by Brynne Asher
“You need a real meal.” He changes the subject. “I’ll have your mom cook for you. You eat like shit.”
I return his hug yet refute him. “Mom just had a heart attack, in case you forgot, and her experiments with low-fat recipes have been nothing but a disaster. I’ll stick to eating my own shit food.”
“You’re too skinny,” he gives me a squeeze before taking me by the shoulders to level his eyes on me. “I worry I’ve put too much on you. Now, with this happening today, I don’t want the stress to get to you.”
I give him a small smile. “I’m doing exactly what I always wanted to do and you know it. Yeah, I could do without the federal warrant and wondering what the hell is going on. But, other than that, I’m good. Really.”
He leans in and plants a kiss on top of my head. “Get some sleep and call me after the meeting tomorrow. Your mom is a mess of worry over this. I wouldn’t let her come tonight ‘cause all she’d do is flutter around like a chicken with her head cut off.”
I’m more grateful for that than he knows, but I change the subject. “How are the wedding plans coming along? Is Paige feeling okay?”
My dad smirks and shakes his head. “Cam’s got his hands full between your mother renovating their bathroom, his team winning the state playoffs, the wedding, and worrying that Paige doesn’t overdo it. She’s a little spitfire. Between her business and loving on my grandkids and son, she doesn’t sit still. I told her if there was a time to take it easy, it’s when she’s carrying my grandbaby. But she’s good—told me to tell you hi.”
“The wedding will be here before we know it. I can’t wait to see them.”
I walk my dad to the door where he turns and tries to assure me one more time. “We’ll get this all worked out so you can get back to what you’re a whiz at—crunching numbers.”
“Thanks, Dad.”
I lock up, arm my security system, and head back to my dinner that’s less fitting than what’s usually served in prison.
Shit—prison.
I quickly wipe that from my mind.
I’m only able to stomach a couple more bites of the sketchy hummus when my eyes catch my bag sitting on the counter. Digging through, I take out the MacBook our tech department provided me with this afternoon along with the new iPhone Donny picked up for me. I dig deeper and, when I finally find what I’m looking for, my insides tighten and the ridiculous excuse for a meal I just ate churns in my stomach.
Elijah Pettit.
Eli.
He didn’t lie about his name but did he know he’d be bursting in to my office two days after I practically allowed him to grope me on the dance floor? Hell, I did everything I could to encourage it.
I don’t know why I do it because I memorized it at first glance, but I flip the card over. I study the handwriting—a scrawl belonging to someone who’s either busy in life or who just doesn’t give a shit. And there’s no reason for me to look it up—I know the area code is from New York City.
Closing my eyes, I exhale, tapping the damn card against my marble counter, wondering what Elijah’s deal is.
What I do know is when someone gives you their phone number, either solicited or not, that person wants to communicate.
Well, fuck him.
He obviously knows where to find me. If he wants to talk to me, he can do it in the presence of my attorneys.
*****
Eli
I pore over the case files in front of me. Of all the documents we obtained through the warrant this afternoon, there are only a couple of interest.
Two Excel files.
They were buried deep—electronic folders within folders. Files that could prove Jen Montgomery has done exactly what’s suspected.
Even so, it doesn’t add up. I’ve worked too many of these cases when I was first hired. The evidence is too cut and dry.
Too obvious.
But more than anything, these two files—ones that Bree practically wet herself over when she found them she was so fucking elated—are unnecessary. For a CFO who’s responsible for the financial well-being of a corporation—thought to be worth hundreds of millions—these documents are simple and overtly incriminating. Even if only circumstantial.
They don’t list any details, just figures—down to the penny—that match the purchases we’re investigating. I asked Bree for the files to look over, telling her I wanted to familiarize myself with the case.
Jensen Montgomery has been the Chief Financial Officer for a while and it’s plain to see she was given the job because of her last name. We know she puts in the hours from what’s been recorded during surveillance but that doesn’t mean she’s got the brains to back it up. Maybe she is stupid and small-minded enough to put together unnecessary spreadsheets of information that could easily be hidden or, better yet, memorized.
But every other piece of information to be had on the woman supports the opposite. Every article in Fortune and The Wall Street Journal describing her as “the up-and-comer to watch in the oil industry.” I even found a write-up and photos in People that agreed, but it talked more about her fucking outfit and how she gives new definition to the term business couture.
I don’t know what business couture is. The candid picture taken of her on a downtown Dallas sidewalk wearing a dress that might not show much skin but does show every slope, curve, and groove of her body, looked more like fuck-me couture.
But what do I know?
I doubt she’s ignorant enough to create these two simple files that are more like kindergarten spreadsheets, let alone keep them where we found them on her laptop if she was trying to hide something.
I get up and walk through stacked boxes to go to my fridge in the tiny-ass apartment I just moved into to grab another beer. When I get back to my computer, I switch up my thought process. Instead of looking through Jen’s files, I start reading through Bree’s. I have no idea what kind of agent she is, but her work will show me her thought process.
