Never Again, Seriously Page 6

  Sharon stared and gave a small shake of her head. “My overall impression is the control environment needs to be improved. I suggest you review this with your outside accountants well before they start your year-end work this fall.”

  The waiter came for their drink order. Malcolm asked, “What kind of scotch do you have? I want something different from my usual Glenmorangie.”

  “Many of my customers like Black Dog Triple Gold Reserve. Twelve-year-old blended whisky. Usually only available in India, but the owner brings it in occasionally.”

  “Sounds expensive.”

  The waiter shrugged. “Would you like for me to check?”

  “No, that won’t be necessary. Bucks are no problem.” Malcolm grinned at the waiter and glanced at Sharon, whose smile was layered over some other emotion. He needed to dial it back a bit.

  “And for the lady?”

  Sharon crinkled her nose. “I don’t think I can handle that dog stuff. A martini is as sophisticated as it gets for this country girl.”

  After the waiter left, Malcolm said, “So where are you from?”

  “I grew up in Ray City, Georgia, and graduated high school there before going to college.”

  “I don’t think I’m familiar with Ray City. Is it near Savannah?”

  “No, it’s in the middle of nowhere, off I-75 near Valdosta. Very small town. We always joke that we’re from a place near a place.”

  “Do you still have family there?”

  “Only a sister. Rachel. She has some issues, so I try to get up there and see her every few weeks.”

  “Issues?” Malcolm tried to fashion a look of concern, eyebrows raised.

  “Better not to talk about it. I get upset, and there’s not much I can do.”

  Malcolm directed the conversation back to business. “You were saying something about weaknesses in our controls. Can you give me specifics?”

  “Well, separation of duties isn’t what it should be. For instance, the person signing the receiving documents shouldn’t be the same one approving invoices for payment. That sort of thing. This kind of stuff sometimes ends up on the back burner in a busy office. Perfectly understandable.”

  Malcolm nodded. This didn’t sound like much to him.

  “By the way, do you think the bank might let me come for one more visit, a last exam, before taking me off the case? Four days max, I promise. I want to follow up on a few audit issues. Then I’ll sign off on a transition report for the next person. Just necessary paperwork.”

  He leaned forward, his fingers brushing her hand. “After you’re through, I hope we can spend some time together.”

  She adjusted her silverware and faced him. “To be honest, I just ended a relationship. I need some alone time.”

  Malcolm wondered if that was true or if she was shining him on. “May I call you in a few weeks?”

  “No harm in that.” Sharon smiled, lips closed.

  Malcolm interlaced his fingers, thought better of it, and pulled them apart. “Sharon, this is confidential. I’m working on a sale of the company. If it happens, I’d like to take a long voyage. A leisurely trip to faraway places would be a lot more fun if I found someone to enjoy it with.”

  “Let’s not jump ahead of ourselves.”

  Malcolm paused, looking beyond Sharon to another table. A man and woman were dining with a young boy who appeared to be nine or ten years old. The boy’s hair was slicked back, and his suit matched his father’s, but he wore no tie. So clean, so pure.

  Malcolm usually managed to suppress his urges, but this child reminded him of his long-ago self and some nagging memories. The chemistry between a boy and a man was unique, and the idea frequently gripped his imagination despite all his efforts to quell it.

  The three had all ordered osso buco. Malcolm couldn’t take his eyes off the boy.

  Sharon glanced back over her shoulder at the three diners and turned back to Malcolm. “The additional visit?”

  “What? Oh, I’m sure it won’t be a problem. I’ll speak to the VP at the bank.”

  “Are you thinking about the osso buco? You’re acting hungry.” She flicked her thumb toward the family behind her, the motion hidden from their view by her body. “Or does that boy remind you of someone?”

  Malcolm’s brow furrowed. “What? No.” He tried to keep himself from looking again but couldn’t help it. A sigh escaped his lips.

