Chapter Fourteen
Thursday, April 13 ten-thirty a.m.
Tom was once again impressed and a little turned on. Hawthorne’s computer sat on the coffee shop table, spewing secrets like Pandora’s box. Peach had gotten behind the scenes while it booted up, using a flash drive to open the system. Her nimble fingers tickled the plastic letters, and three images appeared one after the other, filling the screen.
“See there? On the invoice? I don’t think that’s right.”
Paying invoices was one of Tom’s least favorite jobs, but it was a necessary evil of business. He started doing it when he was just a teen. Since he and Katie opened their firm, they shared the responsibility, though she had a heavier load, generally working in the field on the projects.
“The invoices look tampered with. Not the itemized ones, just the lump payments. It’s harder to audit. This would have to go back to the purchase order.” He scratched his head, literally and figuratively, trying to see the scam. “Let’s say F&F issues a purchase order to company X for fifty-thousand dollars, but the order in the system says sixty-thousand. The invoice comes in, is altered, and is then sent for processing.”
“Someone in accounting has to be involved then. How else would the ten thousand be funneled out?”
“Does Hawthorne’s system have copies of the purchase orders?” Hawthorne’s files were neatly organized. A folder labeled PO contained a folder for each vendor with the executed purchase orders. Jack Hawthorne’s signature was on each. “Jack couldn’t be involved in something like that. He’s a good guy.”
“Let’s check his email.” She opened the program. “For your sake, I hope your friend wasn’t involved, but Tom, I’ve investigated a lot of good guys who did bad things.”
“Why did they do it? The people you investigated?”
The program loaded emails, some sent as recently as that morning. His emails were again neatly structured. “My job didn’t generally involve the why. I proved that people did things—cheating, lying, stealing. Sometimes, I recovered things or information. A few times, though, I did talk with them. For the pros, it was just a job. They took getting caught like a gambler takes a bad day at the tables, just part of the game. For the amateurs, drugs drove a lot of it. The public is only now getting an idea how big a problem prescription drugs are. Money is a big motivator, one that’s hard to turn your back on.”
“Let me drive,” he said, taking control of the mouse. “The ones tampered with were prepared by Joe Carter. See? There is no original paperwork directly to Jack. Some of the other ones, like North Coast Lumber, Jack handled himself. We need to compare the originals to the logs.” He glanced over his shoulder, where she dialed her phone. “Who are you calling?”
“Sylvie McKinley. Carter’s live-in.”
“How did you get her contact info?” Even as he asked, he knew the answer.
“From your files.” She pressed a finger to her lips and put the phone on speaker.
“H-Hello?” The answering voice was whiskey over gravel…over charcoal.
Peach raised a brow and glanced the computer clock. Someone wasn’t an early riser. “Is this Sylvie McKinley?”
“Yeah. Yeah, who is this?”
“My name is E.M. Morales. I am investigating the construction accident that occurred last Saturday on behalf of one of the families. Would you be available to meet with me?”
Heavy cloth shifted in the background. The woman on the other end coughed up whatever made her sound like a man. Tom pressed his hands to his stomach, pushing in and out before he mimed coughing up a fur ball. He nearly made Peach laugh. She swatted his arm playfully, a professional expression firmly in place.
“What do you want to talk to me about?”
“I understand that you were very close with Joseph Carter. The family I represent believes the accident was no accident and that someone needs to pay for the missing men.”
“Pay? Do you mean, like, insurance?”
Oh, yeah. That got her attention. Tom mimed reeling her in and got a thumbs up in return.
“I can come by in twenty minutes, if that is agreeable.”
“Yeah,” Sylvie said amid more shuffling of what had to be bed covers. “I’m staying at the condo. Twenty minutes?”
“See you then.” She finished the conversation and put the phone into her bag. “The grieving widow will be waiting for us. What did Carolina find on her?”
