by Karen Kirst
“This is more than embezzlement,” Corbin said. “Someone tried to grab the accountant in the Quetech parking garage. They were professionals. Armed.”
“Who?”
“I don’t know.” Corbin raked his hand through his hair. “The civilian prevented an engagement.”
“Then you were right about the terrorism connection.”
“Looks that way.”
“We’ll see if they left any evidence behind in the garage. Anything else?”
“Cayman Holdings isn’t listed in Quetech’s public records, but I traced an email about the bank.”
“Where’s the accountant now?”
“She’s with me,” Corbin said.
As long as she didn’t bolt, she had a chance at partial immunity. Maybe she hadn’t meant for things to go as far as they did. Maybe she hadn’t realized where the money was being funneled. Maybe she wanted to repent. The Bible said there’d be more joy in heaven for one sinner who repented than for ninety-nine righteous men.
Or maybe he just wanted to make excuses for her because he’d seen her hovering near the door of the break room during the monthly celebration of birthdays and anniversaries. She’d lingered just beyond the crowd of coworkers as they laughed and joked, looking in, but never crossing the threshold.
He shook his head, clearing his thoughts, then turned and snatched his identification from the open safe.
None of that mattered. She was in his custody, whether she knew it or not. She was suspicious of him, a disadvantage. Right now, she was probably weighing her options. Trying to decide if she was more afraid of him, the police, or the men in the garage.
Given that he didn’t trust her allegiance, he wasn’t confident how she’d react to his true identity.
Another pair of headlights flashed across the front window. The hazy shape of another car snagged his attention. His neighbor, Ruth, and her husband drove a sedan, but he couldn’t decipher the make and model from this distance through the rain-streaked window.
“You still there?” the voice on the other end of the line demanded.
Corbin stepped closer, and his breath fogged the glass. “The accountant needs protective custody.”
“I can’t authorize the expense until we know for certain she has viable information.”
“She’s become a liability. Those men weren’t taking her out for ice cream.”
“I trust your judgment, but I need something concrete. Find out what she knows. I’ll walk this up the chain and see what I can do.”
A car door slammed.
Corbin’s scalp tingled. “We’ll talk later.”
He raced out of the house and skidded to a halt. His driver’s door hung open, and his jacket lay neatly folded on the seat. Rain trickled down his collar, and he muttered an oath.
Beth hadn’t called the police. She’d run. Strike Three.
Copyright © 2018 by Sherri Shackelford
ISBN-13: 9781488040191
Explosive Reunion
Copyright © 2018 by Karen Vyskocil
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