Like Jazz (18 page)

The following week, I continued in my dual capacity as accountant and investigator. The accounting piece was easy; I’d supplemented my undergraduate scholarships with similar part-time work. It was the investigation that was giving me trouble. I couldn’t find the governing consulting agreement between the Foundation and Mastick Consulting anywhere in the filing cabinets or on the server. I wasn’t faring any better at tracking down its owners. After searching the Secretary of State websites for nearly two-dozen states, I finally located a Mastick Consulting in Nevada. Rather, it was a Nevada corporation—I still didn’t know where the business was physically located. But it was strange to find no record of such a company in California given that it was supposedly providing significant services to the Foundation. And wouldn’t actual consultants render those consulting services in person?

The fact that the firm was incorporated in Nevada made it difficult for me to trace its owners. Nevada had privacy laws allowing companies that provided incorporating services to out-of-state organizations to appoint a “designee” for all the offices of the corporation such as president or secretary, such that this random designee—completely unaffiliated with the out-of-state organization—would hold all the offices of public record. Meanwhile, the true owners of the corporation maintained operational control and ownership with complete anonymity. Unless I had a court order, the chances that I could identify the owners of Mastick using any information available to me in Nevada were nil.

I did make headway on another aspect of Mastick, however. During a casual conversation in the break room when Carol and I were eating lunch, I asked about other faces at the Foundation. Carol was ostensibly the receptionist, but she functioned more like an office manager and executive assistant. I’d met the dozen or so employees during my time there, all of whom had multiple roles and expertise regarding the intricacies of its operations. Such variety of knowledge and access made collusion—an inherently difficult scheme to detect that accounted for only two-fifths of all fraud yet five times the financial losses—a very real prospect at the Foundation.

I told her how impressed I was that such a small staff seemed to get so much done. This buttered her up nicely and gave me adequate cover for my questions.

“Doesn’t anyone else help? You know, consultants or firms that work on specific projects? I mean, the fund-raising events alone have to take a lot of planning.” I didn’t want to identify Mastick by name because I didn’t want Carol to think I was concerned about anything or feel I was snooping.

Carol nodded and forked something that resembled pasta in the plastic tray in front of her. “Oh, sure, we might get a temp now and then to help with data entry or filing or something, and we occasionally work with outside event planners to help us keep events fresh and interesting, but really, what you see is what you get. The staffers around here do it all. We’re all very committed to the Foundation. Most of us have been here over ten years.”

“You don’t have little elves helping you in the wee hours?”

Carol chuckled. “No. No elves. No other staff. No consultants. Although some of us do work late. Luke was especially a workhorse on the entertainment front. He seemed to have one more gear than the rest of us.” Her expression turned contemplative and somber. “It’s too bad you didn’t get a chance to meet him.” Her respect for Luke and sadness at his passing were genuine.

I didn’t need to let on that I’d met him briefly in high school, when Sarah and I had attended the fund-raiser together. “He seemed like a remarkable man, from what I’ve heard.”

“He was. He really was. A down-to-earth, truly decent person. Made you feel like you were the only one in the room when he talked to you. At least you’ve had a chance to meet Sarah. She’s exactly like him. Same tireless work ethic. Makes you feel special when she talks to you.”

I felt an odd pride that Sarah could instill in others that sense of pleasure at feeling singled out and noteworthy. And while it didn’t diminish my appreciation for her ability, I’d forgotten I wasn’t its sole beneficiary. The reminder stung because I’d wanted to believe what Sarah and I had forged together long ago was extraordinary enough to render me distinct from other people in her life. Apparently that wasn’t the case. In any event, I needed to finish my fishing expedition.

“You don’t farm out any of the work overseas or something?”

Carol laughed and stood. “You’re the one paying the bills now, Cassidy. You should know.” She tossed her tray into the trash and set her fork in the dishwasher.

I didn’t see Sarah at all during the workweek. She hadn’t called me for racquetball, returned a voice mail I’d left, or gone into the office the entire week as far as I could tell. At one point, because I had to leave a document on Sarah’s desk that required her signature, I asked Carol whether I could enter Sarah’s office since her door was shut. Carol assured me it was okay, that she herself came and went when she had to, and Sarah was fine with it. I softly knocked out of habit and entered Sarah’s office for the first time.