Tom flipped through screens on his tablet. “She is twenty-one and a former exotic dancer turned sales consultant for Unforgettable You. That’s a line of beauty products that they sell in home parties. Local girl. High school education. No marriages. Do you want a warm up on your coffee? We have a little time.”
“I guess. It’s not as good as the coffee at your house.” When Tom returned with the fresh cups, she started to laugh. “How did that loser Fabrini not recognize you? You were so cool, you were frosty.”
“I take that as a compliment. I was worried you were going to go after him when he blamed the trouble on your uncle.”
“I thought about it and might have if we hadn’t gotten the computer.” She blew on her coffee. “I found a better way. Paybacks are a bitch…and so am I.” She grinned, proud of the moniker.
Oh, he was in trouble. He liked that gleam in her eye. “What did you do?”
Peach danced in her seat. “I took a nice little bag out of his truck. He’s not just using, he’s selling. Or running. I was a fly on the wall when somebody meaner than Fabrini demanded delivery of the shit. He was less than impressed with Fabrini’s story of how twenty-five grand of goods ghosted on him. And guess what?”
“What?”
She danced in her chair. “He’s going to go bat shit crazy when he realized he lost another couple grand.”
“In the port-a-potty?”
“If he’s willing to go after there then… Ugh, I can’t think about that. I just threw up in my mouth a little.” She snapped her fingers. “That’s it! My brain must be running at half speed.”
“Care to share the thought?”
“The Drug Dealer met with Junior in F&F’s offices. On the third floor. I’ll bet anything he’s the guy in accounting.”
“Then he’d work for Stinson. He’s tight with the senior Fabrini but didn’t impress me as a sharp crayon. I’ll call Carolina and see if she can get us a name.”
While he made the call, she transformed herself from devastated niece to authoritative investigator. She collected her thick hair and pulled it to a tail at the top of her head. With a deftness that came from experience, the band was transferred from wrist to hair. Then came twisting. Lots and lots of twisting. Another band locked the mass in place, and then an army of pins kept it there.
“Thank you, Carolina. Let me know when you have something.” Tom caught Peach’s chin and turned her head one way, then the other. “Impressive, but what’s the point?”
“Sylvie McKinley is younger than she thinks, weaker than she knows, and far too interested in money. She will tell E.M. Morales, the investigator who is promising green for her heartache, anything she wants to know. How much cash do you have on you?”
“Why?” He pulled out his wallet.
“We might need to prime the pump.”
“I have two hundred. Maybe a little more.”
“Good. Let’s get moving.”
The condominium overlooked the Rocky River valley. The building was new. Townhouse-style homes four stories tall stood shoulder to shoulder. The neighborhood around it was well established, with homey bars and restaurants crowding the busy road.
Peach pulled the car into one of the public parking spaces. She checked her face in the mirror, brushed back a hair, and then turned to him. “Lose the hat. It’s the wrong look.”
“How can there be a wrong look? We’re just going to talk to her.” Still, he took it off, combing his fingers through his hair.
“There is always a wrong look and a right look. The right look will get her to tell us all of Joe Carter’s secrets.” Her fingers fussed with his hair.
He didn’t consider curls to be masculine, but the ladies liked them. On the job, they went every which way. On his own time, he tamed them but hadn’t this morning.
“You have hat head.”
“That’s because I was wearing a hat.” He used the rearview mirror and tried to tame the curls that popped out around his ears. “There. That’s as good as it’s going to get.”
Peach walked in long strides across the sidewalk. Tom caught up, winked, and jumped a half step in front of her. She lengthened her stride, putting him solidly behind her. He growled and jogged after her. She glanced over her shoulder, saw him coming, and picked up her pace, and solidly occupied the middle of the narrow walk. He came up beside her and bumped her hip, nudging her over. By the time they were on the doorstep of unit 23, they were all but running. Both were breathing hard and denying they were sweating under the dark jackets.
She stepped decidedly in front, patted out any wrinkles, and rang the bell.
