For Love of Money (5 page)

Chapter Six

Monday morning

Holly strode through the office building’s atrium. She glanced at the Stevens Ventures office as she passed it. She’d have to look at the place every time she entered or left Desert Accounting, one more reminder that Marcy was dead.

Juggling her briefcase, purse and a bag of Spudnuts, she crossed the lobby into Desert Accounting and made her way to the corner office she’d inherited along with her father’s traditional furniture and his role as the accounting practice rainmaker.

She dropped the Spudnut bag on the massive wooden desk as she passed it and licked maple nut glaze off her thumb. The desk divided the office in two. Behind the desk were her swivel chair, file cabinets, and a window overlooking the road, while visitor chairs stood on the side closest to the door.

Right now, she’d love to exchange all of it for her sleek modern desk in downtown Seattle.

She dipped into the greasy bag and fished out another puffed potato doughnut. She
would
miss the Spudnuts when she moved back to Seattle, though.

Her packed calendar and the mountain of file folders on the credenza beside the desk mocked her. Slouching into her chair, she chewed the pastry and studied the pile. The clients would understand if she rescheduled, but when could she squeeze them in?

She was supposed to bring in new business so her mother could sell the practice to a larger firm. Talk about a vicious cycle—success meant more work for everybody, including her.

Especially
her.

Lately, her mother expected her to also manage the projects—and use the foot-in-the-door opportunity to up-sell more of their services.

Get with the program
, the pragmatist in her head ordered.
You have work to do
.

Instead of opening a client folder, she drummed her fingers against the armrest and stared through the window at the traffic on Grandridge. Her brain was stuck in a disbelieving loop—Marcy was dead. Life was short and unpredictable.

Occasionally, another thought slipped in.
Was she focusing hers on the right things?

And if she was being honest, at least with herself, she’d wasted more than a little time last night tossing and turning, trying not to think about JC.

Add the “I’m-a-suspect” angle and the loop was complete.

The desk phone rang.

She caught herself before automatically answering. News of her involvement had her cell and landline ringing nonstop. A reporter from the
Tri-City Courier
had called repeatedly—murders were big news, he’d said at one point. The stories were carrying his byline, he’d added, so she should talk only to him.

Translation—the coverage could get him noticed by a larger newspaper.

Marcy was not a package to sell for his personal promotion.

His article this morning had stated she and Alex were “Persons of Interest,” a.k.a. the prime suspects. That combination had earned him a place on her personal Do Not Call list. But between dodging the press, updating clients, and reassuring her friends, she hadn’t accomplished a thing this morning.

Instead of answering the phone, she closed the Spudnut bag, wiped her hands, and grabbed the uppermost folder on the pile. Silverstone Dairies. Ugh.

Her mother had to pass the frickin’ CPA exam and get licensed. When her father bailed on them, he’d screwed over his wife professionally as well as personally. Without Holly’s CPA license—if she hadn’t agreed to come back to Richland—her mother would’ve been forced to close the accounting practice.

Which meant Holly had to take crash courses in things like cow accounting.

She opened the file. For one long, rebellious moment she wondered if her mother was putting off taking the exam so Holly would have to stick around.

She stared at the spreadsheet, but the numbers and notes refused to tell their story. Her mind was stuck in the Marcy gear. She’d told Laurie she wanted to figure out why Marcy died, but she didn’t have a clue where to begin.

Her gaze drifted over the files and landed on the Steven Ventures folder. Tim Stevens. She should start her investigation by questioning Marcy’s boss. He’d know about her daily routine and whether there’d been any recent changes.

Holly picked up the phone.

“Where’re the Spudnuts?” JC asked.

Stifling a shriek, she dropped the phone. “Jeez. Don’t sneak up on me.”

Detective JC Dimitrak, who clearly wasn’t there to inquire about her feelings, ideas, or business success, leaned against the doorframe.

“Didn’t your mother teach you not to take the Lord’s name in vain?” He ran a hand over his already smooth hair. “’Course, being that jumpy could be interpreted as feeling guilty.”

