by Toby Neal
Raveaux froze—he wasn’t prepared for her to be so direct. “I don’t know what you mean.”
Leede flung her hands up with a snort. “I’m not blind. Sophie is beautiful and years younger than you, while I am nine years older. I’m not an idiot.”
“Age has nothing to do with it,” Raveaux said stiffly. “I have a professional respect for both of you.”
“I wouldn’t bother with you, or this conversation, if I didn’t really like you, Pierre.” Leede cocked her head in that birdlike way she had. “Have you thought this thing with Sophie through? I don’t know if you have a chance with her. She has a lot of baggage, and will, very soon, have even more.”
“If you’re asking if I’m interested in dating anybody, the answer is no. It has been ‘no’ since my wife died,” Raveaux said. “Sophie is . . . preoccupied, with a lot on her mind and grief on her heart. She is also pregnant, and that will take most of her attention in the coming year or two. She is not in a position to be interested in a relationship, nor would I presume that she would want one with me. But yes, I am attracted to her.”
Leede seemed undaunted by his frosty manner. “It’s been more than five years, Pierre. More than that for me, too. We’re both in need of companionship. That’s all I am proposing. It would be nice to spend time with someone interesting. Perhaps take in a concert, or an art show, or whatever Honolulu has to offer in the way of cultural activities.” She arched a brow. “Maybe even a little fooling around, should we both be so inclined.”
Raveaux felt the tickle at the side of his mouth—he was tempted to smile. Until now, Sophie was the only one who’d caused that effect, but Heri Leede was smart, surprising—and fun.
“Well,” Leede leaned over the desk. “I can hardly compete with someone like Sophie, nor would I try to. Companionship is all I’m offering. Perhaps the Bishop Museum? On a day and time of our mutual choosing?”
“Yes, that I can do,” Raveaux said. “I have yet to explore the museum. Sophie has mentioned it several times as a cultural treasure trove.”
“Good. Now back to the case. Why don’t you make us a pot of tea? I will call this bank in the Caymans, and see if I can get them to give us the name on the account.” Leede slid her glasses on and reached for the phone.
Raveaux stood, smoothing his trousers, and headed for her beverage station on the credenza. “Good luck. They’re highly unlikely to respond to anything but a court order, or perhaps a probe by the FBI.”
Leede twinkled up at him. “That, too, can be arranged.”
Raveaux followed Leede into the student computer lab at Kama`aina Schools.
The room was large and toned in the mid-gray that was so prevalent in computer labs the world over, the air lowered to a comfortable temperature. New computers ranged the walls, and a central island was also equipped with several networked computers that clearly could be engaged in the same activity. One or two students occupied the stations. An adult monitoring the room got up and advanced toward them. “Can I help you?”
Leede held up her identification, as did Raveaux. “At the request of your headmaster, we are investigating a matter of a confidential information breach. We need to check these computers for unauthorized activity.”
The woman’s eyes widened. “I will have to verify that with our head of security.”
“Please do,” Leede said. She had changed her outfit before coming to the school campus, putting on one of those bright little suits and pinning up her white hair. The youth he associated with her had effectively vanished.
She had such a useful ability to project a different persona. Raveaux could see its utility, too, as the lab monitor scurried behind her desk to make some calls.
Raveaux advanced to the central computer station and sat down. Of the two of them, he had just enough background in forensic computer recovery to look at the recent search history log-ins, even if they had been deleted. Sophie might have been a better choice for this task, but she was hip-deep in computers already.
The unit at the central station was password protected. He and Leede waited patiently as the woman verified their identities and mission. “Our head of security has given me the go ahead to cooperate with your investigation. Here are the log-in codes to the computers.” She paused, frowning. “Is this about porn?”
Leede waved a hand reassuringly. “That’s probably what you deal with most with these students, but this is a different matter. Administrative in nature.”
The woman looked doubtful but returned to her desk.
