Miranda Vaughn Mystery 01.00 - Chasing the Dollar (10 page)

"Miss Vaughn, you have very little time," the concierge said.

"
Why are you helping me?"

"
We take care of our guests."

He gave me a pointed look, and after a few seconds I nodded. Maybe this wasn
't the first time the Mandarin's hotel staff had to help a guest evade police. He turned and headed into the dark and empty conference room, staying along one wall. At the corner, he unlocked a door and let us into a hallway.

Then he stopped.

"Go through the double doors, turn right. Follow that hall to the end and you'll find the door to the service alley." He reached into his pocket and withdrew my passport, which I had given the clerk when I checked in.

"
Won't the police be watching the back entrances?" Jake asked.

The concierge gave us a puzzled look.
"Those men are not police."

I swallowed hard at his tone, took my passport
, and stammered out a thank you. Jake grabbed my hand and pulled me away.

We ran down the empty hallway, following the directions to the exit. We were in a service hall, and the only people we passed were a few housekeeping staff and servers, but they didn
't pay much attention to us. Jake pushed the exit door open and looked outside, and then pulled me out into the alley. The concierge was right—the men looking for us were not covering the back entrance. We hurried down the alley toward a street behind the hotel.

Jake led us on a convoluted path away from the Mandarin, and I had to jog to keep up with his long strides. The oppressive heat didn
't help. No offshore breeze penetrated the maze of city buildings where we were and the air was thick with humidity.

"
Where are we going?"

"
To my hotel," he said as we passed a bus stop.

"
The bike?" I asked, my breath coming in gasps.

"
A rental. It's fine where I left it."

As we left the casino and modern buildings behind us, the architecture changed from modern to
Macau's own blend that reflected Asian influences and those of the region's Portuguese settlers. My feet slid and stumbled over the cobblestone streets that snaked between squat and cramped buildings. The exotic scent of incense from an open market mingled with the heavy exhaust fumes from Macau's impressive traffic. It would have been a lovely walking tour, if we weren't being chased. And if we weren't nearly running.

Jake looked up at a storefront, paused and then yanked my hand and pulled me into the front door of a convenience shop.

He went over to a display of tourist staples—hats, sunglasses, T-shirts, postcards. He grabbed a large black T-shirt and two baseball caps and paid with cash. Taking the plastic bag, he led me back out the door, his hand gripping my elbow as if I'd flee. He didn't have to worry. I had no idea where I was. I didn't speak the language, and I had no clue who was chasing me. I may not trust him, but at that moment, Jake Barnes was my lifeline.

At a corner, where the alley ended at a boulevard, Jake pulled out one of the baseball caps and put it on. He handed me the
T-shirt.

"
What am I supposed to do with this?" I asked, holding it up and reading the slogan for an American beer company.

"
Put it on. In that shirt, you look like the main character in
Where's Waldo
?" he said.

I looked down at my shirt with its wide horizontal red and white stripes.
"Isn't that good? No one can find Waldo."

He frowned, and I sighed, putting the
T-shirt on over my shirt. He handed me a cap, and I put that on, too. He shook his head, took the cap off my head, and handed it to me.

"
Tuck your hair up, best you can," he said.

I did as he instructed, trying to coax my hair into staying beneath the cap. With an impatient sigh, he took the cap and handed it to me, then pulled my hair up in a sloppy pile and held it with one hand. He took the cap from me and fit it over the mess, tucking a few stray strands up, his fingers brushing my face.

"Good enough," he said.

"
Way to make a girl feel special," I muttered, as he started off in a new direction. I had to nearly run to keep up with him.

As the sun set, the sky turned a dingy shade of orange, then a deeper grey-orange shade from the light pollution. We wove through a couple more alleys, turning corners that seemed to lead deeper into dark corners of
Macau. Gone were the shining buildings of the financial center and the glittering five-star hotels. The doors we passed now were unmarked, or covered with peeling signs for cigarettes. Occasionally, we'd pass an open door and the tantalizing scent of spicy Cantonese cooking wafted out, making my stomach rumble in protest. 

Even in running shoes, my feet were tired and achy when we finally walked across a pedestrian overpass, and Jake pointed to a low squat building.

"We'll stay here tonight," he said.

It was a far cry from the Mandarin, but I didn
't care. I wanted to take a hot shower, wash the dye out of my hair, and put my feet up. Maybe get something to eat. Definitely sleep for a long time.

There was no concierge in the lobby of the motel, and the front desk was occupied by an older woman watching a soap opera on a table-top TV. She didn
't even look up from the screen as we passed and walked up one flight of stairs. Jake opened the motel room door and after scanning the room, held the door for me.

The room smelled of disinfectant and stale air-conditioned air. I stood in the middle of the room, unsure of what to do next. It was a typical Ramada/Best Western style room—just with a few Asian touches, like the bamboo plant near the window, and the sign on the outside wall in Cantonese characters.

"Have a seat," Jake said.

I sat in the small, upholstered chair next to the desk by the window, clutching my messenger bag to my body. Jake sat on the edge of the bed, facing me. We were only a few feet apart.

