by Isabel Jolie
Chasing Frost
Isabel Jolie
Copyright © 2020 by Isabel Jolie.
All rights reserved.
Editor: Lori Whitwam
Line editor: Heather Whitehead
Cover Design: Sarah Hanson, Okay Creations
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters, and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
Isabel Jolie asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
Isabel Jolie has no responsibility for the persistence or accuracy of URLs for external or third-party Internet Websites referred to in this publication and does not guarantee that any content on such Websites is, or will remain, accurate or appropriate.
Designations used by companies to distinguish their products are often claimed as trademarks. All brand names and product names used in this book and on its cover are trade names, service marks, trademarks, and registered trademarks of their respective owners. The publishers and the book are not associated with any product or vendor mentioned in this book. None of the companies referenced within the book have endorsed the book.
Created with Vellum
For the man who melts my frost
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Epilogue
A Little Extra
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Also by Isabel Jolie
One
Chase
The mammoth diamond on her ring finger disperses rays of light, spinning magenta and yellow flecks of color across the marble ballroom floor. She alternates between patting and fondling my forearm, while her ring-bearing hand lifts the champagne glass unnaturally high. My bow tie constricts around my throat, and my feet ache in these stiff dress shoes. If I get my way, these overpriced oxfords will never be broken in.
I search the crowd for my boss, and the arm patter’s husband, Tom Bennett. My boss, the CEO of the accounting firm I work for, is the whole reason I’m here at this charity event. It’s a good cause, and I remind myself of that every time Tom buys several tables at these fundraising dinners and fills them up with BB&E employees.
Senator McLoughlin is his buddy. I get it. They went to college together. Someone McLoughlin loved died from cancer. I get all of it. Support your friends. But does every charity event require participants to dress like dolled-up penguins?
Bennett’s wife continues, pausing to adjust her dress before she has a wardrobe malfunction of the Janet Jackson variety. My buddy Cal looks over, and I raise my glass to him, sending silent pleas for him to rescue me.
This is cocktail hour. In an estimated ten minutes, the oversized oak banquet room doors will open, and I’ll get a chance to see how I’m faring in my boss’s eyes. Today, I’m hoping he’s thinking I’m doing a shit job and I get the table with the company peons. Bennett’s wife is too touchy-feely for my taste. I doubt he cares what she does, based on how he acts when he’s out with his buddies, and the fact he stands nowhere near her when I see them together, but there’s no reason to test his hypocrisy.
Cal joins us, and Bennett’s wife shines a commercial-worthy white smile his way. Multiple sparkling tennis bracelets slide down her arm as she reaches out for him. Thank fuck for the diversion. As Cal engages her in conversation, I tabulate the estimated value of the diamonds dripping on Mrs. Bennett. I know how much one of those tennis bracelets cost because my dad bought my mom one for their fortieth. She’s got large diamonds on her ears, around her neck, fingers, and wrists. For Tom’s sake, I hope some of that shit’s fake, ’cause if it isn’t, the dude’s either going broke or he’s into something illegal. But, then again, maybe our CEO fares better at bonus time than I realize.
If all that’s real, the woman must give a damn good blow job. Plump and glistening in gloss.
Mrs. Bennett lightly squeezes my bicep. “What do you think, Chase?”
I have absolutely no idea what she’s talking about. Cal saves me, and his shit-eating smirk tells me he knows he’s doing me a solid.
“Maitlin, didn’t you try the keto diet once? You weren’t a fan, were you?”
“Years ago. I tried it. Very difficult to keep up. But what are you talking to us about diets for?” I flash her my charming, but purposefully not flirty, smile. “You’re lovely. You keep eating healthy and exercising, as you obviously do, and you’ll keep making all the ladies jealous.” She smothers a giggle and tilts her head while batting her extremely long eyelashes, and the save is complete. But then she inches closer, and we have at least six more minutes before the doors open and the dinner portion of the evening begins, when the sentimental videos play and the tears and checkbooks follow.
“So, I’ve been asking all the men, doing my own sort of survey. Do you use those dating apps? It’s been so long since I’ve been single, and I’m so curious about the dating world these days.”
“Yeah, I use a few,” I dutifully answer. Cal smirks.
“Oh, can I see your profile? I’m so curious. I read about these apps, but I’ve never interacted.”
The answer to her question would be a hell-to-the-no, but I’m saved when Evan Mitchell, our CFO, walks up with a twenty-something femme fatale in a sleek, form-fitting gown. She is not his wife, and she just made this boring charity gala worth attending.