Leede handed Raveaux one of the slips of paper. “You take this half of the units, and I’ll take that. Let’s meet at the entrance when we’re done. Pull out and save anything that looks like it could have been used by, or left a trace of, our embezzler.”
“Mais oui, madame.”
Leede smiled. “I like a man who knows how to say yes.”
They met at the front entrance after working their way through the different computers in the lab. As they walked back out to Leede’s gigantic Cadillac, Raveaux held up a flash drive. “I was able to identify a computer the embezzler is using. My guess is that our perpetrator is working out of the student computer lab in order to add an additional layer of confusion and security to whatever VPN he or she is using.”
“Good. I didn’t find anything. Now we have a lead to give to the school’s security team. After we get the air conditioning on in the car, I’ll use my phone for a few minutes to pass this intel along to them.”
Leede had parked the car in the overhanging shade of a monkeypod tree, but the day was warm. High cirrus clouds hardly cut the bright sunshine beaming down on the parking lot surrounded by decorative palms. Leede got in, settled herself, and turned the car on. She engaged the air conditioner, which gushed hot air over the scorching leather seats as Raveaux settled into the passenger side. After a few moments, the interior began to cool.
Raveaux removed his paperback, reclining his seatback, as Leede called the president of the board and gave him a quick report of progress on the case so far. She advised him to put a hidden security camera into the student lounge as soon as possible and to watch for anyone using their target computer. “That will give us a concrete way to trap the hacker.”
Raveaux ignored their back-and-forth, tuning it out.
Sometimes Raveaux longed for the footloose, attachment-free life Jack Reacher lived—nothing in his pockets but his hands and a toothbrush. What freedom.
But he was almost there now, with his few belongings and his rented apartment. He could still get everything he owned into two suitcases, just as he’d done when he arrived in Hawaii. Was it time for a change? He stared at the print on the page, considering.
He didn’t have to know right now. The right direction would reveal itself.
Leede ended the call and glanced at Raveaux. “The president seemed . . . troubled that we had made such rapid progress.”
“Perhaps he’s involved, or he was in denial that the embezzler was even a real threat,” Raveaux said. “Either could be true.”
“We’re done early for the day. Want to take that trip to the Bishop now? The building’s probably air-conditioned.”
Raveaux closed his book. “Sounds like a great way to spend the afternoon.”
Leede’s smile made her almost beautiful. “Mais oui, monsieur.”
Chapter Thirty-Four
Marcella
Marcella had just settled into the chair on her back deck, her feet up on the footstool, evening glass of Chardonnay in hand, when her phone rang. She glanced down at it in irritation, but her eyebrows lifted as she saw the name: Pierre Raveaux.
“Aloha, Monsieur Raveaux! To what do I owe the surprise of this phone call?”
“I’m sorry to bother you at home, Agent Scott—or, if I may, Marcella. Sophie talks of you so often that I feel like I know you.” Raveaux’s voice was dark chocolate: something to be savored and enjoyed.
“That feeling is mutual. I assume that th
is is a business call?”
“Mais oui. Sophie, an investigator named Heri Leede, and I are all working a private case. An audit for a large prestigious private school.” He sighed out a breath. “It appears, unfortunately, that a sizable amount of money is going missing into an offshore account. The bank, in the Cayman Islands, refuses to give us the name on the account. Is there a way you can procure that name for us? When we bring the embezzler to light, you can get credit for the capture.”
Marcella smiled. “If it were that easy on my end, I’d say ‘no problem,’ but I do have to take this to my bureau chief, Special Agent in Charge Ben Waxman. A case must be opened.”
“Ah, I see.”
Marcella sipped her wine. “Sophie should abstain from coming into the FBI offices due to her current situation with an investigation. If you and Ms. Leede could meet me at the FBI offices tomorrow morning and present the particulars of the case to SAC Waxman, I feel confident we will be able to get the name for you eventually.” Marcella paused for a beat, her eyes drifting over the mature plumeria tree in her backyard, dropping a few spent blossoms onto a shaggy lawn that neither she nor Marcus ever seemed to have time to mow. “Are you aware how seldom the names on these accounts actually trace back to anything? The reason the offshore banks do so well is that they ask so very little in the way of identification or even business documents when shady operators open accounts with them.”