  “Osso buco is a bit heavy for me. I recommend the manicotti Florentine—which is what I’m having. But, of course, you should order whatever you want.” He tried to grin, but it felt waxen.

  During the meal, Sharon steered the conversation to current events, and Malcolm had to make an effort to show interest.

  He brightened. “I’ve noticed you ever since you began auditing our books, but it wouldn’t have been proper to say anything. You impress me as a special person—”

  Sharon interrupted. “I try to look nice, even though the work is unglamorous, and I’m often by myself in a small room. Would you like for me to tell you how I got into this line of work?”

  After Malcolm’s third drink, conversation came easier for him, and he didn’t mind when she deflected his advances. The waiter brought the check soon after they both declined dessert and coffee.

  When they pulled in front of the hotel, Malcolm turned to her with a warm smile. “Why don’t you stay over tomorrow night and we can do this again?”

  Sharon shook her head. “I have to get home tomorrow.”

  “May I call you?”

  “Of course. You have my number at the office.”

  He leaned over to kiss her, and she gave him a cheek.

  Malcolm smiled as he drove away. He’d read her right. She wasn’t going to be easy, and that was fine. Maybe she’d come around. In the meantime, there were plenty of fish in the sea.

  Chapter 7

  Friday night, when José parked his truck near the tree, Jake stepped out from behind it into the faint light and gave a small wave.

  José turned off the headlights and rolled down the window.

  “You got it?”

  “Right here.” Jake raised the small duffel bag he was holding.

  José stepped out of the truck.

  Jake handed him the bag. “Here’s another twenty grand. That’s all you’re getting.”

  “Are you kidding? A hundred was the agreement. I’ll blow your little secret wide open, gringo.”

  “No, you won’t.” Jake reached back and slipped a short aluminum bat from under his waistband and glared down at the paunchy man. Used for killing big fish, the bat was heavier than it looked. “José, tonight I’m going to give you a painful sample of what can happen to you. If you ever mention anything about this to anybody, or if you ask me for more, you’ll get the real thing. I’ll make sure you never walk right again.”

  José laughed. “Good luck with that.”

  “Oh, yeah, I almost forgot. I’ll also doctor the books so it looks like José Colón is the thief—approached me for a loan to pay gambling debts is what I’ll say. Your fingerprints are all over the inventory fraud now, and I can say you’ve been on the computer after hours, many times. If you think about it, you’ll recall I also made sure you filled out some key purchasing documents in your own handwriting.”

  José dropped the bag. “That’s bullshit. No way can you keep yourself out of it.” As he stood, his hand brushed against his own back pocket and arced through the air, swinging something heavy in a black leather cover with a loop handle. Jake ducked and took the blow on his shoulder. He staggered and turned to raise the bat for a swing at José. The guy was quick; he slashed a backhand with the sap that glanced off Jake’s temple, hard enough to make him buckle again. He tried to clear his vision an instant before the sap swooshed again.

  Head throbbing with pain, Jake could make out the bl
urred images of a few bright stars in the dark sky before he started to fade again. Feeling cold, he shuddered and realized he was lying in shallow, grassy water. He gagged at the sour, rotten odor.

  In a coughing spasm, he felt his head fall back into the water, where it lapped at the corners of his mouth. He spat and wheezed. He heard a voice, his own. “Mom, am I dying? Where am I?” He passed out again.

  The taste of swamp water woke him again. He sputtered and tried to turn over. Too weak to turn, he reached back and pulled on the thick grass, inching toward the pond’s edge. Finally, catching hold of a tough clump, he twisted over on his stomach and crawled half out of the water. The sound of human footsteps came from the shell road, but he couldn’t tell which direction they were going.

  Facedown, he passed out again. When he came to, the drone of tires on pavement sounded nearby.

