget it. You want Clay.”
“I don’t care about Clay. I—”
“Don’t lie to me.” Phoebe’s voice kept getting louder with each word. “You’ve always loved Clay. You’d do anything to break us up.”
Alyssa couldn’t believe how stubborn and irrational Phoebe was. “I’ve lived in Italy for years now. There’s nothing between Clay—”
“Really? Then what were you doing last night at Check Point Charlie’s?”
Alyssa had known better than to appear at such a public spot. Obviously, someone had seen them and reported it to Phoebe. “I wanted to talk to Clay about you.”
Phoebe sat up straighter—if possible—and trained her eyes on Alyssa. “You did. Why?”
“I wanted to ask him if he’d known we were sisters not just cousins.” She waited for a response from Phoebe, but received nothing more than a hostile stare. “He said he’d known for years.”
“So what?”
“I also asked him if I should try to patch up our differences.”
Phoebe leaped to her feet, yelling, “It was just an excuse to be
with Clay.”
Alyssa motioned for her to calm down and kept her voice low so they didn’t disturb the meeting. “This isn’t about Clay. It’s about us.”
“What’s going on?” Hattie asked as she burst into the room followed by several other women.
“She’s after Clay,” Phoebe insisted.
Hattie leveled Alyssa with the censuring glare she’d remembered from her childhood. “Leave now.”
Alyssa looked beyond Hattie and saw Ravelle Renault standing in the hall. Criminy! Clay was right. This had been a terrible idea.
“Get out!” screamed Hattie.
Alyssa rose slowly and left, ignoring the hostile stares of the women gathered in the hall. What had she hoped to accomplish? For years, Phoebe had known the truth. What had made Alyssa think that Phoebe would now be willing to discuss their differences?
She wanted to go home and change clothes, but a bevy of reporters was standing in front of Aunt Thee’s town house. Suddenly, heavy plops of rain pummeled the windshield of the car. Within seconds the rain became a torrential downpour, the kind that often flooded New Orleans.
She had no choice but to go back to Jake’s. She drove over to the Warehouse District and spotted a parking space a pizza delivery van had just vacated. She pulled in, grateful she was less than a block from Jake’s loft.
She slipped out of the subcompact and dashed for the loft. She found the key she’d hidden—just in case—under the fifth pot on the way up the stairs.
“Jake? Jake?”
No one answered when she unlocked the front door. Benson greeted her with an excited bark and a slather of kisses on her extended hand. It was too early to expect Jake to be home. She could take a hot shower while drying her soaked clothes before having to deal with him.
She knew Sanchez was right. Jake didn’t give a hoot what people thought. He was giving her the deep freeze for some other reason. She was going to ask him and hope she had more luck than she’d had with Phoebe.
Rain hammered the skylight and filled the huge loft with the racket. She flicked on the lights and walked across the room. Benson trotted behind her as she went into the kitchen to use the telephone.
