Someone—and she had only two someones whom she suspected—had gotten his hands on her checkbook and written himself a check for twenty-five odd thousand. Dylan, or Jerry? It had to be one of them. They knew where she lived, and they were both determined to get something from her. They both wanted their cut of her good fortune, their fair share for—what? Breathing?
She’d tagged Dylan for a moocher, but she wasn’t sure he’d steal. Even if he did, he wouldn’t be bold enough to take it all. He’d steal a few checks, write one here and there for a couple hundred dollars, hoping she wouldn’t notice, and if she did then he’d hope she’d cut him some slack instead of going to the cops. That was Dylan.
But her dad … Jerry Redwine would take all he could get and then he’d run.
She felt that inner door slam that signaled yet another end. She wouldn’t hear from him again. He wouldn’t call. There would be no more awkward lunches, no more offers to get in on the ground floor of some great opportunity he’d dreamed up. Her latest refusal had evidently convinced him she couldn’t be fleeced, so instead he’d stolen from her. He was gone for good this time, because he’d known there was no getting past this.
The certainty that he was the culprit ate through her like acid. How had he done it? He couldn’t have gotten her ATM code—and besides, ATMs would dispense only a limited amount of cash from an account—but somehow he must have gotten his hands on her checkbook.
She’d been so careful whenever he was in the house, always taking her purse with her if she went into another room, or locking it in the trunk of the car if she’d known ahead of time that he was coming over. But what if she hadn’t known he was there? What if he’d lurked outside, waited until she was in the shower or even in bed asleep, then quietly slipped the lock and let himself in? She could easily see him doing that. In hindsight she realized she should have installed an alarm, but she hadn’t wanted to spend any money on a place where she wasn’t going to be living much longer, and she’d let it slide. She was still in the habit of avoiding relatively small expenses, because they were outside her experience, and now it had cost her big time.
When she got home she took out her checkbook and carefully went through it, looking at the numbers to make sure none were missing. The books each had twenty-five checks in them, and she kept only one book at a time; the others were in the safe deposit box. She knew what checks she’d written, because she kept a careful record. The blank check on top was the next one in sequence. They were all there … except for the very last one in the book.
She looked up the last time she’d balanced the account, and carefully began subtracting the amount of each check she’d written. The total was more than she’d thought. She’d had a balance of twenty-seven thousand, four hundred three dollars and twenty-two cents. Jerry had even taken the four hundred. Heck, he’d evidently even done the math himself, to see how much he could write the check to himself for. If he hadn’t, if he’d left her a few hundred, it might have taken her days longer to realize what he’d done.
And this was it. He’d finally done it, finally gone past her limit. This was turning out to be a hell of a day. First Michelle, and now Jerry, though actually Jerry had made his move first, even though she’d just found out about it. She hadn’t seen him since Wednesday. Two days, then. He’d have left immediately because he wouldn’t be certain she wouldn’t turn him over to the cops for forgery.
She wouldn’t. Let him have the money. Let this mark the complete end. She’d been waiting for this moment from the second she realized she’d won the lottery, wondering how much it would cost her, and now she knew: twenty-seven thousand, four hundred dollars.
She sat in the silent duplex, feeling exhausted and empty, and suddenly she had a moment of clarity. She’d known all along that winning the lottery would change her life, known that some of the changes would be jarring, but she hadn’t expected how complete the change would be.
Part Two
BAD LUCK
Chapter Six
Seven years later
“WE HAVE A SITUATION DEVELOPING,” THE FAMILIAR voice said on Cael Traylor’s secure, encrypted cell phone.
Cael could put both a name and a face to the voice, because he’d made a point of being able to do so. Finding out what he wanted to know had required a cross-country drive, but driving had kept him off the radar, which he wouldn’t have been if he’d flown. Any time his name showed up on a passenger list, certain elements of the U.S. government learned of it. Not Homeland Security, not the State Department, but certain people who handled black ops, such as the man who was currently talking to him on his phone.
“Details,” he said briefly, turning off the television and wheeling away from his computer so he could concentrate. He didn’t take notes; a paper trail could come back to bite him on the ass. He did take precautions to make certain he was never hung out to dry, but notes weren’t part of his routine.
“We’ve picked up some transmissions from the North Koreans that make us suspect they’ve established a source for some technology we’d rather they not have.”
Cael didn’t ask what that technology was—not yet, anyway. At this point he didn’t need to know. If at some point he decided he did need to know, then he wouldn’t proceed without that information. “Who’s the source?”
“Frank Larkin.”
Cael’s interest level shot up several degrees. Larkin was a multimillionaire who was one of the behind-the-scene powers in Washington, D.C., with a lot of friends and contacts in high places. He had jumped on the green bandwagon with so-called environmentally friendly businesses and products that were questionable at best, and were probably outright cons. Cael didn’t get emotionally involved in causes, but in his opinion it took a particularly sleazy type of bastard to take advantage of people who were trying to do something good.