“We’re aware. But if we had some idea who owned the account, we could monitor it more effectively. This will be one more thread we can hopefully use to flush out the embezzler.”
“And, if you can show us the trail that ends with this account being illegal, we could freeze it with a court order and keep the funds from being siphoned off. Recover your money, in other words,” Marcella said. “That’s another way you could flush your prey.”
“This has been very helpful. Thank you so much. I will inform Ms. Leede; we have to consult our client first, but hopefully they’ll want to move forward with pressing charges.”
A short silence went by. “How is Sophie doing? You work with her on a day to day basis. How is she holding up?” Marcella asked.
Raveaux’s voice grew chilly. “I thought you were her best friend. Why are you asking me?”
Marcella frowned. “I’m asking you as someone who sees her from another direction. Really. How’s she doing?”
“She is well. Using work as an escape, as I suspect she always has,” Raveaux said. “She has also asked me to be a godfather for her children. I am honored, and agreed to the role.”
Marcella sat up straighter. “That’s surprising! She must trust you very much. There’s no one she loves more than Momi, and of course, the new baby on the way.”
“Sophie said she wanted the children to have male role models,” Raveaux said haltingly—he clearly felt awkward. “I am a new friend, but she knows I care for children. I . . . miss my daughter very much.”
Marcella shut her eyes on an unwelcome vision of the car bomb that had taken his wife and daughter’s lives. “A generous thing for her,” Marcella said. “But a win-win for both of you. Of course, Marcus and I will be around as much as we can, as well, but heavy workloads are a curse as an investigator.”
“I learned from losing my family that time is the one thing that can never be recovered. Treasure what you have with your husband. Never let work get in the way.” Raveaux ended the call abruptly.
Marcella lowered the phone, staring at it. He’d said that last bit with the kind of conviction that came from the heart.
She liked Pierre Raveaux very much.
Marcella bopped around, headphones on, to eighties rock as she stirred the simple marinara that she’d made. Crushed farmers’ market tomatoes, basil from a potted plant out back, a chopped clove of garlic, and a few homemade black olives. People always overdid the ingredients for a good marinara, when just the right fresh ingredients made all the difference.
A hand on her shoulder made her jump, spinning to defend herself, wooden spoon upraised—but it was only Marcus, his brown eyes sparkling, his big shoulders up by his ears as he laughed.
Marcella dropped the headphones down around her neck, threw the spoon in the sink, and launched herself at him.
She was a good-sized woman with a curvy figure at five foot seven, but Honolulu Police Department Detective Sergeant Marcus Kamuela was up for the task. He caught Marcella in his arms, hefted her up so her legs encircled his waist, and kissed her soundly as he walked over to the counter and set her butt on it, leaning into the space between her legs to nibble her neck.
“Yummy,” he said. “You smell like basil and garlic.”
“Key ingredients in a good sauce.” Marcella lifted up the headphones, and put them on him. “I dare you not to dance to this song.”
Marcus’s eyes widened. He let go of Marcella and backed away, his face blooming into a grin. He held his thumb up like it was a mic, and began a falsetto impression of Madonna’s Like a Virgin, gyrating his hips, spinning and stomping around the kitchen.
Marcella burst into laughter. “You still got it, baby,” she said, sliding off the counter to grab his hands. “Show me some moves.” With a touch of her finger, she rerouted the music to play from her phone through the living room speaker. Soon both of them were lip-syncing as Marcus twirled her around and pulled her in close.
“It’s been too long since we went dancing.” Marcus said, when the song was over. “Remember how we met?”
Marcella rubbed herself along his body, bending into a shape that fit his perfectly. “How could I forget? Not everyone meets dancing in masks at a sex club.”
“Too bad it’s not the kind of story we can tell at family gatherings,” Marcus said into her ear.
