Miranda Vaughn Mystery 01.00 - Chasing the Dollar (7 page)

Why was he asking about Bill Macias? The case was over, and Bill
's name had never been mentioned. I remembered the vice president of energy in the Asia office—he was a charming man in his late 30s, ambitious, and a loyal Patterson Tinker employee. He had worked his way up from a fund manager to overseeing fund managers who studied the energy markets and invested money in companies and technologies that would pay the best returns.

I hadn
't seen him since the short trip I'd taken to Macau with Tim and Ralph. Dylan had gone on that trip, too, and I gripped the railing tighter at the memory. I'd worked the entire time, but Dylan and Tim had found time to go out every night and party. When I'd complained to Dylan, he told me that it was part of his job—he had to spend time and Patterson Tinker's money entertaining clients. Then I had pouted and Dylan stormed out of the five-star hotel and didn't come back to the room until dawn. It had been a long, chilly flight back to the states.

I went back inside, turned off the porch light
, and locked the door. My plans to get a good night's sleep were blown out of the water. Taking the laptop with me, I went to bed to continue my research. This time, to focus on Bill Macias.

It would take Rob at least four weeks to get the evidence in his new fraud case, so I told Aunt Marie that I was thinking of doing a little traveling. She practically packed my suitcase for me. She had no idea about my plan but seemed happy that I had some goals and direction for a change. Of course, had she known my real plans, she would have probably locked me in the bakery
's walk-in fridge.

I twisted the top off a bottle of water and checked out the view from the floor-to-ceiling hotel window.
Macau was as amazing and impressive as it had been last time I'd been here, and looking out over the city gave me a little flutter in my stomach. The sky was white and overcast, and the air looked thick with the ever-present humidity. The haze at the edge of the horizon was tinged with a dusky brown smudge. That could be an effect from either the city's smog or an incoming storm front that would bring heavy rains, a risk of traveling to the southern coast of China in the summer months.

Checking into a hotel has always excited me. Maybe it
's from a childhood where vacations were spent in a tent, but I've always loved exploring the little space, smelling the soaps, checking out the view. Unpacking my things and making this human-sized dollhouse my own for the duration of my stay.

It was more fun when it was an expensive five-star hotel paid for by Patterson Tinker. They
'd always put their people up in the finest hotels, usually in suites. Having to pass my own credit card across the counter was more difficult, even for the smallest room at a slightly less prestigious hotel in Macau. I prayed that I could execute my plan quickly and get back to the states before I hit my credit card limits.

My room overlooked a series of bright blue swimming pools ringed by Greek columns and palm trees. The effect was more Vegas than world-class resort, but Macau itself seemed to be aiming at becoming
Las Vegas on steroids, boasting more casinos than any other city on earth. One of the best parts of working for Patterson Tinker had been the travel I'd been able to do—Geneva, London, Paris, Stockholm and Frankfurt. It had been work, but I'd tried to fit in some sightseeing when I could.

The Mandarin Hotel was nice, but not as pricey as the one Patterson Tinker booked for me. It was close enough to my previous hotel that I
'd be able to find my way around, so I paid more than I wanted to for that security. Plus, it was less likely that I'd run into visiting Patterson employees here. From the Mandarin, I could walk to the office building where my former employer, now called Patterson Investment Company, had its Asian headquarters. From my room I could see new buildings that had sprouted in the two years since I'd visited and recognized some landmarks in the historic center. It had been my first trip to Asia, and it made a huge impression on me. Dylan and I had even talked about spending our honeymoon exploring China.

Eager to shake thoughts of my former fiancé from my head, I opened my suitcase and dug around for the supplies I
'd packed. Using an assumed name and a fabricated cover story, I'd made an appointment to meet with a personal wealth manager. It would get me in the office and past security so I could track down the man I needed to talk to.

And then? Well, I had a plan and it wasn
't horrible. But it was risky. If Bill Macias called my bluff…

I forced myself to stop that train of thought. If I dwelled on that possibility, I
'd lose my nerve. Instead, I unpacked my suitcase and hung up the clothes I'd wear the next day. I kicked off my shoes and made myself comfortable. My nerves were on edge. I'm not a fan of flying and can't sleep on planes. I was running on the very small amount of shallow sleep that I'd managed to get on the eighteen-hour flight from San Francisco. It was only 3 o'clock in the afternoon, but I was ready for bed. Unfortunately, if I did that, I would be awake at midnight with nothing to do until my afternoon appointment.