I try to put Jen out of my mind. I’m not only anxious to see what she says in the interview tomorrow, but also how she acts.
Or reacts.
To me.
She never called. Unless she didn’t find the business card I left behind. But it was front and center in her drawer—no way she could have missed it. Her not calling supports my notion that the woman is smart. She has no business talking to the FBI after being served a warrant without her attorney present. Only an idiot would do that.
It still doesn’t change the fact I need to talk to her. I have no clue how to rationalize the fact that watching her caused me to lose my damn mind. That I’ve worked undercover for years and, unless I wanted to fuck one of the skanks those motherfuckers kept around to enjoy as a side piece instead of their wives, there was no way for me to meet a woman without putting her in danger. Not if I didn’t want to get my hand chopped off by the mafia or my balls busted by the FBI for blowing my cover.
I like all my extremities right where they are, especially my balls.
Since I didn’t want the drama or the STDs that could’ve resulted from a quick fuck while under, the only relationship I’ve had recently is with my right hand.
I need to see Jensen Montgomery. Alone. I need to make her listen. I need to talk to her so I can explain.
And I didn’t think it was possible for my dick to give a shit about which way a case went, but right about now, it’s praying to the sex gods that Jen Montgomery is innocent. Because my gut tells me she is.
I just need to prove it.
*****
Jen has avoided eye contact with me since we were ushered into the conference room. She’s done such a bang-up job of evading my presence, I might as well be a ghost.
The tension in the air has gotten thicker by the moment. What started out as an innocent line of questioning has turned into a witch hunt by Bree. I’ve only worked in the Dallas Field Division for a matter of days but I can tell the woman is out for blood. If she doesn’t watch it, this’ll bite h
er in the ass in court. We’re not prosecutors; we’re investigators.
“Solocode Intel?”
Jen glances at her attorney and when he gives her the nod, she looks back at Bree and answers as she has over and over. “No.”
“Zaamtech, Inc?” Bree keeps going.
This time Jen doesn’t get the go-ahead to answer and I can see her patience dissolving, her tone as hard as a rock. “No.”
“Betaway?” Bree keeps clicking off the list of companies involved.
Jen leans forward and just when I think she’s about to come apart, one of her many attorneys butts in. “That’s the ninth company you’ve rattled off. I think it’s clear my client doesn’t know what you’re talking about or to whom you’re referring. If you’d please get to the point, we’d appreciate it.”
Bree sits back in her chair, smug as a Cheshire cat who just caught her own dinner single-handedly. “Montgomery Industries is in the process of purchasing Birmingham Refining and delisting it on the exchange, taking it private. Am I right?”
“That’s no secret,” Patrick says. “It’s been in the works for ages and has been filed with the SEC. Hell, it’s all over the business news channels.”
Bree sits back, levels her eyes on him and is so sure of herself that I’m surprised she doesn’t announce Checkmate. “I’ve just named a list of shell corporations that have connections to Birmingham Refining. In fact, all of these companies—which are fake—have been buying shares left and right for the last five months. We got a tip from the SEC that a majority of Birmingham’s shares were purchased after their stock prices dipped to an all-time low.”
“They’re still a publicly traded company. What does that have to do with my client?” another attorney asks.
“Your client,” Bree pauses and nods to Jen, “had Excel files on her hard drive with the exact amounts matching the stock purchases. Every single one.”
“No—” Jen’s voice rises as she lifts from her seat before her attorney catches her by the arm. Her eyes jump to him as she twists her arm out of his hold and swings her head back to Bree. “That’s not true. I’ve never heard of any of those companies, let alone worked with them. Where did you get this information?”
“Birmingham Refining is a publicly traded company, as you said. It’s not hard to find.” Bree explains.
“That’s bullshit—” Jen spits but Patrick Moss cuts her off.
“Enough.” He gives her a look that says shut the fuck up before turning back to Bree. “I need a list of those corporations.”
The side of Bree’s mouth curves up in the corner as she looks to Dean, who’s not said one word, but does her bidding and slides a sheet of paper across the table. The attorney doesn’t look at it, but rather hands it aside to another man who pores over it with hungry eyes.
“Any more questions or can we get back to business so you can be on your way?” Patrick Moss might not be a trial lawyer, but not because he couldn’t kick some ass in front of judge and jury. I’ve been in enough courtrooms to know he’d hold his own with the best of them and, right now, he’s spearing Bree with daggers. My guess is he’s counting the ways he can discredit her investigation methods on the stand.
Bree has transformed into a barracuda faster than Megatron, hungrily leaning forward as she puts her forearms to the conference table. “How long has this been in the works, Jensen?”
A gasp escapes Jen’s lips and at the same time another attorney growls, “Do not answer that.”
Bree narrows her ravenous eyes. “The shell companies were incorporated eight months ago. This has been in the works for a while, hmm?”