She gave him an
Oh, please
look, and didn’t dignify his commit with a response. Instead, she returned his assessing gaze with one of her own. His clean-shaven skin seemed tight, the strain around his eyes more pronounced than it had been the previous day. Whatever he normally did on the job, he wasn’t immune to the stress of brutal crime. She caught herself before she could feel sorry for him, but she did like him a little better for caring what happened to Marcy.

“Didn’t we do this already?” she asked.

“I’m being thorough.” JC stepped into her office like he owned the place.

“ ‘Bulldog’ is a better description.”

He picked up the bakery bag and inspected the contents. “Maple nut are my favorite.”

She thought about grabbing the bag away from him, just because he was JC. “You can have
one
,” she said grudgingly.

Much as she wanted Marcy’s killer caught, she didn’t have time for round two—or was it three?—with him that morning. “You thoroughly interrogated me yesterday. Today, you’re just being a pain.”

“Yesterday was my warm-up.” Without asking permission, JC claimed a seat in the visitor chair. He crossed an ankle over his knee, spreading out, taking up too much room. He popped a Spudnut in his mouth. A blissful expression crossed his face.

She scowled. “Don’t get too comfortable. You keep showing up here”—
and that reporter keeps implying I’m dirty
—“and I won’t have a business left to run.”

She turned her back on him and selected the files she’d need for her meeting later that morning. She stacked them in the center of her desk. Flashing subliminal—
I’m busy
.

With a cool look over her shoulder, she reached for her briefcase. “You can’t possibly have more questions.”

“I always have questions.” His eyes gleamed. “The subject is what varies.”

She froze mid-reach and did a double-take. Last night he’d sorta played with the
we-used-to-be-intimate
card. Apparently, today it was going to be
we’re-best-buds
. She straightened, the briefcase clasped loosely in her hand. “I assume your subject is still Marcy.”

“Of course. And you hold the Most Helpful Witness slot.”

“I’m not your prime suspect anymore?”

His eyes crinkled at the corners, like he really wanted to make a smartass remark. “I had to grill you yesterday. You found the body in the middle of a swamp, in the middle of nowhere.”

“Technically, the dog found the body. Since when is getting lost a crime?”

“You know I had to question everybody at the scene.”

“You did that already. So let me rephrase it for you. Why are you here?”

What
was
happening here? JC kept throwing off mixed signals, but hadn’t she made it infinitely clear she wasn’t interested in him?

Says who?
Her inner teenager checked out the hunk sitting on the other side of the desk.

“Occasionally you have some useful insights,” he said.

“Newsflash. I worked about thirty acquisitions last year. People pay big bucks for my insights.”

“For corporate stuff.” His derisive tone said exactly what he thought of her job, which pissed her off all over again. He’d never made any effort to understand what she did or why she enjoyed the challenge. “Not exactly the same as police work,” he added.

“Seems a lot alike to me. Ask a bunch of questions. Wade through a ton of paperwork. Write up reports. Same thing.”

Except for the whole “dead” part.

“What is it you’d like my insights about
this
time?” Her tone was saccharine sweet.

His good cop, charm-the-idiots-into-implicating-themselves persona vanished. His tone and eyes hardened. “Do you ever stop asking questions and just answer them?”

She gave him an exasperated glare. “Ignoring the little detail about you treating me like a suspect, unless you plan to share what you’ve learned about Marcy, I told you what I knew yesterday. I have a job and responsibilities, too.” She pointed at the crowded schedule visible on Outlook.

He ignored her computer. “I have questions. Questions about the victim.”

With a resigned sigh, she stuffed the files into her briefcase and dropped it beside her desk.

He shifted in his seat. In spite of the hard, uncomfortable chair, he looked completely at home.

Damn, he was like a dog, practically marking whatever territory he occupied.

“What do you want to know?” she asked impatiently. “That I haven’t already told you. Twice
.
”

He pulled his pen from his jacket pocket and gave her another assessing glance. He opened his folio, made a notation at the top of the page. “I checked. You moved here nearly five months ago.”