After crossing to her desk and dropping the file folder into a silver tray that appeared to be an “in box,” I surveyed the room. On a nearby file cabinet were two framed pictures: one of her parents, the other of Sarah and her father. On the wall behind the door was an array of letters and cards pinned to a large, framed corkboard. I peeked at a few. Some were addressed to Sarah, others to the Foundation, and the rest were various shades of To Whom It May Concern. All were personal “thank you” notes from numerous people the Foundation had helped over time. They were stories of tragedy overcome, hope restored, and deep gratitude for the Foundation’s support. The Foundation was very clearly a labor of love for Sarah. Her work was making a difference in people’s lives. I felt renewed sympathy for the immense loss Sarah must feel without her father by her side. It helped dissipate but not extinguish my hurt at feeling ignored.

*

Thursday afternoon, Morrison stopped by my office. “Cassidy?”

I looked up from my computer screen. “Hi, Greg.”

“I’ve got a proposal for you.”

I raised an eyebrow.

“If you’re free, I’d like you to take tomorrow off and attend one of our fund-raising events tomorrow night instead. You’d only need to be there a couple hours, but you’d be one of the employees representing the Foundation, if anyone asks.”

“Why me?”

Morrison, still standing in the doorway, seemed uncomfortable, as if unsure of how to respond. Then he called out over his shoulder. “Carol? Carol, would you come here for a minute?” Moments later, she was in the doorway. Morrison took a step inside my office. “I wanted Carol to be here so this doesn’t sound…crude.” He paused, and an idea seemed to hit him. “In fact, maybe the better way to do this is ask Carol.” He turned to her. “Carol, why would we want Cassidy to attend tomorrow night’s fund-raiser?”

She smiled at me. “Because she’s a total hottie who’ll help grease the wallets of our donors.” She looked at Morrison. “Is that what you mean?”

He nodded and extended his hands palms up in a “there you have it” gesture. “I couldn’t have said it better myself.”

“It’s one of the reasons Sarah’s such an excellent fund-raiser. She’s a hottie, too,” Carol said with a wink.

I laughed. Carol was a fifty-something mother of three who was still very much in love with her husband of thirty-some years. To hear her say “hottie” was amusing. To hear her call Sarah one was hysterical. And so very, very accurate.

“I see. I suppose that means I’d have to wear something…um…racy?”

“No, no, no,” Morrison said quickly. “Flattering, sure, I suppose, but elegant, classic, approachable, that sort of thing.”

“I’m sure you’ll get plenty of attention in whatever dress you wear, honey,” Carol said. “Don’t worry about that.” She walked back to her desk.

I shrugged. “All right. I’m game.”

Morrison gave me the details and left.

I was betting the elusive Ms. Perkins would be in attendance. Time to test the temperature of her cold shoulder and how indistinct I was to her.

I was speaking with a petite, curvaceous, thirtyish blonde when I finally saw Sarah about ten yards away. She had just turned from a handsome, gray-haired man in his late fifties or early sixties, and they were both laughing. The friendly blonde, who was easy on the eyes in her flattering scoop-neck cocktail dress, looked like a stagehand compared to the main event at a beauty pageant starring Sarah. She was devastatingly gorgeous in an eye-popping red, V-neck, sleeveless gown with draping ruffle details. Her hair was gathered in a stylishly messy bun, leaving loose strands to fall glamorously alongside her ears. My cheeks flushed and my body stirred as I watched her, nearly hypnotized by her exquisite fluidity and magnetism. When she glanced up and noticed me, her laughter ceased and the delight in her face dissolved into a scowl as she surveyed my companion and me.

The blonde asked me a question that called my attention back to her. I had to ask her to repeat what she’d said. “Is this your first time at a Foundation fund-raiser? I don’t recall having seen you at other events. I would have remembered you.” A predatory smile crossed her lips. She held a glass of sparkling wine while her other hand languidly toyed with her necklace. She was an attractive woman, but her evocative gesture and tone were lost on me. There was no competition.