I still had plenty to do before then, so I ordered a room service snack and a pot of coffee. Nourished and caffeinated, I got to work, starting with the temporary auburn hair dye.

When I realized that all the money I was trying to track had gone through the general office account for the Macau energy-trading group, I knew I had to talk to Bill Macias. And before the FBI did, too. If they arrested him, I'd lose any chance to confront him.

As far as I could tell, he still worked for the
Macau office as vice president of the energy-trading group. His office number still worked, though it went to his secretary's voicemail every time I tried to call. I never left a message, afraid that I'd tip my hand. Instead, I had dug into the documents that I'd swiped from my case files and found an internal company directory for the Macau office. Cross-referencing that with the trove of emails, I tracked down a wealth manager whose office was two floors below the energy-trading group and who was always complaining that he didn't have enough clients.

Martin Templeton was my entrée to the Patterson Investment Company.

I kept his emails in mind when I dressed the following afternoon. Martin was a chatty, social fellow. Born in East Anglia, England, the youngest of three brothers—and the least successful, at least according to the emails from his parents. His email traffic consisted of thirty percent work, thirty percent making social plans or chatting with friends in London, and forty percent forwarded photos of naked women. He also was a huge fan of all things Texan. Movies, music, travel. But he was especially interested in the Dallas Cowboy Cheerleaders.

When I left for the meeting, my hair was coiffed and teased into a brunette helmet that would make a beauty queen weep with envy. I was wearing more makeup than I
'd ever worn at one time, including a hint of shiny blue eye shadow. My low-cut wrap dress emphasized my cleavage, which was supplemented to make it more impressive. The entire ensemble was based on a particular email chain that Martin had seemed fixated on, a half-dozen soft-porn photos of a Texas co-ed.

From the look on his face, I had hit the bulls-eye.

"Good morning, Mr. Templeton. I'm Lana Parker," I said in my best southern drawl. "I sure appreciate you taking the time to meet with me."

"
Well, it's my pleasure, Miss Parker," he said. "Or is it Mrs. Parker?"

"
Oh, Mrs. Parker is my mama," I said with a giggle. "You can just call me Lana."

Martin
's face flushed pink, and he smiled widely. "Why don't we meet in my office?"

He led me past the reception area to a long, wide corridor lined with glass-enclosed conference rooms. The rooms looked out on the harbor. The conference rooms were empty, giving an unobstructed view of the city and the waterfront. Any fear that I
'd see a familiar face in the Patterson office was misplaced. Half the offices weren't occupied, and I wondered how well the company was really doing. When I'd visited two years ago, it had been bustling, taking up three floors in the high-rise and employing hundreds of workers.

Martin
's office was a small suite with a sitting area by the windows. We sat in a pair of upholstered chairs, sipping tea and chatting before getting down to business.

"
How can I help you, Lana?"

"
Well, as I may have mentioned, my grandfather, may he rest in peace, left me a rather generous trust upon his passing. I just don't know the first thing about investing, and I really don't want to worry about that. My step-father suggested that the Patterson Company could be of assistance," I said. I was worried about laying the whole Texas thing a little too thick, but Martin seemed to be eating it up.

"
And who is your step-father?"

"
Lloyd Nash," I said, taking a sip of the tea and letting Martin make the connection. "He's an oil and gas man in Houston."

"
Oh, Nash. Of course," Martin said, sitting a little straighter.

I
'd done my homework. Lloyd Nash was a wealthy businessman with faint ties to the Asia markets, so his name would be known, but details of his family life probably wouldn't.

Martin offered condolences on my dead
granddaddy and moved his chair closer and took my hand. "I can definitely help you, Lana."

I looked up at him through a thick fringe of fake eyelashes and blinked, as if tears were threatening to spill over. They were, but it was because of the damn glue on the false lashes. He offered a tissue, and I dabbed at my eyes and gave him a smile.