You never looked me up
hung in the air unspoken.

“And your point is?”

His features settled into hard planes. He thumbed through the pages of his notebook.

JC didn’t need her for his investigation. Clearly she didn’t know enough about Marcy’s personal life to point him toward a suspect. During her sleepless night, she’d realized nothing had changed. JC was still making the rules—trying to, anyway—and bending them for his own purposes. Letting her go home, and then showing up at her house. Coming to her office, and acting…how? Almost as though he wanted to start something again. But then he’d zing her, or go into cop mode, which made her wonder if it was all a ploy. If he still suspected her of being involved—allegedly involved—in Marcy’s death.

She wanted to rub her temples. The whole mess was giving her a massive headache.

“This is pointless.” In one smooth move, she rose from her desk, slung her purse over her shoulder, and grabbed her briefcase.

“What are you doing? I’m not finished.”

“Then walk and talk. I have a meeting.”

His foot hit the floor with a responding
thud
. “I have an investigation.”

“And I have responsibilities to other people. I’ve already told you everything I know about Marcy.” She stepped around the end of her desk. “So either arrest me, or start walking.”

JC stood, blocking her escape route. “I want to know about Tim Stevens’s business.”

“You know damned well I can’t discuss client business.” She glared at him. “The basics of Tim’s company are in the public domain. Go look them up yourself.”

“You could give me that insight you’re so famous for.”

With a snort of impatience, she shifted the briefcase to her other hand. “Tim’s a developer. He contracts some projects, builds them for other people. He owns and leases other ones, like the new office complex he’s building near Southridge.”

She sidestepped JC while he scribbled a note.

He followed her into the hallway. “I need a list of the properties he owns and financial information on each one. And the latest statements for Alejandro Montoya’s restaurant.”

Her jaw dropped. “Are you crazy? I can’t give you that.”

“Why not?” He returned her incredulous stare. “You’re not a lawyer. It’s not privileged information.”

“You and I
both
know it’s privileged. The ethics requirements of my license are very clear. No unauthorized disclosure of financial information.”

He opened his mouth, but she cut him off. “I work corporate mergers and acquisitions in Seattle. Breathing a word about the transaction won’t just bring the deal to a screeching halt, it could bring the Securities and Exchange Commission down on me like the proverbial ton of bricks.”

She waved her free hand, indicating the entire office. “The same rules apply at Desert Accounting. And in case you missed the point, that means don’t bother asking anyone else here because they won’t tell you, either.”

“I’m trying to catch a murderer, not coddle a—” He bit off the remaining words.

She slammed a fist onto her hip. “A what? A bean counter?”

“Most people want to help the police.” Every line of his body reflected frustration. “I thought you wanted to find Marcy’s killer.”

“Wait a minute.” She punctuated her words with a pointed finger. “Are you saying Tim and Alex are officially suspects now? That’s insane.”

“If you think they’re so innocent, you shouldn’t mind giving me the financial information. If it clears them, I can move on.”

Everything JC did—showing up, the Spudnuts, playing nice—had just been a ploy to soften her up and get her talking, so he could slide in questions about Tim and Alex. Damn, but the man was infuriating. “How is their financial information remotely related to Marcy’s murder?”

“I need the information.” JC sounded impatient.

She turned and stalked toward the lobby. “You can move on to another suspect. Alex and Tim didn’t have anything to do with Marcy’s death.”

JC trailed her down the hallway. “What makes you so sure?”

“What makes
you
so sure they were involved?”

“What are you hiding?”

She glared at him over her shoulder. “Give me a freaking break. Tim and Alex aren’t like that. They couldn’t have killed her.”

“Not even to save their own asses?”

Shocked, she studied his face, but he’d gone to complete cop mode. His hard expression revealed nothing. “From what? As far as I know, the only laws Tim and Alex have ever broken involve speeding tickets.”

“At this stage of an investigation, the more innocent someone seems, the more suspicious I am.”