Can I make it? Stop shaking…Breathe shallow…Jesus, help me…I’m going to make it. When they get to me, I’ll run! Stay low and don’t look back…I can do this; stay still…Then run like crazy.
The boy lifted the white bag that made her cover. Most of the bags were light. This particular bag was heavy. It took both of the boy’s hands to nudge it for a good look. He dropped the bag back into place before she could react.
Steely abandoned her plan and stayed put.
The man suddenly fired three quick rounds from the .45. The boy dropped another bag on her and twisted his head toward the man. “What ya shooting at?”
“Maybe a cat,” said the man.
“Glad it wasn’t me.” The boy backed away from Steely.
“If I shot you, it’d be the last thing you heard.”
“Guess that was the noise.” The boy took a few more steps away. “Nothing here.”
The man followed the boy’s lead toward the door. “Now get to work. I don’t want any more trouble out of you.”
“I understand.”
Without any provocation, the man swung his arm back and pistol-whipped the kid in the head. The boy floundered a few steps and collapsed.
“You mess up again, and you’ll get the other end,” the man said casually as he left.
Steely squeezed around the bags and tumbled out. She ran straight for the boy. He wasn’t moving. She caressed his face with a violently shaking hand. “You’re going to be OK.”
He opened his eyes and touched the purple golf ball growing on his head.
Steely said, “I lost my cell in the trash. I’ll go find it and call for an ambulance.”
“No,” he moaned, sitting up. “I’m getting out of here.”
“You need to get your head examined.”
“That’s what my mom said.” The boy wobbled to his feet.
Steely helped him gain his stance. “Who was that man?”
“Sling.”
“That’s not Sling.”
“There’s more than one.”
“Well, thanks for not telling on me.”
“I didn’t want to see your insides splashed all over those white bags.”
“Me neither,” she said, exhaling.
“What ya doing here?” he asked. “This is where Sling brings you if you need an adjustment.”
“I’m trying to find out who killed my dad.”
“I’m sorry. What’s his name?”
“Fred Paupher.”
“Never heard of him.” He blotted his bloody head with his white T-shirt. He went to a window and checked outside. “You better go. He might be doing some more adjustments tonight.”
“Call HPD and talk to Sergeant Donovan. He’ll help you.”
“Talk to the cops?” He laughed. “I might as well shoot myself in the head.”
“Nobody can make you do something you don’t want to do. Tell Sergeant Donovan.”
“You haven’t been in this world.”
“I’ve been close enough.”
“Then you should know the only way to get away from these guys is either in a box or move where they can’t find you.”
“That’s why they get away with it. Nobody will report them.”
The boy rubbed his head, indicating that he was in pain. “Didn’t you just hear him? I know what I’m talking about. You need to go.”
“I’m going…in a minute.”
He opened the door and looked around. “OK, but you better hurry up.” He raised the collar on his jacket and took off.
Steely ran to the back and tossed a few bags out of the way to make a path for the bin. She tilted it on its wheels and tugged it toward the door. She carefully rolled it down the few stairs at the dock and then pushed it across the lot to her car. She tipped the bin on its side and shoved it into the trunk. She took off with the trunk wide open and the lights off for the next few blocks.
Avoiding the major streets took her twice as long to get home. But she couldn’t risk drawing unwanted attention. Speed was not her top priority. It was getting home at all. She backed into the garage. She wrapped a rope around the handle of the bin and then to a bench that was braced to the wall. She drove the car forward just enough to yank the bin out of the trunk, ran back, set it upright, and rolled it back inside the garage. The next problem was the heavy metal lock on the hard plastic lid. Prying would be difficult. That was the purpose of the lock.
The plastic component of the bin would be tough to cut. She looked around the garage. Tools were hung on the walls and laid out on shelves like a hardware store. In one corner above a table was a chainsaw. It was electric and could cut down a tree with the flip of a switch. She lifted it and brought it over to the bin. The teeth of that saw would definitely spit plastic bits everywhere. It would be a mess, but it’d work. She placed the saw next to the container and was stretching the cord over to the electrical socket when she spotted two keys on a clip.
The one that fit the bin was obvious, round with a metal piece sticking out, almost like a safety deposit box. The same key fit all her dad’s bins. The other key was for the utility box.
She inserted the key and turned. The lid easily lifted off. Inside was a stack of papers two feet high. She leaned the bin on its side and pulled them out. They were all bank statements, some identical to the ones she’d found in the attic. Some she’d never seen, from accounts in Geneva.
For several hours, she studied the Geneva statements, comparing them with the ones she’d found in the metal box. There was a pattern. Funds wired in; ninety days later, funds wired out. She mental mathed the ninety-day average at over two hundred million. They were into something sinister. And she knew exactly what it was: money laundering. Steely was now certain her dad’s involvement with Flash Away had gotten him killed.
Discovering the facts about why her dad died meant learning whatever she could about Flash Away. And money laundering. Neither of which she knew much about.