The door opened. The modern white of the foyer framed the grieving woman, who was a vision in black leather. The skirt was too short to call thigh length, and the top was bustier style that was straining to contain her girls. The long, shapely legs were finished in a strappy heel. The head of hair sitting on those bare shoulders had been dyed platinum blond. The layers of make up on the flawless skin failed to mask red and swollen eyes.
Tom’s gaze went to the ripe melons, ready to burst.
“Miss McKinley? I’m E.M. Morales. This is my partner, Harry Crankshaft.”
Tom flinched, her not-so-subtle dig dispelling the fog.
Sylvie McKinley giggled. “Ms. Morales. Mr., ur, Crankshaft. Come in, please.” She led them up a set of steps to the main floor. The floor wasn’t more than twenty-five feet wide and went from the windows overlooking the street to the windows overlooking the river. The space was divided into a sitting area, a dining area, and a kitchen by different floor covering. The sleek, modern room had been furnished jointly by IKEA and Harley Davidson.
Sylvie sank into a white leather chair, curling her feet under her. She picked up a mug from the end table and sipped. She closed her eyes as she swallowed.
“That’s not Seven Up she’s savoring,” Peach whispered. She lifted her chin, looking authoritative again. “Thank you again for meeting with us, Miss McKinley. As I said on the phone, we work for the family of one of the men harmed by this tragedy.”
“You think there could be money?” Sylvie said, cutting right through the bullshit.
“There could be, especially if the accident was not an accident.”
“I could really use it.” She sipped from her glass. “I’m starting a business. Joey was helping me, just until I get going. You know.”
“What kind of business?” Peach asked, knowing full well the story.
“I am a consultant for Unforgettable You. We manufacture our own product line. We are totally committed to protecting the earth. We don’t even test on animals anymore. You have nice skin.”
“Um, thanks. So, Miss McKinley—”
“We have this killer wrinkle cream that will make you look like you are in your twenties again. Let me go get my kit.” Sylvie jumped to her feet, wobbled on those stacked pins for a second, and then bounced to the stairs and up to the next level.
Tom gave her a big, toothy grin. “I wouldn’t have put you at a day over thirty-six.”
“I’m twenty-nine,” she said, scowling at him. When his eyebrow went up, she bared her teeth. “And thirteen twelfths, you know-it-all bastard.”
Heavy heel strikes on wood announced Sylvie’s return. “I’m sure Mr., uh, Crankshaft—”
Tom stood as she came back into the room. “Please, call me Harry.”
“All right,” she said, flustering a little when he stood. “I just know you are going to love our Expressions line, Ms. Morales.”
“Call her E.M.,” Tom said. “Would you happen to have any coffee?”
“Oh. I haven’t made any today. But I can.”
“No, no. I’m a modern man. It will be my pleasure to make coffee for you lovely ladies. No need for you to stop what you’re doing.” He winked at Sylvie as he left Peach to her fate.
“He’s nice,” Sylvie said softly, but Tom heard clearly.
“Yeah, he’s a prince. So, Miss McKinley—”
“Oh, call me Sylvie, E.M.” She giggled. “That sounds so mysterious.”
“Not really. So tell me about Joe.”
“First, let me tell you about Expressions eyelift.” She opened her patented red Unforgettable You case and held a squat pearl jar reverently in her hand. “Tilt your head back.”
Pearl jars of every size soon lined the stone-topped coffee table. Peach squirmed for the first five minutes, trying to get Sylvie to focus on Joe. But when Sylvie began tapping some goop she claimed was seaweed extract, she melted into the chair. Tom saw her hands, previously knotted into fists, dangle freely. Then came the dark gray facial mask.
“How long were you and Joe together?” Tom asked.
“Just nine months. I moved in after three.” Sylvie glanced over her shoulder. “His father is trying to kick me out. He wants to sell this place and send me packing. He never believed Joe and I were the real deal.”
“Were you and Joe the real deal?”