"Now," he said, his voice low. "Tell me what the hell you're doing here. And don't lie to me this time."

I stood in the narrow shower and let the hot water pour over me. After the third time shampooing my hair, the suds were no longer muddy with the temporary dye. Which meant I no longer had an excuse to stay in the steamy privacy of the tiny hotel bathroom and avoid Jake
's questions.

I
'd begged off answering his interrogation until I was able to shower, convincing him that the people chasing us wouldn't be looking for a blonde, and I should wash the dye out before we had to run again. But I couldn't hide in the shower forever.

With a reluctant sigh, I turned off the water and stepped out of the tiled stall. A knock on the door caught me off guard, and I clutched the thin towel around my body.

"You decent?"

"
Not remotely."

"
I have some clothes for you," Jake said.

Intrigued, I went to the door and opened it a crack. Sure enough, he was holding a department store bag, which he held up.

I reached through the door, but he pulled away.

"
Let's make a deal," he said with a smile.

"
No, let's allow me to get dressed." I was not in the mood to play games. I glanced around the bathroom for the clothes I had been wearing and realized that they were missing.

"
I took them," he said. "Don't worry, they're safe."

I looked back at him through the several inches I
'd cracked the door. "Where? Why?"

"
Didn't want you to leave while I was out," he said.

I turned again and looked at the empty counter, not believing my eyes.
"You just came in here? When I was in the shower?"

"
Yep."

I saw the strap to my messenger bag under the counter and nearly exhaled in relief that he hadn
't grabbed that.

"
Can I please have my clothes? Any clothes?"

He gave me a half smile and leaned against the wall.

"Why are you here in Macau?"

I slammed the door shut and stood there, fuming. Running my fingers through my wet hair, I looked around the steamy room. There was nothing I could wear here. There was another towel and two washcloths. No bathrobe. Maybe I could use the shower curtain, if I got creative.

Damn it.

I opened the door and he was still there, waiting. Smiling.

"I told you. Someone set me up. I came to Macau to find out who," I said through gritted teeth.

He frowned and then shook his head.

"I don't think that's the whole story," he said. He reached into the bag and pulled something out and handed it to me. "But you have these."

"
Socks?"

"
Don't worry, I'll give you a chance to earn more clothes."

My head started to pound with suppressed rage. I took a deep breath, counted to ten, and set the socks on the bathroom counter.

"Now, why were you in Bill's office?"

Thoughts of what I would do to Jake Barnes when I was fully clothed marched through my head. Most were impractical—where was I going to find a cattle prod in
Macau at this hour? But no matter how creative, they all were satisfying my lust for revenge.

"
Bill Macias was in charge of the energy group. Some of the money from the Sahara Fund investors went through his office's general account."

He gave me another piece of clothing—a navy blue
T-shirt. Great, now I had a shirt and socks. And nothing else but a soggy towel.

"
You're saying Bill set you up?"

I could hear the disbelief in his voice.

"Yes."

"
How do you know this?"

"
You owe me another piece of clothing. You asked if I was saying Bill set me up, and I answered," I said.

He rolled his eyes, reached into the bag and pulled out a pair of pink lace underwear, dangling the delicate fabric from his finger. I grabbed it and added it to my meager pile.

"I found the evidence in the discovery from my case. If your coworkers had followed the money, they would have seen that the money was siphoned off from the Sahara Fund trust account to the ones set up in my name—by
other
people," I said, stressing that last part. "But then it was transferred to accounts under other Patterson Tinker offices, mostly Macau's energy group."

Jake looked thoughtful as he pulled out a pair of khaki pants and handed them to me.

"So, are you saying that the fraud scheme included more than just Tinker, Norquist, and you?"

"
I
was not involved," I said, my voice rising.

"
What exactly were you going to tell Bill?"

I put the pants on the counter and tried to gather my thoughts. If I told him my actual plan, he
'd probably arrest me. But he still had something in the bag, and I hoped it was a bra. And maybe a comb.

"
I wanted to show him the trail of the money transfers and see what he knew about it."

He narrowed his eyes and stared at me, and suddenly, the damp towel and the door I was standing behind didn
't seem like much protection. Then he shook his head.

"
That one is a lie," he said.

"
Why do you say that?" I really wanted to ask how he knew I was lying. Did I have a tell? Or was he really that good at reading people?

"
Because you believe Bill set you up. You're not here to ask questions." He tilted his head and gave me a long stare. "And because I know Bill. He's a good poker player. He'd never give you the answers you want."

"
Can I please have another piece of clothing?"

"
Tell me your plan."

Damn it
.

"
I was going to convince Bill to transfer the thirty-seven million stolen from the Sahara Fund investors to an account so the victims could get their money back," I said.

Deliberately, he opened the bag and looked in, then slowly drew out a bra that matched the panties he
'd already handed me. The man had pretty good taste in lingerie.

I took it and slammed the door again. I ripped off tags and dressed quickly, marveling at how everything fit fairly well. The khaki capris were good quality, as was the
T-shirt. I turned sideways and looked in the mirror. He was a little optimistic on the bra, but it would do. I dug into the side pocket of the messenger bag and found the flash drive from Bill's desk and tucked it into my pants pocket. I hadn't been able to look at it yet, but I knew it was important. Bill Macias wouldn't have hidden it there if it were inconsequential.