Chapter fifteen
Flash Away was not a registered US company. It was not listed in any corporate database nor advertised anywhere. Neither were the LLCs. It was as if all the businesses listed on the account statements were nonexistent. Steely found nothing.
She called the banks in Saint Stephen’s Island and Geneva. Security concerns kept them from helping someone with no authority on the accounts and from telling her who did.
The assets were out of reach unless you were an agent for the FBI. She suddenly knew what she wanted to do with her life. Become a special agent with the FBI. Her goals quickly developed. For her application to be considered, she needed a college degree.
There were several major course options. She chose finance since no university had a major called How to Stop Money Laundering and Find Out Who Killed Your Dad. The advanced college courses she needed were all junior and senior level. Her plans had navigated from community college to a four-year university.
Now she found herself frantically searching through her desk for the response from the only school where she’d applied. Texas Tech. The letter had been stuffed into a drawer to its deepest corner, under coupons that expired months ago. She took it out and ripped it open, speed-reading the prepared response congratulating her for being accepted for the fall semester. She searched for a cutoff date. Seventy-two hours was all she had left to confirm acceptance, or her invitation would be null and void.
She called the toll-free number and informed the admissions office she would be attending the fall semester. They urged her to sign the letter and overnight it to the campus.
The next week, as promised, Tech delivered a welcome package with scholarship information. If she qualified for the maximum amount, it would cover the tuition, books, and fees, but not housing.
The admissions department had one cancelation, making a dorm room available. The bad news was it was priced like a presidential suite. Staying on a household budget was diddlysquat compared to the cost of college housing. Class started in eighty
-two days. If she was going to Tech, she had to find a home. A cheap home. Fast.
Steely called every potential rental in the area. Garage apartments, spare rooms—anything she could find. She even checked on maid’s quarters. Houston had plenty of them. The boarder would clean the house for free room and board.
But none of those options existed.
Two weeks before class was to start, Steely rented out her family home. The income would be enough to pay for the taxes, insurance, and maintenance on the property, but not much extra.
The car was loaded, and she took off on the 529-mile trip to Lubbock. The next day she had an appointment with Mrs. McCollum, one of the school admissions counselors. The only thing Steely needed counseling on was where to lay her head.
McCollum greeted Steely in the school hallway. Stiff as her blue hair, she offered no hope when she said, “You’re too late. There’s nothing I can do for you. Drop this semester, and get your housing application in for next year.” Steely didn’t ditch the semester. She ditched the advice. She settled in on the top floor of a parking garage and slept in her car. School hadn’t started yet. This was the safest place for now since she found out cheap hotels were not that cheap.
For the next week, Steely stopped calling about housing and started driving. She circled around the school daily and then spread out. There were a few apartments available but more than double what she could afford, even working two jobs. Her daily visits to McCollum’s office, checking for cancelations, were unproductive. She heard the same story every time: No cancelations. No suggestions.
Five days before school was to start, she went back again to the counselor’s office. Steely’s tenacity was not helping. It was backfiring. She had become an irritant to McCollum. But the counselor finally offered a suggestion: “Why don’t you become an RA? You’ll receive a huge reduction in the cost of housing.”
Steely was ecstatic. “I would love to become an RA!” she told McCollum. “What’s an RA?”
“A resident advisor. You work in the dorm. Therefore, you have a reserved room. You’ll need to see Ms. Blackwell, who runs the program. You better get going now.”
Steely thanked her, but she wasn’t sure if McCollum had been more interested in shooing her out than finding her a home. Either way, she left to pursue the only suggestion she had. Becoming an RA was now more important to Steely than her college entrance test.
Blackwell was commanding, with her chopped hair, black dress, and sharp-toed red pumps. But her looks were deceiving. Since Blackwell was a graduate student, she had almost no authority to make a decision about anything. And she was less encouraging than McCollum, if that were even possible.
“I can’t help you,” Blackwell said. “The RAs were chosen months ago. It’s too late.” Then Blackwell gave her the most interesting reason yet. “We make our decision on a need basis. We pick the most qualified students who need the job the most.”
Steely explained that she wasn’t hiding a trust fund. Blackwell was a wax figure, showing no emotion. “You’re too late,” she said.
The start of school was now imminent. Four days away and still no housing. The director of housing’s schedule was packed, helping students who had reservations. “Those who planned ahead.” She chastised Steely for not doing the same. Blackwell became less impressed the more Steely persisted.
“You’re here almost as much as I am,” Blackwell complained. “It’s time for you to face reality. There’s no housing here for you. None. Every spot is gone. It’s not going to work out.” Go away, she insinuated. “You need to withdraw and apply for next year. I’ll let you apply to become an RA.”
Steely just stared at her, contemplating her next step.
Then Blackwell threatened her: “In the two years I’ve been here, I’ve never had a student removed from my office. You’re about there. Leave my office right now.” She twirled her finger. “Turn around, walk out that door, and don’t come back unless I call you. I’ll put your name on the list to be next in line if an RA drops out.”
“That’s great!” Steely perked up. “How often does an RA drop out?”