Sylvie walked over and held out her hand. On her ring finger was shiny cluster of rocks that swallowed her hand. “We were engaged,” she said. “Officially but more importantly, here, where it counted.” She pressed her hand to her heart. “Do you know what that’s like, Harry?”
His gaze snapped to Peach, and his heart skipped a beat.
“Now he’s gone. They haven’t found him, you know. The police officers are nice, but I know they think he’s dead.”
“Whaamp doa do maany por all das?” Her cheeks and mouth didn’t move. Her lips shifted, but it was just the tips. The idea occurred to him that the high-class shit was likely low-grade concrete.
“Oh,” Sylvie said. “The mask is nearly dry. Just fifteen minutes and we can break it off.”
Peach stiffly turned until she could see him. He toasted her with a small salute. Behind Sylvie’s back, she flipped him off.
It was so hard not to laugh.
Peach’s hand fished around, found a jar, and Tom was ready to duck. Sylvie intervened, taking the jar and undoing the top two buttons on Peach’s shirt. Then more concrete was massaged into her throat and chest.
The coffeemaker bubbled and dripped in the background. “Sylvie, do you know of anyone who wanted to hurt Joe?”
Sylvie’s fingers worked Peach’s palm. “I don’t, Harry. Joe was the best. He shared everything he had. With me. With his friends. He worked so hard to get out from under his father’s thumb. He deserved better.”
Tom handed Sylvie a cup of coffee. “Was his father helping him out? Is that how he afforded this place?”
She snorted inelegantly. “His father is some big shot in a hospital and thought his son was too good for the construction business. His father could have made his life easy, but he didn’t. Joe picked up as much overtime as F&F would give him, and then he did some work on the side.”
That peaked his interest. “What was the side work?”
“Construction, I think. He didn’t talk about it much. He did say one time that somebody finally recognized what he could do.” Sylvie leaned in and dropped her voice. “It was good, you know, because it was cash.”
“Did he talk about anyone in particular at work? Maybe someone who he wasn’t getting along with?”
Sylvie sipped the coffee and then frowned at the taste. She went back into the living room, retrieved her mug, and poured it into the coffee. Satisfied, she tapped on the lightly on the drying mask. She lifted Peach’s hand and made a tsk tsk sound before diving back into the vast red case. She came out with a white tube and squirted a dollop in her palm. Sylvie knelt on the floor and began massaging Peach’s hand and forearm. “It’s our Expressions skin cream. Heavenly, isn’t it?”
Peach sighed long and soft, a very satisfied woman.
Sylvie looked at Tom. “Honestly, Harry. Everyone liked Joe. The only person he ever bitched about was Fabrini’s son, Michael. I met him at the Christmas party last year. He threw a branch of mistletoe down my dress and tried to dive in after it. That shit scratches, you know? Anyway, working as an exotic dancer, I learned a thing or two. The asshole didn’t touch me after that.”
“Arghff mmm doon ere.”
“What did she say?” Sylvie asked.
“I don’t speak spa.” Tom sipped his coffee. “Did Joe have an office here? Do you mind if I have a look?”
“Sure, Harry. Anything if it will help Joe. Upstairs, first door. That’s where he kept what he called ‘his books.’ The drawer has a second set of books that we aren’t supposed to tell anyone about. Do you think that will help?”
Tom looked at the naiveté in her eyes, and he felt for the girl. She didn’t deserve this mess any more than Peach did. “This will help immensely.”
Peach hurried along the sidewalk, her arms containing the overfull bag. The jars and tubes of the Unforgettable You signature collection looked so small spread on the table. The smirking man was right behind her. “I don’t want to hear it.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You thought it loud enough for a deaf man to hear. And you know what? I don’t care. It worked, and my skin feels great. Feel it.” She stopped dead on the sidewalk, lifting her face to him.
“Your face is perfect the way it is.” His fingers drew down the side of her face.
She swallowed hard and walked away. The honesty in his voice scared her. How different would New Year’s Eve have been with him? She stopped, and he ran into her. “What would you say if you saw me at a party in a fancy dress with borrowed jewelry and my hair blown out straight?”