Taking a deep breath, I opened the door and started to walk out but ran smack into Jake
's chest.

"
You're still here?"

"
If you would have answered another question, you could have had the rest," he said, handing me the shopping bag. I peeked in and saw a smaller bag from a drug store. Inside were a toothbrush, a comb, and shampoo and conditioner. I looked up and felt a wave of emotion that threatened tears.

"
Thank you," I said, setting the items on the counter. I didn't know why such a small gesture was making me teary. It was just more thoughtful than I was expecting. Especially after he held my clothes hostage. I decided to blame jet lag and exhaustion, since I'd just walked all over half of Macau.

"
It's just toothpaste and stuff," he said, seeming uncomfortable with the fact that he'd just disarmed me with some drugstore toiletries.

I started trying to comb my hair, which was even more tangled after the temporary dye and thorough washing with cheap hotel shampoo. Jake stood in the doorway of the bathroom.

"You'd never convince Bill to willingly send thirty-seven million on your command. You know that, right?"

I smoothed some conditioner through my hair and ignored his question.

"I mean, the man doesn't even pay his alimony on time," Jake said, watching me fight the snarls in my hair with the cheap comb.

"
Well, this isn't his money. It's the right thing to do."

"
Let me see if I understand this. Your big plan was to fly to Macau, blackmail a former coworker by promising not to tell the authorities about his involvement in the scheme, and get the money back to the victims?"

This time, I didn
't answer. When he said it, it sounded ridiculous. In my head, it had seemed like a semi-solid plan with at least fifty-fifty odds of success. He looked incredulous.

"
That is a terrible plan. I mean, I've heard you're smart, graduated at the top of your class, worked your way up to a responsible position. You know this would never work, don't you?"

"
Why won't it work? My plan clears my name and makes the victims whole again. I'm not trying to save the world, just the life savings of a few hundred people."

"
It won't work because it's illegal. You're going to blackmail someone," he said.

"
No, I am going to convince someone to return something he stole. It's not blackmail—it's doing the right thing."

"
How were you going to get the money to the victims?"

"
I'm not sure yet. Maybe through their lawyers," I said, finally freeing the plastic comb and moving to another section of knots. "As you pointed out, they are about to sue me."

He crossed his arms and leaned on the doorframe.

"You could talk to the U.S. Attorney's office. They'd be interested in getting the victims reimbursed."

"
They think I stole it in the first place," I said.

"
You didn't?"

I shot him a furious glare and finished combing out my hair.

"Can you show me what you found about Bill's involvement in the money transfers?"

On one hand, I could do that, very easily. I had tracked the money to Bill
's doorstep, and beyond. And the beyond part was the problem. I could show him why his brother-in-law was involved with a thirty-seven million dollar fraud scheme. But Bill was involved in so much more, and that was my only leverage.

"
I can show you the transfers," I said, reaching for my bag. I'd just have to be careful and hope Jake didn't ask too many questions.

We moved from the damp bathroom, and I set my messenger bag on the desk by the window. Jake pulled the curtains shut on the dark sky outside. He sat on the foot of the bed again and watched as I pulled out my laptop and the paperwork I
'd compiled.

I tossed him a packet of about twenty pages, stapled along the side into a makeshift booklet. It was a report I
'd compiled, similar to the ones I'd put together in my days working in finance. But this one was different in that it was the story of the Sahara Fund fraud, told in charts and graphs. And names. I named everyone.

He started to read, then looked up at me.
"You wrote this?"

I nodded, and he flipped through the pages quickly, taking it in. Then he stood and went to the other end of the bed and sat with his back against the headboard, his legs stretched out on the bed, and started reading at the beginning. When he finished, he lifted his gaze to mine, his eyes serious.

"What is Bill up to?"

Biting my lip, I paused, unsure of what to tell him.

"Look, I'm no fan of the guy. He left my sister with two kids under the age of five. But he's Henry and Lily's dad. He was a lousy husband, but he was a good father. He wouldn't willingly abandon his children. And now he's missing. He hasn't been in touch with my sister in three weeks. His office—hell, his entire department—is MIA. There's something going on. If you know something, please tell me."

Oh, great, guilt with a side of absentee father—my kryptonite.

"I don't know anything about Bill or where he might be," I said. "How long have you been here looking for him?"

He ran a hand through his hair and leaned forward.
"Just a few days. I've gotten nowhere."

The silence hung between us.

"Why do you think the guys following us are bad guys?"

"
Because I saw them at Bill's apartment two days ago."

He swung his legs over the side of the bed and rested his forearms on his knees, staring intently at the carpet.

"They'd trashed the place. It looked like his office. And now they know you're poking around. What name did you use to get into Patterson Investments today?"

I hesitated only a second before answering.
"Lana Parker."

"
Who is Lana Parker?"

"
She's the stepdaughter of a Houston oil man who came into a large trust and needs assistance managing her wealth."