“I see…I think. Kind of like Gil’s firm representing the Bayfield family at the same time he was supposed to represent me.”
“Not exactly. My code of ethics as a CPA is different from the code for lawyers. I’m not supposed to be an advocate. Not for you or anyone. I’m supposed to be objective. The problem is that this work is going to overlap. Who’s going to pay for it? How am I to divide my hours?”
“Hey, don’t sweat it. At least you’ll get paid by the city.” Danny meant it to pass for humor, but neither Rae nor Sandy even cracked a smile.
“I don’t doubt that you’ll pay me. It’s only a matter of time before the properties are made whole and sold. Bottom line is that I need to resign as the estate accountant if I accept Veronica’s offer.”
Danny looked at Sandy for comment.
“I can’t advise Rae in this matter. I’m your attorney.”
“Who’s going to finish the work on Dee’s estate?”
“And the good news,” Rae smiled reassuringly, “is that I’m done with the three personal tax returns, and Sandy is willing to take over completion of the 706 for the estate, if you’re willing.”
“I think I can live with that.”
“The bad news is that there’s a big chunk of personal income tax due for last year because of the payout from the grandfather’s estate. You’ll need to conserve estate assets. No more expensive lunches for your professional help.” Here she smiled. “I’ll try and get penalties waived because of the circumstances.”
Danny smiled back His knees, under the table, trembled slightly. Nothing his recent heart attack couldn’t account for.
“Do you have any problem with my sharing financial information I got from you with Veronica?”
“Why would I?” Danny shrugged.
“Whether or not I accept the city’s offer, somebody is going in to audit the Bayfield financial records,” continued Rae. “A judge has already signed the order.”
“Does this order include Dee’s personal records?” Danny asked.
“Of course,” said Rae. “Her records are part of the big picture.”
“There’s something I forgot to mention,” said Danny as casually as he could manage. “The loan on the house funded.”
He watched Sandy's eyes avoid Rae's. Her need to know had just been minimized.
“This house?” asked Rae.
“Yeah. I needed cash to pay Pat Keech.” When his words drew an angry look from Rae and a raised eyebrow from Sandy, he quickly added, “And to pay you guys. About time, don’t you think?”
Sandy’s displeasure was palpable, but Danny knew there wasn't a snowball's chance in hell that he'd elaborate on it in front of Rae.
“Shouldn't it have gone into the estate account?” Rae's question was inevitable.
“The title company made the check out to me as the managing member of the LLC that held Dee’s properties. I was going to make a transfer to the estate’s account, but a funny thing happened to me at the sheriff’s station.” His attempt at humor fell flat.
“Why don’t you just give us our checks now?” Rae, ever practical. “Save postage.”
“Can’t do that. My bank put a hold on the funds. I think it’s up, but I have to make sure.”
“No harm, no foul. We’ll make the disbursement to Rae from the estate account.” Sandy shook his silver mane, as if to rid himself of the aggravation he so obviously felt.
Danny smiled, tight-lipped. That could be a problem, he thought.
At the end of her shift on the second day after her conversation with Reggie Navarro, the Lassiter tape was still burning a hole in Emily Wehr’s brain.
She’d replayed it at home, and some new ideas jumped out at her. She remembered Reggie, behind the one-way glass, watching her interview of the Lassiter woman. It hadn’t seemed weird at the time, considering Camacho was his snitch, but… Should she confide in Commander Marsh, in case he really didn’t know what he was burying?
A quick flashback to Reggie and the commander in a closed conversation did in that idea.
Wehr’s routine had changed. Now her Glock went home with her in its holster, covered by a linen jacket.
It was still plenty light outside at 8:00 p.m. when she arrived home. Not much traffic to battle at that hour. She lived in a pleasant apartment in a two-story fourplex on Youngfield. It wasn’t a secured building, but she had installed dead bolts on both doors and locks on the windows when she’d first moved in five years ago.
It was like any other night until she entered the kitchen and found the lid of the trash canister slightly open. She’d never properly assembled it and you had to put it back just so. And just so was how she always left it. Neat to a fault, her mother had said of her with pride. Obsessively picky was how her ex-boyfriend had put it.
