Tamara would be here soon and she probably ought to stop eating just the frosting. A sugar buzz wasn’t helping. Her cell phone rang, which at least stopped her from the face-plant in the cake. She hoped that thinking of her father hadn’t caused him to call. It was always about money.
It wasn’t her father, but definitely a pest.
“Barrett, you owe me. You really do. I went the extra mile for you.”
“What is it now, Buck?”
“I had put a query into a couple of State Department databases—”
“I’m not sure I wanted to know that.”
“It’s public stuff. What do you take me for?”
She didn’t answer.
“Anyway, they lag bad on keeping up to date, and today some new listings of American nationals applying for waivers to open foreign corporations were posted. Your girl’s been busy.”
“Could you be a little more detailed?”
“I’m gonna get paid, right?”
He was as annoying as her father about money, but he at least was working for it. “Yes.”
“She and Wren Cantu—some crack-thin supermodel—
opened a corporation in the Bahamas six weeks ago.”
Kip was speechless. Her mouth tasted of acid.
“Did you hear me?”
“Yes. Can you get copies?”
“Sure—public record for SFI of the Bahamas. You could have it in the morning.”
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“I want a workup on Cantu, like the others.”
“Okay.” Buck sounded positively gleeful. “I did good?”
“Yeah.” Kip felt dead inside. “You did great. I appreciate it.”
Tamara was on her way. A confrontation seemed inevitable because Kip knew she would be unable to pretend everything was fine.
She willed her heart to start beating and her hands to stop shaking.
An offshore corporation in a country where hiding money was the only goal, where bank transfers in and out were some of the easiest in the world? Even if in the remote chance there was a legitimate reason for it to exist, Tamara should have told her about it.
Wren Cantu? Kip had seen her in a commercial for a fashion design reality TV show. A fitting companion, together they would make a striking couple.
Her lips burned at the memory of that kiss on the gangplank.
She wasn’t sure how long she’d been drumming her fingers on the table, but when the buzz came from downstairs she nearly jumped out of her skin. A deep breath was not the least bit calming.
Tamara looked tired. Exhausted even—it wasn’t just the poor light in the entryway. There were large circles under her eyes and deep lines grooved around her mouth. Stress obviously, but from guilt or innocence?
Kip was glad her tone was perfectly normal as she offered coffee, but Tam shook her head. “Let me hang up your coat at least,” she offered.
“Oh, thanks,” Tamara said absently, shrugging out of the thick Burberry tweed.
She felt surreptitiously in the pockets as she carefully hung it on the coat rack just inside her front door. No gun. No large 113
packets of money. No spy style portable keyboard or any other hacker gadgets—what had she expected? A card printed with, “I did it”?
Tamara glanced into the kitchen. “Cake? I heard the singing, earlier, over the phone. Whose birthday was it?”
“Mine,” Kip said. “I had forgotten. I guess that explains why I’m single.” She led Tamara to the living room and took a seat in one of the two side chairs.
Tamara settled on the sofa opposite her, coiled tightly with her elbows on her knees. “So where are you?”
“You first,” Kip said. “What new information do you have?”
“The rumors have gotten worse and they’re specifically aimed at me.”
“What’s changed?”
“To be specific, all the senior managers are on the verge of leaving because I’m a tyrant and I’m stealing from the company.”
Kip sat like a stone. Was this disclosure just inoculating Kip in case she stumbled across those rumors? “Why would you do that?”
“To support a lifestyle that includes designer drugs and designer women.”
And there it was. Kip didn’t believe Tamara was a drug user.
She had none of the signs. That part of the rumor was laughable.
If that part was untrue, then maybe it was all a lie. But there was that small matter of a corporation in the Bahamas and Wren Cantu certainly seemed the epitome of a “designer” woman.
If Buck hadn’t called she’d be ready to declare Tamara a non-suspect. But now... It was a good strategy: invent a big lie so nobody notices the part that’s the truth in plain sight. “And what do you say to that?”
Tamara’s face froze. Kip wished they were seated closer together, but knew she would still not be certain Tamara’s eyes were telling her any kind of truth.
Finally, Tamara said, “It’s a lie. I don’t have the time that kind of lifestyle takes. I hardly have time for work, let alone play. I 114
don’t even have the time it takes to find the person who’s stealing from me.” Her voice rose. “Don’t you see, Kip? This highly personal rumor would take me out of a witness box. This entire scheme is about neutralizing me.”
She nodded. There were too many unwise words crowding in her mouth to speak.
“I have a list of the cases. The next three where I was going to give expert testimony are where we should focus. I would have started there anyway, but now we don’t have to waste time with anyone else’s cases.”
Kip rose long enough to take the sheaf of papers. Three were circled. Her numb brain read the lines without taking in more than the case names. She read them aloud. “Markoff, Sheames, Riley. I did a little work on Riley—some of the transfer traces. I wouldn’t have said he had connections like this.”
Tam nodded. “Of those three, Vernon Markoff’s the one with the shady associates. And still-deep pockets because only his U.S.
assets were frozen. We know he had Swiss funds, but those were gone before we got cooperation from Swiss authorities.”
“So he’s bought off an employee to do the inside doctoring—
but that couldn’t be just anybody. Those were good fake jobs on the statements. Careful attention to detail.”
“An accountant or investigator seems likely. A cursory search could turn up large cash deposits in their account, or relatives with shiny new cars, mothers with debts paid, that sort of thing.
And if that someone is one of the fifty people who shouldn’t have been in the accounting file room and was, then we’re getting to some solid ground, finally.”
Kip nodded.
“This means we’re close to finding the accomplice and the person who paid for it to be done. But not the money.” Tamara leaned forward. “Kip?”
“If I were reporting to my client,” she said slowly, “I would present this as a viable theory of the crime, yes.”
“But?” Tamara’s expression was openly puzzled.
Her tone was like lead. Tamara had said nothing about the 115
corporation in the Bahamas. “I haven’t cleared you of suspicion.”
She gave absolutely no reaction for several moments, as if she hadn’t heard what Kip had said. Then she got up and went to the door.
Kip followed her, hurrying a little. “Tam? Did you hear me?”She swung back abruptly. “Yes. Yes, I heard you. I heard everything you didn’t say, too.” She grabbed the papers from Kip’s hand. “You’re thinking this could all be an elaborate fake.”
Her voice rising, Kip protested, “It’s what I do. It’s what you pay me for.”