His brows pressed down, the same expression he wore when he worked. It was a trick question, and he knew it. Finally, he answered. “I’ve seen you naked.”
Then he started walking again.
She chased after him, using her shoulder to get him to stop. “What kind of answer is that? What does it mean?”
“Since seeing you naked, that’s the only way I see you. Wet suit, jeans and shirt, dress pants and blouse. Fancy dress. Doesn’t matter. I only see you. You don’t need all that stuff,” he said, pointing with his chin to the overflowing bag. “But if you want it, I’ll buy it. Just so there’s no misunderstanding between us about what I think of you. And I get to apply the breast cream.”
She felt self-conscious that she wanted all the little jars and frivolous that she’d borrowed Tom’s credit card to pay for it since hers was a little slim on available credit. “I don’t have to pay you back?”
“No, it was worth the price to see the look on your face when Sylvie started to strip you. Think that started a new fantasy, FYI. And then, it got us all the information we needed to confirm that Joe Carter was skimming the books.” His lusty expression made her giggle. She could imagine what he was imagining, and it likely wasn’t legal in Tennessee. “Sixty thousand tax free. Those tits must have cost a pretty penny.”
She tossed him a cool look over her shoulder. “What is with that? You knew they were fake, and you were still drooling over them.”
He scowled, shoving his fists in his pockets. “I wasn’t drooling. I was appreciating the craftsmanship. Did you notice how balanced they were? Firm without being overdone? A woman goes to those extents to look good, a man is obligated to pay attention. It’s respectful.”
“Now that I let you buy my favor, you better believe that I’m the only woman you’re respectful to.” She jumped. Her teasing came out much more possessive than she intended. She started walking again, forcing him to catch up.
“Where are we going next?”
“We have a date with Mrs. Terry Hawthorne. Do you know her?”
“Not really.” He climbed in the car and then brought up Carolina’s notes. “I met her once or twice, but I was just a kid. I hadn’t filled out yet. No way she remembers me. Okay, what do we have? They were married sixteen years. She’s a stay-at-home mom to two boys.”
Peach drummed her fingers on the steering wheel, considering and dismissing approaches. She had spoken briefly to the woman to schedule the appointment. There was a nervous element to her. “I think we need to both play the good cop with this one. You take the lead.”
He raised an eyebrow. “I thought I was your lowly helper.”
“And wallet. My read from the quick conversation is that Mrs. Hawthorne expects and respects men in certain positions. Doctors. Lawyers. Investigators. I start off, playing the pathetic, subservient lower grade partner, and then you take control.”
“Easy as that?”
She glanced at the mapping and turned onto the highway. “We start with a plan and then adapt.”
The Hawthorne’s suburban development featured four styles of home with six options, which led to a very neat and tidy neighborhood. It was right in line with the way he’d ordered his files. The Hawthorne’s home sat tucked back in a cul-de-sac, a basketball hoop in the driveway.
She stood in front of Tom, her hair re-twisted into a professional knot and a pair of clear glasses on her face. “Look stern,” she said as she knocked quickly. She glanced over her shoulder and saw his set jaw. “Perfect.”
A teen with a long body and a mop of blond hair answered the door.
“Hi. I’m Detective E.M. Morales. This is my boss, Dick Cutter.” The boy grinned and giggled the way she expected. “We called and spoke to your mother. Is she home?”
The boy looked over his shoulder nervously. “Um, I’m not, uh, sure.”
“Son,” Tom said in an authoritative voice, “this is important.”
“Okay. Um, just a minute.” He turned away from the door. “Mom! There are two detectives at the door.”
A cute middle-aged woman with shoulder-length dark hair appeared at the door. “Can I help you?”
“Mrs. Hawthorne? I’m E.M. Morales. We spoke this morning. This is my partner, Dick Cutter. We are investigating the incident at the F&F construction site last Friday.”