“He pulls a lot of juice” was all he said, his tone neutral. Because of Larkin’s connections, anything they got on him would have to be ironclad—and even then there was no guarantee that anything would ever be done. On the other hand, in a lot of these cases no formal charges were ever brought. The “problem” was taken care of, and would look like a heart attack or a stroke, at least on paper, while the bullet hole in the back of the head would somehow escape the medical examiner’s notice.
Cael had done his share of wet work, but that was for another country, in another decade. His true specialty was surveillance, so what he was being called on to do was get the goods on Larkin, not take him out.
“Specifics,” he said.
“Larkin is one of a consortium that’s expanding into luxury ship cruises. The first ship, the Silver Mist, is scheduled to go into service very shortly. Before that, however, her maiden voyage will be a special two-week charity cruise to Hawaii. The passengers will all be the super-elite, all the proceeds from the cruise will be donated to charity, and there’s a huge public relations push going on. Larkin will be the host of the cruise. We think he’ll be meeting with the North Koreans while he’s in Hawaii, but the place and time won’t be set until shortly beforehand. We need to know when and where.”
Cael mulled that information over. The computer age had changed espionage; actual prototypes or products didn’t have to be stolen. Instead, the specs could be transmitted in the blink of an eye, and the receiving country or agency could proceed from there. The North Koreans were famously paranoid; a face-to-face meet, especially on foreign soil, posed far more risk to them than a simple file transmission.
“Something’s off,” he said. “Why would the Koreans agree to that? Why the need for a face-to-face meet?”
“We don’t know. There may be something else going on that we haven’t unraveled yet. What we do know is enough.”
Cael gave a mental shrug. In the end, it didn’t matter why the Koreans would agree to such a risky move, just that they had. “When’s the cruise?”
“Two weeks.”
Not much time then. “Can you get me and my peop
le booked? We’ll need the suite next to Larkin’s.”
“How many rooms do you need?”
“Two,” he replied. He and Tiffany would take one room, Ryan and Faith the other. In fact, the best arrangement would be Ryan and Faith in the suite adjoining Larkin’s. This cruise was just the type of thing they would do, so their presence wouldn’t be in any way remarkable. “And I’ll need two people embedded in the ship’s crew.”
“Names.”
He provided them, his thoughts already moving ahead. He would also need someone on the security staff, and putting one of his people there at this late date was probably impossible. Therefore, he needed to buy someone who was already on staff. He relayed that requirement, too.
“I’ll have everything set up. Get your people ready.”
They both hung up. Cael left his chair to get more coffee. He’d been awake and at the computer for more than an hour, but it was barely five o’clock in the morning, California time, too early to call any of his people and put them on alert. Instead, he took his cup out onto the porch and sat in one of the comfortable rocking chairs, stretching his long legs out to prop them on top of the porch railing. Dawn hadn’t yet rolled across the mountains to the east of him, but the birds and insects were producing an anticipatory symphony. He listened to them, enjoying the songs and solitude, the soft feel of the early-morning air on his bare chest.
His house was the only one in sight, and he liked it that way. The house itself was two-story, made of timber and rock so that it blended into its surroundings, not so big as to attract notice but large enough that he could be comfortable. The security array was more extensive than normal, but not immediately apparent. He’d installed at least half the precautions himself, so no company would have a set of schematics that could be used to breach his defenses. Maybe he had a touch of paranoia himself, but the way he looked at it, he’d rather spend some extra money than be caught with his pants down. He was in a dangerous business—not as dangerous now as what he’d done before, but in his type of work you didn’t win many friends.
Trust was the keystone in his relationships, both professional and personal. Professionally, he didn’t trust the people he worked for, but he did the people he worked with. He had a good group assembled. They didn’t work together exclusively, but more and more the others were turning down jobs that hadn’t come through him.
He hadn’t set out to be the head of anything. For that matter, he hadn’t set out to work in the world of black ops. A combination of birth, circumstance, and natural talent had gradually led him to where he was now, and he had to admit the job was a good fit.
He’d been born in Israel to American parents. His mother was a nonpracticing Jew; his father a laid-back Mississippi Delta boy who didn’t give a hoot one way or the other. The fact that his mother didn’t practice the religion she’d been born into was a sore spot with Cael. “If you aren’t willing to follow the customs that pertain to you,” he’d once groused to her, “why the hell couldn’t you have left my foreskin out of it?”
“Stop complaining,” she’d retorted. “You didn’t need it.”
“But I might have wanted it, and now I’ll never know, will I?”
Just as a matter of principle, he didn’t like the fact that one of his body parts had been removed without his permission.
He’d lived in Israel until he was ten, and had grown up speaking three languages: Hebrew, English, and Southern. Later on he’d added Spanish and German, with a smattering of Japanese that he was gradually expanding. Moving to the United States had been a big culture shock to him, but one he liked. He may have spent his first ten years in Israel, but he’d always been aware that he was an American. This was where he belonged.
Even so, he retained a deep fondness for Israel, and because he’d been born there he had dual citizenship. When he was eighteen he’d decided he wanted adventure, and he’d served a stint in the Israeli army, where he’d exhibited certain talents that brought him to the attention of Mossad. He’d done some jobs for them, before maturity and a desire to live brought him back to America, where he’d belatedly gotten a college degree in business administration.