The edge on her nerves sharpened as she walked into her bedroom and noted the plaid bedspread. Not rumpled exactly. More like dented, as if someone had sat on it, then tried to straighten it out again. The hairs on her arms rose, not from the air conditioning, but from the thin gap she observed between the bottom of the bedroom window and the sill. The window was unlocked.
In one swift movement, she drew her gun and swept the room, holding the weapon firmly with both hands. She had never shot anything but targets at qualification. As she kicked open a closet door, the steadiness of her hands surprised her. After locking the window, a methodical efficiency took over as she searched each room of the small apartment.
Nothing was missing. TV, stereo, VCR, even the diamond pendant her parents had given her for college graduation—all present and accounted for. But all had been touched in ways only her eyes could see.
When she was satisfied that the intruder was no longer there, she holstered the Glock and returned to the bathroom. Wehr was still breathing rapidly as she opened the doors of the small marble-topped vanity. She had to kneel down to reach the Tampax box at the very back of the storage space. To her immense relief, the Lassiter tape was still inside the box.
*****
It was not quite dark at 9:30 when Wehr turned off her laptop after printing out some items of interest: law enforcement openings in other jurisdictions. She needed more than a transfer. Goodbye, Colorado. She eyed one of the printouts with special interest. Hello, Nebraska. How far would she need to go? What could she do to ensure she wasn’t followed? And, really, if somebody wanted to find her and had the right connections, there was no place that was far enough.
There was not a doubt in her mind that the intruder had been Reggie Navarro. She’d been correct in her assessment of him—a macho asshole who’d rather stick his hand in a pile of shit than in a Tampax box. Even so, it shocked her to think he’d actually violate her privacy like that. It was one thing to suspect and take precautions, but quite another to have her suspicions confirmed.
Moving to the kitchen, she opened the freezer and took out a burrito which she popped into the microwave. Somebody needed to see the tape. If for no other reason, to give the vic’s family the truth. Part of the truth still eluded her, but she had her own thoughts on what had sparked Reggie’s sudden interest in resurrecting that tape. Maybe he’d worked undercover so long that the lines were blurred. It happened. Maybe Reggie wasn’t beyond a little blackmail.
That thought dispatched what remained of her appetite. She pushed aside the burrito, washed away the taste with a Diet Coke, then turned down the air conditioning.
How to detach from the damn tape without destroying it? Veronica Sanchez. She wanted it, though she didn’t know it existed. Wehr reached for the landline phone on the kitchen wall, then had another thought. If Reggie had the balls to break into her apartment, bugging her phone wouldn’t give him a second thought. A public phone in a public place was what she needed right then.
The evening was turning cool. She put on her linen jacket, now wilted from the drive home, and grabbed her laptop. Nobody needed to see those job sites she’d just visited. Unnecessary precautions. Maybe. We
hr locked the front door after her and walked out to her car.
As she slowly drove away, she observed a dark gray Crown Victoria pull out from the curb and follow her. A red light stopped her at the intersection of Youngfield and Ward Road. The Crown Vic lagged behind, but one glance at the bulky silhouette of the driver said it all. Fuck you, Reggie.
As she drove, she felt her options narrowing. Reggie was driving his unmarked WRPD vehicle, meaning either he was on duty or had completely crossed the line.
If Reggie was on duty, did this mean she was being set up to take the fall for deleting the Lassiter file? If push came to shove, who would confirm her orders to make it disappear? For sure not Commander Marsh, one year away from retirement. What had they thought? That because Mrs. Lassiter had been a messed-up crack head it was okay to cover up her assault? End justified the means? But, what if somebody outside their little department thought differently? Who would be sacrificed?
And Reggie was still on her ass. Not really. A couple of cars back. She turned right, down Colfax Avenue. The traffic was light. He had to really work at staying with her and not appearing to do so.
Wehr replayed the day of Deidre Lassiter’s interview. Reggie had already been tapped by Metro, probably because he could give them JJ.