“Never! Now get out!”
“Ms. Blackwell, just please put my name on that list. It’s all going to work out. I promise I won’t come back until you call me. It’s all going to work out.” But she didn’t know how.
Blackwell opened the door, crossed her arms, and tightened her face.
Steely went outside and sat on a bench with the perfect view of the lowest-priced dorm on campus. The parking lot across from the dorm was packed with cars. Parents drove in with their students and unloaded their luggage. Some laughed. Some cried. Empty nesters were the criers, she figured.
That night, she slept on the bench. Slept on it every night until the day before orientation. The birds knew her. The squirrels hovering in the trees knew her. Everyone who passed by that bench knew her face. She would have camped out on the bench the entire fall semester if security hadn’t chased her off.
After reexamining the situation, she had two choices: a sleeping bag under a bridge or a shelter. After only one night, the bridge was ruled out. It was scary waking up with a man she did not know snuggled next to her. So she searched for a shelter.
Chapter sixteen
Nick showered and dressed. He declined a cream tie. He picked a green one from a metal rack and wrapped it around his neck.
The corporate world of suits and ties was not his first choice. He wanted to go pro. Just a few months ago, he had quarterbacked Tech to a bowl win and himself to an ACL tear. An operation to repair the damage would be his second surgery. And he didn’t want a third. He already walked with a slight limp.
Working with Jack Hunter was as close as he was getting to following in either of his parents’ footsteps. He sure wasn’t going to law school. That went without saying. He loved Jack Hunter, had known him all of his life, but he hated ties, suits, and the humdrum that went with them.
Jack Hunter had no idea how close Nick came to ditching a business career and pitching a pigskin. Hunter would have tried to convince Nick that working at Jack Hunter Industries was far less risky than playing football.
After interning three summers and a few days a month, Nick was groomed as the vice president of finance at JHI. His corner office on the executive floor at the JHI Tower was between the board room and CEO’s suite.
Nick buttoned up his jacket and glanced out the window. She was watching him again. Her second-floor bedroom—one down, across the street—had the perfect angle to see into his. Cricket troubled him for several reasons. Why was she aiming a telescope powerful enough to see Mars into his bedroom? On a clear day, when the oaks were trimmed away from the window, the angle was perfect for a not only a view of this room but also his bathroom. The entire bathroom.
The morning was clear. The trees, trimmed.
Nick showered with the bathroom door shut.
But it wasn’t her setup that disturbed him the most. It was her checking out his bedroom when he wasn’t there. The night before, he had thrown a ladder against the side of the house. One adjustment to the home security camera and he now had a video proving his theory to be a fact.
He had too much on his mind. No time to ponder why Cricket acted the way she did. Who could figure that out anyway? He rushed out of the house to his car, pressed the keyless ignition, and shifted to reverse.
Cricket dashed across the street toward him, waving. “Nick!”
He checked his watch and then lowered his window. “Hey, Cricket.” He wouldn’t tell the voyeur what he knew just yet. Her not knowing gave him an advantage he was not ready to lose. He’d be dressing with the bathroom door closed for a while longer.
Cricket Pouty-Face whined, “Nick, Cricket’s car is acting up. Would you give her a ride?”
Nick glanced at the time again. “I have a meeting.” He squinted out the window at her. “Where to?”
“UH downtown.”
“Get in. It’s on
my way.” He shifted to park, trotted to the passenger side, and opened her door. Cricket moseyed in. He ran back and got in. He was about to hit the gas when Cricket caught his hand. “Nick, I can’t seem to get the seatbelt fastened. I think it’s stuck.”
“It’s tricky.” Nick reached around her. “There’s not really room for two.”
She pressed forward, making it a tighter squeeze. “Take your time.”
The belt clicked. He leaned back in his seat and hit the gas. “Isn’t your car new?” Nick asked, looking over at her.
“Yes, but I’m already having trouble with it.” She eased closer to him. “Maybe it’s a lemon.”
“It’s under warranty, right?”
“Yes, but they take forever to fix something.”
He stopped at a light and glanced at her. “Why didn’t you go to UT?”
“I made a mature decision to stay close to home.”
Nick looked to see if she appeared serious. “Really? I wouldn’t have pictured you doing that.”
She gushed, “I prefer to stay close to my family and friends.”
“Is that right?” he said, in a doubting tone.
“My grandmother is getting older. She would do anything in the world for me.”
“There’s nothing like grandparents. All mine passed. You won’t regret staying.”
“I’m sure of it.” Cricket caressed his arm.
“I’m curious about something. How do you know Mr. Keaton?”
“I have connections in high places.”
“Close enough to get Jason a job?”
“Just trying to use my influence to help out an old friend.”
“Friend? You spit on him after he called you a narcissist.”
“I’m a forgiving person.”
Nick looked over at her. “Really?”
“People can change, you know. Now, would it be too much trouble to give Cricket a ride until her car is fixed?”
“I’m only staying with my parents until my downtown condo is ready.” Nick glared at her. “I value my privacy.”
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