“Good evening.” I nod to Evan. I reach my hand out to the hot commodity at his side. “I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure. Chase Maitlin.”
Her slender fingers slip into mine, and hot damn. I’m not even sure where to look first. She’s all-natural, with glossy, pale pink lips and a rosy blush to her cheeks. Her glossy, dark hair is pulled back, revealing an elongated neck and demure solitaire diamond earrings. Her arms are lightly sculpted. Not in a weightlifter kind of way, but a way that says this girl can do some push-ups and pull-ups and probably run a marathon too. As a fellow gym rat, color me intrigued.
“Sydney Frost.” Her hand leaves mine, and her dark gaze sweeps over the others in our group. Frosty. I like it.
“Sydney will be joining our firm, filling Tad’s role.”
“Welcome.” I grin. Excellent. She’s gorgeous. Probably out of my league. But, as my main man Michael Jordan says, you lose one hundred percent of the shots you don’t take. I’ll need to play it right. Working together will be a great opportunity to get to know her. Get in the best position for the free-throw line. O
f course, these days, working together can also be a highly sensitive situation and makes it easier to foul.
Cal extends his hand. He’s got a gold ring on his finger, that omnipresent ball and chain, so he’s no competition, no matter how much Frosty here seems to prefer him right now. Evan excuses himself, saying something about needing to find his wife and to please introduce Sydney to any other BB&E employees we run across.
Unfortunately, when Evan leaves our little group, Mrs. Bennett takes a step closer, almost separating us from Cal and my newfound shiny object.
“So, your phone? Can I see?” she says softly as if the other two can’t hear her if she lowers her voice.
Frosty raises one dark, thick, perfectly shaped eyebrow.
“Mrs. Bennett is curious about the online dating scene,” I explain. “She’s taking a survey, trying to ascertain how today’s singles meet.”
“Oh, I’m sure someone like Sydney must have a boyfriend waiting in the wings.” Mrs. Bennett’s words are civil, but there’s something about her stance that’s reminiscent of a feral lioness.
“No.” A barely-there smile graces those pale pink, shapely lips. “No boyfriend.”
“Oh.” Mrs. Bennett’s response has a hard edge to it.
Cal breaks the tension. “Can I get either of you ladies something to drink from the bar? We should be sitting soon.”
Both women smile graciously, declining his offer while sizing each other up.
“So, what about you, Sydney? Does a single woman like you resort to dating apps? Are you one of those girls desperately seeking a husband?”
Sydney’s shoulders shift back, and her breasts rise. Cal turns his head, seeming to scan the crowd for someone as the two women glare at each other like opponents before the whistle blows.
“A husband? No, I can’t say that’s something I want.”
“Probably for the best. So, no dating apps? No desire to meet a partner of any sort, for any activity?” Mrs. Bennett rests her fingers along my forearm and inches closer to me. My collar tightens when it hits me she’s insinuating some kind of activity with me.
“Me? No. If I want sex, then I have sex. No app required.”
I almost spit out my gin and tonic as Sydney twists and walks away, her tight ass swaying beneath her silk slip gown, sans panty lines.
It’s official. I’m in lust.
Two
Sadie
Sunday afternoon, I ring the buzzer on a nondescript Park Avenue office building. The basement row is filled with small offices for a variety of medical practices, such as physical therapy and chiropractor services. A small index card taped on the outside touts the therapeutic benefits of massage and the hours for unit 6A. Above the offices, condos reside.
The buzzer rings, and I look into the camera above the panel. A man’s voice comes through the speaker.
“Yes?”
“Frost here.”
The buzzer sounds, and I lift the stainless-steel handle and push on the door with one last glance down the wide city street. At the end of the hall, toward the back of the building, is the office the FBI occasionally uses for meeting up with undercover operatives. I won’t return to the NYC field office until I’m off this case, to ensure my cover isn’t blown.
Agent Hopkins opens the door before I reach it. He holds his hand out. “Agent Keating.”
His voice is low, and no one is in the hall, probably even in any of these offices given it’s a Sunday, but all the same, I’d prefer he not use my real name. But what do I know? This is my first undercover case.
I step past him into the small room. There’s a square faux wood table, four black standard office chairs, and several cabinets along two walls. The office has no window, and I happen to know it has reinforced soundproof walls. It’s a discreet, protected meeting place. A door to a bathroom is in the far corner, near the small hotel-like kitchenette, with a microwave, Keurig, and mini-fridge.
“How’d last night go?”
I pull out the nearest black chair and set my folder and notepad on the table.