She remembered how he’d just popped into the station when two other Wheat Ridge guys had brought in Mrs. Lassiter. As she watched Reggie get stuck at a light, she asked herself how come he plopped himself down behind the one-way glass to watch her take the vic’s statement? Reggie had known about the welfare check and came in to run interference for his boy, JJ Camacho.
But with JJ gone, why not leave it alone? Oh, shit. Wehr thought she knew. Where had her head been?
She pulled into the parking lot of a multiplex on Colfax and parked under a light. Within seconds Reggie’s vehicle snaked down the adjacent aisle and disappeared in shadow.
It was a weeknight. Only a trickle of people around the movie house. Fewer still at the surrounding businesses: a Wendy’s and a Conoco. Not good. Driving to a public place hadn’t been that great an idea. Her intention of going to a pay phone and calling Veronica Sanchez wasn’t an option anymore.
Juggling her cell phone in her right hand, she felt panic setting in. Call nine-one-one. And say what? This scumbag cop was after her for illegally keeping a tape of a vic’s interview?
Respect for authority had been drummed into her head from her childhood in Pine Bluff, Arkansas. Middle child in a family of five. Parents both achievers who provided well, but demanded respect. What’s wrong with that? When did respect turn to blind obedience?
No time to figure that one. The arc light above her car was barely adequate, but she made out her own scribbling enough to punch in Veronica Sanchez’s number.
The ringing seemed to go on endlessly. A voicemail was not what she needed. A person was. A witness to whatever Reggie might—
“Hey, Emily.” Reggie, out of nowhere, on the opposite side of her car from where he should have been.
You don’t run when a bear has you treed. You make yourself very large and roar. Well, maybe not roar. She rolled down her window, put the cell to her ear and motioned for Reggie to keep it down, hoping he couldn’t see her white knuckles in the artificial light.
“Yeah, right. He’s here now.” Wehr paused and took small pleasure in the look on Reggie’s face. “I don’t know. I’ll ask him.”
“Who’s that?”
“You don’t want to know.” Tough it out. Don’t let him see blood. “Just what are you doing, Navarro? Following me?”
“Who’s on the phone?” His ham of a hand was on the window, resting, not going anywhere—yet.
“None of your business.”
“Wanna bet?” he said softly.
Then the idea hit her like a life raft. What would Reggie hate getting into worse than a Tampax box?
“Reg, I don’t know how you got the idea, but I’m not interested in a relationship with you. Please leave right now.”
Into the phone she said, “Reggie Navarro’s leaning on my car and I feel threatened.”
“Relationship?” The strangest expression came over his face, like he couldn’t believe she was so dumb.
Still he didn’t move. But she could feel the momentum of his gathering rage. Once more, into the phone: “Yes, I would say it constitutes stalking.”
That was when Wehr heard the voicemail on Veronica’s phone time out.
“Stalking?” He roared as Wehr started up the engine and pressed the automatic window button. “In your dreams,” shouted Reggie, backing away from her car like some part of her might touch him. “Who’d stalk you, fucking stupid cunt?”
Bless the three-day poker games back home with the aunts and the uncles and the men from the Pine Bluff fire station. Who’da thought? Now it was really time to fold and run.
*****
It had worked. Maybe. He wasn’t following. Almost certain of that. Almost. He thought he’d been pegged for a stalker not a burglar. In Reggie’s mind, she probably hadn’t noticed anything off in her apartment.
Where to go? Not home. She had three weeks vacation left, and could probably activate it by phone or on line. Emergency family leave. That was better. Her sister in Arkansas needed her. As Wehr’s brain spun an escape ladder, her cell rang. She couldn’t see the caller ID so she pressed the answer button and waited.
“Sergeant Wehr?” She recognized Veronica Sanchez’s voice.
“This is Wehr.”
“What was that you left on my voicemail?”
“What did it sound like?”
“You and Reggie Navarro having a confrontation. You called me for a reason, right?”
“I have something you can use.”
“Can you call me from a secure line?”
“You’ll hear from me when I’m in a safer place.”