“I went to one years ago, but I don’t remember much about it except the incredible view from the rooftop perch.” I tried to focus on my conversation instead of how scrumptious Sarah looked tonight.

“Enclosed in glass?”

“That’s it.”

“That’s at the Grand Biltmore, downtown. It is an amazing thing to behold.” The woman’s tone was as flirtatious as her smile, and she examined me slowly from head to toe as she said this. Suddenly someone took my elbow and stepped between the blonde and me.

Sarah smiled disingenuously at the woman. “Excuse us a minute, Caitlin.” Sarah pulled me across the room and out onto an empty, enclosed patio. She gave me a light, twisting shove that spun me around to face her.

“What the hell are you doing here?” Sarah snapped.

“Why the hell are you ignoring me?”

She continued to glare at me. Enunciating each word with impatience, she practically growled. “I. Asked. You. A question.”

“Greg told me I could take the day off if I’d come here and mingle for a few hours tonight.”

She crossed her arms and took stock of my ensemble. “In
that
?” she asked disbelievingly.

Suddenly self-conscious, I looked down at what I was wearing, then crossed my arms as she had done. I felt defensive. “I thought it looked okay.” It was my best dress.

“What did he tell you to wear?”

“I asked him that and he said classy, approachable, and flattering.”

She snorted. “Flattering? Jesus.” She shook her head in what I took as disgust. “And so you made a beeline to the first lesbian you saw to test out how
flattering
you look?”

I put my hands on my hips, moving from defensive to angry. “What is your problem? I have no idea who that woman is or whether she’s gay. I just met her, for God’s sake.”

“Oh, she’s gay all right. I’m sure she’s loving the new
accountant
,” she said sarcastically.

“Well, isn’t that the idea? To flutter around the party, acting interested in everyone and everything so they feel happy and satisfied and very generous with their wallets and purses?”

“We’re not high-class hookers, Cazz. We’re not trying to bed them.”

My nostrils flared and I took a deep breath before stepping away from Sarah, afraid I’d say something hurtful in retaliation for feeling she’d sucker punched me. I turned and stalked toward the door we’d come through.

“Wait.” Sarah rushed to my side and tried to stop me with a hand on my arm. “I’m sorry.”

I shook her off and kept moving. I opened the door and felt another pull at my elbow.

“Cazz, please.” She kept her voice low, obviously trying not to draw attention to us yet beckoning me with another light tug on my arm.

Now that we were back in the party, I didn’t want to make a scene, so I relented and followed. She led me to the elevators and pressed the up arrow. One of the four elevators immediately opened and I entered behind her. She pressed the button to the 22nd floor and the elevator made quick work of the ascent. Her eyes were on me during the brief ride, but in my anger I refused to meet them.

She exited to her right and I followed as she walked down the hall. Though I tried to be unaffected, the toned arms, confident shoulders, graceful sway of hips, and splendid sweep of neck and back before me all began undermining my annoyance. I nearly snorted at how ridiculously easy she could manipulate me, and damn it, she wasn’t even trying.

When she stopped in front of room 2214, she bent down slightly and gathered some of the elegant red ruffle of her dress. Feeling for something, she pulled out a key card from a tiny hidden pocket inside the ruffle below the knee and inserted it into the door lock. The light flashed green. She pushed open the door and stood aside to let me through.

As the door closed behind us, Sarah grabbed me around my waist with one arm and threaded her fingers in my hair as she pulled my mouth to hers. She pressed her body to mine and forced me against the door in a fierce kiss that sent wonderful shivers through me. If I hadn’t had an object to lean against, I’m sure Sarah would have brought me to my knees as I wouldn’t have been able to stand on my own. My irritation gave way to confusion, then to desire, and soon I returned her kiss with an intensity to match hers. Our lips and tongues moved together like the flowing of an ocean tide, alternating between moments of raging passion and gentle tenderness. It seemed as if we were both acknowledging the gamut of feelings we elicited in each other: there was no right or wrong way to kiss or touch, simply an overpowering need to do it.