We agreed to meet the following day to review my current portfolio, and he was so eager at the prospect of his commission on such a large account that I almost felt guilty for my deception. By mid-afternoon tomorrow, I'd hopefully be on a flight back to California with the thirty-seven million dollars stolen from the Sahara Fund investors wired to a numbered account in the Caymans and an affidavit signed by Bill Macias attesting to my innocence.

Martin shook my hand vigorously near the elevators and seemed reluctant to let me leave, but the office was starting to close for the day.

"Are you relocating to Macau or here for a visit?"

"
I'm afraid I'm only in Macau for a short time to spend time with my mama and Lloyd."

"
Oh, is Mr. Nash in town?" Martin seemed eager to expand his portfolio of wealthy clients.

"
He is in Macau. In fact, he said I should stop by and visit one of his friends while I'm here. I nearly forgot. Do you know Mr. Winthrop?"

Clint Winthrop was a senior analyst in the technology group, and if the information I had was correct, he worked on the twenty-second floor, one below the energy group.

Martin nodded eagerly. "Of course, of course. He's with the technology group upstairs. Would you like me to ring him up and let him know you're here?"

"
Oh, if it's not too much bother." I batted my fake eyelashes and hoped that they would hold. Martin smiled and walked back to the receptionist, who placed a call upstairs while giving me a once-over. I knew she'd find nothing out of place—the expensive handbag, the pricey shoes, the classic designer dress. It was all genuine, remnants of my former life. The receptionist hung up the phone and gave Martin a nod, and he returned to me.

"
He's in and would love to meet you. I'll escort you upstairs," Martin said.

"
Oh, that's not necessary, Mr. Templeton," I said, taking his hand. "I'm sure you're very busy, and I can find my way up one floor."

I had to make sure Martin did not get into the elevator with me.

"Are you sure? It's really no trouble," he said, disappointed.

"
I've already taken up so much of your time today," I said. "And I plan on monopolizing your day tomorrow, as well, so I would feel terrible keeping you any longer than necessary."

I flashed a smile and batted my eyes again. Those false lashes were getting a workout. He gave me a reluctant smile and walked me to a different elevator that ran between the three floors that Patterson Investment leased and took my hand in his.

"It's just up on the twenty-second floor, but you'll have to hurry. Sounds like he's running out the door."

Perfect
.

"
So lovely to meet you, Lana. I look forward to seeing you tomorrow. And then maybe I can convince you to go to dinner with me."

I squeezed his hand and smiled.
"You charmer," I said. "I'd love to have dinner with you tomorrow night."

He beamed and held my hand as I stepped into the elevator and didn
't let go until the door started to shut. Once the door closed, I hit the button for the
twenty-third floor, letting out a deep breath and trying to calm my nerves.

The elevator passed the twenty-second floor, where Mr. Winthrop was waiting for Lana Parker to come introduce herself. He was going to be disappointed. The doors opened, and I stepped out into the lobby of the twenty-third floor, prepared to bluff my way to the suite belonging to the vice president of energy. The lobby area was silent, and the reception desk was empty. I walked toward it, my high-heels clicking on the marble floor.

When I reached the middle of the lobby, the sound of my footsteps echoed off the walls. I passed the receptionist's desk with the mute phones, and stepped onto a plush carpet that led down a wide hallway. It was the same layout as the
twenty-first floor, where I'd met with Martin Templeton. The sitting area past the reception desk featured low modern couches and glass tables on which several financial periodicals were arrayed. The floor-to-ceiling windows featured the same view as on the main floor—a panorama of the city and the harbor.

I peered down the long hallway, expecting to have to produce my cover story—that I must have hit the wrong button in the elevator—but no one walked out of the offices that lined the corridor.

The hair on the back of my neck stood on end. There was something eerie about the deathly quiet space. It was close to 5 p.m., and the offices two floors down were packing up for the day. But this floor had the feeling of a space that had long ago shut down.

I moved down the hall, looking at the nameplates on the doors. The names were familiar because I had studied the employee roster for the energy section. The office doors were closed, and I reached out and tried a door knob, but it was locked. I grew bolder as I made my way toward the end of the hall, trying the doors and peeking into the offices that were unlocked.