There was no getting away from fate, he mused. His degree had come in handy, with the string of car washes, Laundromats, and other cash-rich businesses he owned. He’d built a fortune for himself—smallish, but still a fortune. The truth, however, was that those cash-rich businesses provided a convenient way for him to launder the money he earned from his real livelihood, which was mostly finding out things that other people wanted to keep hidden. The people who paid him didn’t exactly provide 1099s at the end of the year, and he had to have some way to account for his money to the IRS. He did have some of it salted away in Switzerland, but the whole point of money, to him, was to put it to work. To do that, he had to have it in the United States. Thus the low-rent businesses, which had turned out to be a gold mine. No matter what, people washed their cars and clothes.
While he’d nursed his coffee, dawn had gradually arrived. He could see the mountains now, the deep green forest around him, see the birds that sang. His stomach reminded him that he’d been up for hours, and it was time for breakfast. After breakfast, he’d start calling his people, and get a plan put in place.
CRYSTAL CHANDELIERS GLITTERED OVERHEAD; in fact the entire ballroom seemed to glitter, from the chandeliers to the crystal glasses on the tables, to the jewelry decorating hair and ears, throats and hands, to the sequins and crystals on gowns and shoes and evening bags. Everything glittered.
Jenner stifled a sigh. She was so damn tired of glitter, so bored with these endless charity functions even when they were for a good cause. Why couldn’t she just write a check and be done with it?
Even if she’d enjoyed the social aspect of these things, wine tasting, followed by an expensive dinner, which was then followed by an auction for overvalued objects she didn’t want or need wasn’t Jenner’s idea of fun, and yet here she was. Again.
It was Sydney’s fault, of course. Sydney Hazlett was Jenner’s only real friend among the south Florida elite, and Syd often begged Jenner to attend these things to give her support and backup; in an odd reversal of circumstance, nature—whatever—the young woman who had been born to a life of luxury, coddled and catered to all her life, suffered from an almost paralyzing lack of confidence, while Jenner, who had come from nothing, could stare down anyone and shrug off any slight, which meant the one doing the slighting was, at best, unimportant to her.
That was how Jenner had survived these seven years after leaving Chicago. She had to admit that, by and large, people here had been polite, even gracious, but they hadn’t welcomed her into their inner circles. She had many acquaintances, but only one friend, and that was Syd.
According to Syd, her attendance was mandatory, which meant Jenner’s was, too. So as much as she wished she could just write a check to the children’s hospital and call it done, she had to endure these tedious events—and she’d still end up writing a check.
She didn’t even like wine, which she supposed was an indication of her very red blood and her low-brow, blue-collar upbringing. Give her a beer and she was much happier. She barely managed to keep from shuddering at each sip, and thank God she could spit the nasty stuff out. At least with dinner she’d be able to get her favorite drink, a teeter-totter, which was a delicious blend of half champagne and half sparkling green apple juice. She couldn’t stand champagne on its own, but mixed with apple juice it was great. All the servers and bartenders at these events knew what she drank, without having to ask.
Where was Syd, anyway? They’d be sitting down to dinner any minute, and after being coerced into attending this thing, she’d like to have someone she could talk to. Jenner was feeling decidedly grumpy that she’d endured this to give Syd company, and her friend wasn’t even here. She should have expected it; Syd was often late—partly, Jenner suspected, because she dreaded these functions even more than Jenner did, but her tardiness
was usually about fifteen to thirty minutes. This time, she’d missed the entire wine-tasting, which had lasted for over an hour.
Jenner was thinking about slipping outside and calling her when Syd said behind her, “You’re blond again. I love the shade.”
Jenner turned, smiling wryly. “You’re late. If I’d known you were going to miss the entire wine-tasting, I wouldn’t have shown up, either.”
“I just couldn’t—” Syd looked down at herself with a sigh. She looked fine to Jenner. Her gown was classic in line and construction, the cream color looked great with Syd’s honey-blond hair and golden skin, and Syd herself was very pretty, with her natural sweetness evident in her expression. But Syd was hypercritical of herself, always fearing she didn’t measure up to her father’s exacting tastes, afraid people were making fun of her, second-guessing her clothing decisions, which of course meant she never wore the first thing she tried on—at least not without trying on several other outfits before, in despair, she went with her original choice.
On Syd’s behalf, Jenner would have hated Mr. Hazlett, except he so obviously adored Syd and tried in a number of ways to prop up her fragile self-esteem, and was hugely relieved and grateful to Jenner for being Syd’s friend. J. Michael Hazlett did indeed have impeccable taste; he was handsome, urbane, and completely comfortable in his skin, as well as being a formidable businessman. But he never said anything the least critical to Syd, and would have fought tigers to protect her. It was hard to hate someone who not only wasn’t a villain, but who actually, in his own endearing, slightly clumsy masculine way, tried to show his daughter how special and lovable she was. She and Mr. Hazlett had become coconspirators, always trying to make certain one of them was available to lend Syd support if she needed it.
Just like now.