“We were under the impression you were here to gain insight, not to interrogate, Agent Newman,” Patrick adds.
After going over the case last night, I wonder if she knows something more, because Bree sits back in her chair and smiles like she has the upper hand. “We came today so Ms. Montgomery could explain herself. But she hasn’t been able to shed any light on the case, let alone an explanation to clear up the evidence mounting against her.” She throws her hand out toward Jen. “Unless you’d care to add anything now while there’s still time?”
I’ve had enough.
It doesn’t matter that I stepped over the line with the main target of this case. If it were anyone else, I’d do the exact same thing. Bree Newman has no fucking clue how to build a case or deal with a target. This isn’t how we represent the Bureau with someone who’s not under arrest.
“I think we’re done here.” I hit the table with my open palm and push my rolling chair back to stand. If nothing else, I finally get Jen’s attention—her big brown, anxious eyes spearing mine for the first time today.
Bree doesn’t move and frowns. “I’m not done.”
Glaring at her, I refute, “You are. They’ve offered nothing new and we’re wasting everyone’s day.” I turn to her lead counsel, Patrick Moss, and extend my hand. “Thanks for your time.”
Patrick, all too happy to get this shit done, accepts my shake and doesn’t offer a thanks in return.
“But—” Bree starts to argue.
I ignore Bree and turn my attention to the woman I can’t get out of my fucking head. “Ms. Montgomery.”
Jen stands slowly, staring at me before saving face by taking my hand from across the table. I give her a firm squeeze and hold her gaze as long as I dare before regrettably letting her go.
I look to Bree, who’s been nothing but unprofessional, and Dean, who’s been nothing but a mute, and wonder if he possesses a set of balls. Holding out my arm to gesture for Bree to exit first, I wait anxiously to get out of here and find out what’s really going on with this case.
Chapter 4
Right to Remain Silent
Eli
“Would you like to explain what the hell that was?” I demand.
Bree, Dean, and I are standing in the parking lot of Montgomery Industries. We barely made it to our cars before Bree bit my head off for interrupting her line of questioning which only made me rip back into her.
“This is my case, Pettit.” Bree pokes me in the chest with her boney finger. “A case that’s going to put me on the map. I’ll make a name for myself and it may just be enough for me to move up. Not all of us get the opportunity to embed ourselves deep in the Sopranos.”
Fuck her. She has no clue what she’s talking about. She also has no clue to how to build a solid investigation. Her so-called case has more holes than swiss cheese and she’s so ravenous, she’s blinded to them.
“Your case is circumstantial. They invited you in there under good faith that you wanted more information and you did nothing but go bad-cop from shitty network television. Look at that building, Bree.” I point to the large glass structure leering over us. “You think they don’t have cameras in the conference room? The place is locked down like a bunker ready for World War III and you just made yourself look like a federal agent out for blood who wasn’t willing to look for all the facts. And you had a room full of eyes to witness your shit-show. Not to mention most insider trading cases are conspiracies and not carried out by individuals, let alone by the heir of the whole damn company. Have you ever testified in federal court?”
She doesn’t answer me but takes a step back, crossing her arms.
I’ll take that as a big, fucking no.
Still, she contends, “My case is not circumstantial. I’m on my way to the U.S. Attorney’s office—I have an affidavit ready and enough to support an arrest warrant.”
“You have something I don’t know about? Because those Excel files aren’t enough on their own. No self-respecting attorney would take the case on that evidence.”
“Just tell him about the shell corp addresses,” Dean pipes up, bored, if not a little frustrated.
I look back to Bree.
“I know you think you’re the end-all be-all FBI agent—hell, they’ll probably make docudramas about you taking down the MacLachlans—but I needed evidence for the search warra
nt. All those shell corporations set up in Montgomery’s name share the same address as a company she invested in last year. Some … natural gas, good-for-the-environment, tree-hugger company. The woman has more money than she knows what to do with. Even so, the Excel files on their own are fine but the shell corps tied to her legitimate investment company that are buying up shares in Birmingham Refining…” Bree shrugs and smiles. “It’s a slam-dunk.”
I step back and cross my arms.
Well, fuck me.
*****
Jen
“Jenny, girl. You can do it. You’ve done it with me a hundred times and Painter, here, is as gentle as a lamb.”
I look out at the fences lined up—obstacle after obstacle. I know Daddy’s right. He’s been doing the course with me for a year. But I fell once and that wasn’t even while jumping and it hurt so bad.
I pull on the reins as Painter starts to dance underneath me and I try to push the curls out of my face. He wants to run. He’s anxious for it. He blows a quick snort and shakes his head, tired of being held back. His excitement is the exact opposite of my fear.
“Lean into it just like we did together,” Daddy says, adjusting the stirrups. “You can do anything you put your mind to, baby girl. I trust you and so does Painter. Keep a tight hold and let him run.”
Keep a tight hold…