“No issues. McLoughlin raised over three million. Impressive haul.” His blank expression tells me this is not news to him. “Evan Mitchell introduced me to several key players. He had me seated at a table with many of the accountants.” The balding middle-aged Chief Financial Officer had been nice enough. Tall with a noticeable slouch and a wide girth.
“Anyone of interest yet?”
“No one not already on our radar. None of the employees I met said anything of relevance to the case. I got the feeling Tom Bennett’s wife might be having an affair with Chase Maitlin.” The tall, skinny Chief Executive Officer had barely acknowledged my existence, so any conversation hadn’t been possible.
“Really?” This seems to amuse Agent Hopkins as much as anything, based on the smirk on his face. Men.
“I don’t have any evidence. But she acted like a woman defending her lover when I came around. She couldn’t keep her hands off Maitlin, and her husband was in the room. I never noticed Bennett watching them, though, so either he doesn’t care, or I might be off track. All of Bennett’s attention centered on Senator McLoughlin.” The Illinois senator starred as the biggest celebrity in the room. Bennett was hardly the only attendee clamoring for the charismatic Senator’s attention. “I didn’t get a good read on Maitlin. He sat at the table with all the executives, including Bennett and Mitchell. I found that interesting because when looking at the org chart, I wouldn’t have expected he’d be seated with all the bigwigs.” It wasn’t difficult to see why Mrs. Bennett would seek Maitlin out. He was a good-looking guy. He didn’t seem to be returning her interest, but doing so at an event with her husband present would be the height of stupidity. And, even though Maitlin didn’t appear to be attracted to her, he did give her more attention than her spouse.
“Who all was at Maitlin’s table?”
I push my summary to him. He’s also got it uploaded on the intranet.
“Cooper Grayson, John Fischer, and their wives. All Chicago business executives. There was another guy I hadn’t seen before who was there without a date. His name is Elijah Mason.”
“Yeah, we’re looking into him. He owns a medical supply business.”
“Did you check to see if he’s a Stanford alum? That seems to be a connection between all of them.”
Operation Quagmire initially started as a public corruption investigation into Senator McLoughlin. The senator is a rising political star and a Chicago bigwig with ties far and wide. As the Chicago public corruption team uncovered more about his business dealings, the operation expanded to include investigating an additional business, a real estate development group. Coincidentally, that business is also owned by a Stanford alum and close friend of the senator.
“Elijah Mason’s name didn’t come up in the alumni directory. His business is a major contributor to the McLoughlin Charity, and the charity is one of their big clients. One more circular business. McLoughlin remembers his friends. You set in your new apartment?”
“Yes.” I transferred to the New York field office one week ago. I’d been tempted to use my real apartment during this operation. This is a white-collar crime case, and it’s unlikely anyone’s going to be following me home to ensure I am who I say I am. But it turns out the FBI apartment is somewhat close to Maitlin’s place, and he’s our prime suspect. Being in close proximity could allow for some impromptu run-ins.
When I met Chase last night, he didn’t strike me as a criminal. However, dating his boss’s wife would be indicative of low integrity and poor judgment. And, as we all know, criminals don’t have a look. They come in all shapes and sizes.
My job, in this case, is to determine who within BB&E Accounting is responsible for falsifying records. Operation Quagmire has uncovered that several of the senator’s largest campaign donations come from companies his charity buys from, whether it’s land, pharmaceutical drugs, or even patents. Senator McLoughlin has granted over $30 million in
state projects to one of the real estate groups. And his charity, in turn, has bought renovated real estate at above market prices. They each feed the other. As Hopkins said, it’s circular.
This started as a corruption case, with suspicion that the charity was being leveraged for funneling campaign funds and potentially illegitimate payments to the senator. The Chicago team discovered falsified financial records that impact several companies, not just the senator’s charity. It’s a convoluted case, and I’m still getting my head around it as the newest member on the team.
The DA wants to go after the guilty BB&E employees, the ones responsible for falsifying the financial records. The “how” piece will strengthen his case. But, in the DA’s words, he doesn’t “want another Enron.” He’s not going to charge thousands of employees with misconduct as they did in that case. He wants to know exactly who the individual culprits are.
The FBI has one contact within BB&E Accounting—Evan Mitchell, the soft-spoken balding man who took me around introducing me to everyone. A small team met with him to disclose the suspected fraud. He was apparently distraught when informed illegal activity might be going on within his company. He offered up filling a currently vacant role within the company with an undercover agent. The FBI team hadn’t been angling for an undercover agent. They really were looking to get his take and to hopefully gain access to firm records.