“Wait a minute. What--”
Wehr pressed the end button and headed east on Interstate 70 with just the clothes on her back, her laptop, and the keys on her key ring. Oh yes, there was her wallet with IDs, a little cash, her credit card with ATM privileges and her new best friend—the Glock 9mm.
No Crown Vic in the rearview. That was good. She was just a stupid fucking cunt who got the wrong idea about Reggie’s intentions. That was okay, too.
Veronica’s home was an hour’s drive south of Longmont. Rae had never been there before. She took Wadsworth rather than I-25, as it allowed her more time to think about the full implications of taking on the job with Lakewood PD.
She’d done this sort of thing for dozens of private clients. Even a couple of union chapters and a sprinkling of non-profits. Sometimes she’d found dirt. Other times, clean as a baby’s conscience. Her designation as Certified Fraud Examiner went quietly unnoticed for the most part. The juicy stuff went to the big firms. Rae, as a sole practitioner who worked out of her residence, was too low profile to get the attention of the big companies and municipalities.
Rae didn’t advertise. Word-of-mouth brought her more clients than she could handle. But, God, it was for the most part mind-numbingly boring. Veronica hadn’t even known forensic accounting was her strongpoint, her meat, until they’d gotten into money motives, finances and the den of snakes that made up the Bayfield family of fortune keepers.
The assignment dangled like a Black Angus steak; Rae couldn’t wait to get her teeth into the meat of it. She made a quick mental apology to her aging critters, Jake and Augie, for the insensitive comparison.
But it wasn’t just the Bayfield books. It was answers that hung like questions. Veronica was becoming more forthcoming about the case. As a means of drawing her in, Rae guessed. Kevin was apparently a rotten apple, but who was there to confirm Morgan’s story about his implication in his mother’s death? James Joseph Camacho had tortured and raped Deidre Lassiter. Veronica had finally confirmed that JJ was a snitch in a drug sting for Metro. So, how could they have lost him? The drug case in which he was a key player
seemed totally unrelated to the deaths of either Deidre or Kevin. The financial records of Bayfield Enterprises might have an interesting story to tell. Or they might yield nothing.
Rae was eager to get started. She and Veronica had lunched together in the old days, following Anthony’s death. Some dinners, too. Veronica, along with other of Anthony’s fellow officers and their spouses had been steadfast in their support of Rae and her kids.
By the end of a year or so, contacts with Anthony’s world had dried up like cheat grass in summer heat. Rekindling her friendship with Veronica felt good.
Veronica’s directions had been easy to follow. Hers was an older split-level that backed up to farmland. A neatly kept house with brick siding in a neighborhood with good schools. Veronica had a twelve-year-old son whom Rae had never met.
As she parked her Mercedes behind a white Camry, Rae saw Veronica on the front porch. Beside her was a tall, skinny kid. Veronica’s son Justin.
A memory flashed as Rae walked toward the pair: Veronica’s exodus from Metro had coincided with her pregnancy, as well as the trauma of witnessing Anthony’s death. All she’d ever told Rae was that the relationship with Justin’s father hadn’t worked out.
“Rae,” Veronica called warmly as she approached, but there was no customary welcoming embrace. Instead, Veronica’s right arm was planted steadfastly around her son’s shoulders.
Already the boy stood nearly as tall as his mother. Brown-skinned, a bit lighter than Veronica, his dark hair was closely cropped, giving center stage to riveting hazel eyes.
Oh, my God. Anthony’s eyes.
Rae’s vision drowned in a sea of red. Time stood on tiptoe as Anthony’s face filled the red blur. The gun shots. Over and over again. Into Anthony’s body. Only this time it wasn’t Markov holding the weapon. It was Rae.
Damn you. Damn you, Anthony Esposito.
It was over in an instant. Her vision returned. She could read in Veronica’s expression that she knew. But the boy? She couldn’t tell. He just stood there looking at her out of those eyes. What was it about his expression? Apprehension? Yes, Veronica must have told him. How could she do that? What did she say to him? Justin, your dad’s widow is coming to dinner?
Pool of Lies Page 10