His voice raised the hairs along the back of her neck. “I like it being our private story.” They kissed until Marcella smelled the distinctive scent of browning tomato sauce.
She shoved him away and smacked him on the shoulder. “Go take a shower. Dinner will be ready by the time you come out. We’ll eat outside on the deck tonight.”
Marcus blew her a kiss as he walked out of the kitchen. Stirring the sauce, Marcella enjoyed the sight of him walking away. God had truly broken the mold when Marcus Kamuela was made, and he was all hers.
Would she have felt the sweetness of this encounter with her husband as deeply if Raveaux hadn’t said what he did?
Probably not, and she was grateful.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Raveaux
Day 8
Raveaux handed Beverly Cho her skinny vanilla latte. “For you, madame.”
He seated himself across from her at the small table in the coffee shop.
“Thanks so much for meeting me. It’s a pleasure to see you.” Cho fluttered her lashes.
“And you as well. You are looking especially fine today.” Cho was looking good. She’d styled her shoulder-length hair, and she wore a slim-fitting cotton dress instead of the floppy burlap number he had seen her in last time.
She smiled at him. “I could say the same for you, Monsieur.”
Raveaux glanced down at the blue linen long-sleeved shirt he wore tucked into black dress slacks. “Merci. Now, you said you had something to discuss with me.”
Cho sipped, and fiddled with her coffee cup. “I do, but . . . do you like music?”
Raveaux arched a brow. “Who doesn’t like music?”
She laughed. “I have a favorite artist who plays folk music from all over the world, but only on ukulele. I thought you might enjoy it. The concert’s next Tuesday, if you’d care to come with me.”
Raveaux’s brow stayed arched. “Are you asking me on a date?”
“I suppose I am.”
“I feel I should tell you that I’m a widower. I haven’t dated since my wife died. I’m not looking for a relationship,” Raveaux said.
Cho nodded vigorously. The curled parts of her hair flopped up and down like wings. “Oh, of course! This is
just a friendly outing to hear a good musician.”
“Then I accept,” Raveaux said. “Now back to the case . . .”
“Yes.” Cho removed the lid and sipped her coffee. “One of the accountants who works on the Kama`aina Schools’ account is behaving oddly. She . . . well, I don’t know how to describe it. She turns in all her reports, and they look fine, but she won’t meet my eye whenever we talk about the account. I think there’s something odd about how she’s acting, and it has something to do with the Schools. I just wanted to alert you to that.”
Raveaux reached across the table, and briefly covered her hand with his. “I appreciate that very much. I will pass this along to my team.” He finished his espresso in a quick gulp and stood up. “I’m so sorry. I must depart. I told you I had a meeting, and it’s actually about the case. I was headed into the office when I got your text.”
Cho smiled. “I take no offense. Thank you for the coffee, and I look forward to the concert on Tuesday.”
Raveaux gave a slight bow. “And I as well, madame.”
He walked out of the coffee shop, conscious of her eyes on him.
Hopefully, this “date” wouldn’t turn into something difficult to disentangle himself from. Raveaux summoned a rideshare and gave the address for Sophie’s downtown Security Solutions building.
Raveaux, Sophie, and Heri Leede gathered at the round table in Sophie’s office. Sophie seemed well-rested, and Raveaux felt relieved, seeing her clear eyes and ready smile.
“I think I might have something new on the case,” Raveaux said. “And we have an issue to bring up that we need clarity around.”
Sophie glanced between the two of them. “What is that?”
Raveaux inclined his head toward Leede. She was in her youthful guise today, snowy hair loose over her shoulders, wearing an exercise top and matching yoga pants. She tapped her leather messenger bag. “Raveaux and I contacted your friend Marcella Scott yesterday. She wants us to come in and present the case to her SAC, Ben Waxman. She thinks she can get us the warrant that will get us the name on the bank account in the Caymans, but not without opening a formal FBI case. I’m not at all sure Kama`aina Schools wants to go in that direction.”