“Are you with the police?”
“No, ma’am. We were retained by the family of one of the other missing men. May we come in?” Tom asked politely as he stepped into the opening and forced Mrs. Hawthorne back.
“I was just on my way out,” she said, looking around as if for a reason to leave.
“We won’t take but a minute,” he said. “Are you aware of any irregularities on the job site that could have contributed to the crane collapse?”
“I-I’m sure I don’t know anything about cranes, Mr. Cutter.”
Mrs. Hawthorne continued to back step. Her hands were knotted together as she examined the tile work on the floor.
Tom took a step for every one she retreated. Not crowding her but not letting her escape. “We suspect that the crane failure was the result of sabotage.”
Mrs. Hawthorne’s eyes snapped to Tom’s. “Can you prove it?”
“We are working on it, ma’am. Is there anything you can tell us? Anything your husband told you may help us expose the culprit.”
Her eyes went wide, and then she started ringing her hands. “I-I don’t know anything, not really.”
Tom was pushing too hard. Mrs. Hawthorne knew something, enough to be nervous. She needed a reason to confide in them. Peach interceded. “Dick? Do you mind if I speak with Mrs. Hawthorne privately?”
Tom looked at her, nodded once, and went out the front door.
Mrs. Hawthorne stood in her living room picture window. A bundle of nerves wound too tight.
Peach read the woman as a nurturer, someone whose life revolved around caring for others. She would be less motivated by money but more by her instinct. “Who are you worried about?”
Mrs. Hawthorne moved her hand to her throat. “I don’t know what you mean.”
She stayed quiet, filling her expression with compassion and sympathy.
She took off the useless glasses, crossed the perfectly neat room, and put her hand on Mrs. Hawthorne’s trembling one. “I understand what you are going through.”
Mrs. Hawthorne shook her head, the pain in her eyes so real, so vivid, Peach rubbed her hand over her own heart.
“I do. My uncle is Rico Morales. The crane operator. My client is my grandfather. I understand the helplessness. I understand the feeling that you are strapped to a pendulum. One moment you are cautiously optimistic that a miracle happened and your loved one will walk through the front door. The next moment you are washed in despair, grief, and hopelessness. My grandfather is everything to me. He raised me, sacrificed his life for me, and never asked for anything in return. Now he needs his son back, and I’m going to give that to him. Tell me what you need, and I promise you, I’ll make it happen.”
Mrs. Hawthorne covered her gaping mouth. Silent tears rolled down her colorless cheeks. She trembled as she stepped away from Peach. Jerky, coltish steps took her into an end table. A lamp teetered and then fell unnoticed as Mrs. Hawthorne retreated to the hallway. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m so sorry.” Then she turned and ran up the stairs.
She cursed under her breath and followed at a distance. She heard the wretched violence of vomiting through the door at the top of the stairs. She knocked gently. “Mrs. Hawthorne? Is there someone I can call for you?”
“Just leave. Please. Just leave.”
She laid her palm against the door, a silent apology, and then left the house. Tom waited in the car, working on his smart phone.
“Did you get anything?” he asked when she closed the door.
She leaned her head against the headrest and closed her eyes. “I played the wrong card. I screwed up and played the wrong card. I got nothing.”
He started the car and drove out of the neighborhood. He found a strip of stores with a busy parking lot and pulled the sedan into an empty spot. “Tell me what happened. Did she deny knowing anything?”
“So you read her the same way.”
“Nobody out of puberty sweats that much.”
“I figured the best odds were that she was protecting her children. She looked afraid—not guilty. If Hawthorne was involved in embezzlement, it’s likely she was getting leaned on to keep the secret. The easiest way to lean on a newly single mother is to threaten her children.”
“Reasonable.”
“Except I was wrong. I tried to connect with her victim to victim. She ran on me. I left her throwing up in the bathroom.”
“Well, you may not have gotten the reaction you were looking for, but you certainly got one. Look at this.”