  Jake crawled across the grass to the edge of the shell road, then forward on it toward the highway. The skin of his palms tore, blood slicking his fingers. Sharp rocks bit into his knees through the denim. Waves of head pain brought darkness. After scuttling a few feet, he passed out again. At the main road, afraid to go on the pavement, he crawled on the grassy shoulder. The effort left him unable to lift his head. He tried to remember what had happened.

  A car sped by, tires whining. Brakes squealed, and it backed up, wheels inches from Jake’s head as it passed by and pulled on the shoulder behind him, illuminating his motionless form with its headlights.

  Car doors slammed, and footsteps approached.

  Two men clomped over, talking loudly.

  “Come here. I think this guy’s alive. Feel of this knot, Tub. Somebody smacked him good. Help me put him in the back seat.”

  “What the hell we gonna do with ’im, Egon?” The second voice was like gravel in a rolling drum. “We ain’t gonna take him to no hospital. This ain’t nothing but trouble. Let’s leave him here.”

  “Tub, you lose your brain? Somebody prob’ly tried to kill the man. Let’s check it out. Hell, they might pay us to finish the job.”

  A stout finger poked Jake in the ribs. He tried to speak but made no sound.

  They eased him into the musty back seat of their old sedan. “Guy smells like fish, Tub.” They drove for a short time and turned off the pavement to a rougher surface.

  Jake cried out as they manhandled him up wobbly steps and through a doorway. The one named Tub told him, “You better shut up if you don’t want another beating.”

  They laid him on a sofa and removed his clothes. Woozy, he complained, “Cold.”

  Egon handed Tub the shirt and pants. “Leave him be. Rinse these out in the shower. The pockets are full of sardines, so empty them in the toilet first.” Egon arranged a filthy army blanket over Jake.

  Tub returned, and Egon said, “Put some ice cubes in a plastic bag and wrap ’em in a towel. We’ll put it under his head and check him in the morning.” Jake passed out.

  Jake awoke to sounds from the kitchen. Unable to move his bound hands and feet, he groaned at his throbbing head. He was in a small living room. Through blurry eyes, he struggled to make out details—clothes, food containers, and beer cans on the furniture and floor. Hot pain stabbed behind his eyes.

  Two men came through the doorway, one slender and medium in height, the other tall and heavy. They bent down, peering at him. They smelled like animals.

  He focused on the skinny guy with long hair bending over him.

  “Good morning, sunshine. You done had a bad time.”

  A coarse blanket covered Jake’s thighs. Wearing only his underwear, he was propped in place by greasy throw pillows. His nose wrinkled at the musty sofa and the fishy smell coming from under the blanket. The voice sounded like one of the men who picked him up on the roadside.

  Wriggling his duct-taped wrists, trying to ease his discomfort, Jake said, “What are you doing to me?”

  “We found you Friday night. You’re doin’ better today. Tell me, what’s your deal?”

  Jake blinked several times. “How long have I been here?”

  “Today’s Sunday. You were out all day yesterday.”

  “Like this?”

  “More or less.” The voice hardened. “I said, what’s your deal?”

  Jake’s heart jumped. “Wait … Why would you tie me up?”

  “We taped you so we didn’t worry what you were up to while we slept. I’m Egon, and this here’s Tub. Better you call him Tubman. Not Mr. Tubman, just Tubman. Your driver’s license says Jacob Landon Foster. People call you Jake?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Now talk.”

  While Tub removed the bindings, Jake made up a story. “Somebody thought I owed him money. Money I don’t have,” he quickly added. “Where am I?”

  “You been whacked in the head and dumped,” Egon said. “You must’ve crawled out to the road. You figger this other guy done it because of money?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t remember everything.” Jake slumped, eyes half-closing. He hoped they were buying it.

  He dredged up a cloudy picture of himself crawling out of a pond and on a private shell road, then to a highway. In his half-conscious state, he’d thought he heard footsteps on the shell road. Had José Colón’s truck been parked on the road while he struggled to climb out of the pond? Had José walked away, leaving his truck? That couldn’t be right; José wouldn’t have stayed around after dumping him.

  “Could be the guy that did this was too mad to think straight. Me, I’d rough you up and keep leaning on you until you paid up.” Tubman’s voice sounded like a deep, slow burp.

  Egon snorted, “Sardines in your pockets? Somebody used you for gator bait, man. Let’s find you some food and coffee. Clear your head.”

  Jake slumped to his left. Tub gripped Jake’s shoulder with a cantaloupe-sized hand and steadied him.

  “Sorry … dizzy.”

  Egon tossed Jake a crumpled pair of jeans and a shirt. “These might fit.”

  Jake’s vision was clearing, but the throbbing in his head continued. “Do you guys have some pain pills?”

  “Yeah. We got some stuff from the drugstore and we got our own private stock, Vicodin and oxy.” Egon smiled. “What you want?”

  “Give ’m a Vicodin,” Tubman belched. “The oxy’s spoke for.”

  Breakfast was Vicodin, toaster pastries, and sour orange juice, brought to him on the sofa. Egon asked, “Where do you work, Jake?”

  “At a freight forwarding company in Miami.” Jake’s pulse raced at the way these two miscreants pumped him for information.

  Tubman brought black coffee, making a place for it in the food wrappers and used drink cups on the side table.

  “So, you don’t remember bein’ popped on the head?” Egon bent to scrutinize the lump above Jake’s ear.

  Jake said, “I’m sorry.”

  The scene with José in the parking lot was coming back to him in disjointed pieces, his bat in hand and the swoosh-thump of José’s sap. Jake dropped his chin and closed his eyes, pretending to be passed out. Their footsteps trailed back to the kitchen. He half-opened one eye. In this small manufactured home or trailer, everything they said carried to his ears.

  “I don’t think we got the whole story,” Egon said. “Let’s wait and see what we find out.”

  “I don’ un’stan’ what we ’posta get outta this.”

  “Tub, like I told you, somebody must’ve tried to kill this guy. Maybe someone pays us to finish him off. I’ll bet he knows something on somebody, something we can use. I’ll tell you one-assed thing. He don’t talk to us, he’s dead.”

  Jake’s eyes opened. His wrists and ankles were taped again, hands in front. While pretending to pass out, he’d actually done so. Heart thumping, cold sweat on his face, he replayed the overheard conversation in his head. These people would kill him if they d
idn’t find an advantage in keeping him alive.

  No sound came from inside the mobile home. They were gone. He waited a few more minutes. Rolling himself to the floor and pulling his knees toward his face, he straightened like a giant inchworm, but on his side. His aching muscles rebelled each time, but he moved closer to his goal, a baked bean can on the floor, its jagged top still attached.

  He stopped for a deep breath and tried not to think about what would happen if they caught him attempting to escape.

  Holding the can between his hands, he struggled to lever himself into a position where he could saw its sharp edge against the tape on his ankles. He almost fell back on the floor from muscle cramps but kept himself upright by pure willpower.

  The top of the can kept bending in away from the tape. He changed his grip, holding the jagged top of the can with the fingers of his right hand and the body of the can with his left. After more sawing, the tape frayed and broke. His bound hands and wrists ached from the effort.

  Last night’s abrasions on his palms bleeding again, he pressed the can between his knees and worked his hands back and forth to release the tape on his wrists.

  He found his cell phone and wallet in the kitchen. Before he could check the phone, a car door slammed outside, and footsteps thumped on the porch. He peeked through the blinds at two sheriff’s cars in the front yard. The porch wasn’t visible. He opened the door.

  “Egon Farrell?” The broad-shouldered sheriff’s deputy was flanked by two more officers.

  The deputy pointed at the phone and wallet in Jake’s bloody hand and shouted, “Put those down! Get on the ground!”

  “I’m not Egon. I’ve been—”

  “Do it now! Get on the ground!”