Never Again, Seriously Read online

  Shivani said, “Thank you, but I’m sorry. That sort of thing is out of my league at this time. Maybe next year.” He turned toward his car.

  “Here’s my card,” Snyder held it out. “Let me have your name and number, and I’ll follow up with news on any good deals.”

  “No, thanks. I’m sorry to have troubled you.” Shivani jogged through the rain, around the RV to his car, and drove off, giving the damp salesman a little wave.

  Chapter 10

  A knock at his office door interrupted Malcolm Weaver’s fantasies about being a Cub Scout leader, taking the kids to a beach of a quiet mountain lake. He looked up at Arthur Temkin’s tight, gray visage. Temkin’s hand remained against the door frame as if to steady himself.

  “Arthur, are you all right? Should we call someone?”

  Arthur made his way shakily to a chair and sat. “I have some very bad news.”

  “What is it?”

  Arthur looked around the office, his face twitching in a smile that rapidly disappeared. His expression became serious. “Something’s going on. Our book inventory has zoomed in the last six months, and our bank loan has grown along with it. I’ve never heard of some of the companies we’ve begun buying from. The receiving documents are all there, but some of them don’t look right. Some of the payments to suppliers aren’t supported by a signed requisition in the file.”

  Malcolm’s stomach clenched, the idyllic images of a moment ago vanished from his mind. “What are you telling me? Is this part of the tricks you’ve been pulling?”

  “No, this is unrelated. The accounting picture I’ve been painting is to inflate profits, but it has nothing to do with the fake inventory and the bank loan. I fear if I dig further, I’ll find that we’ve hemorrhaged cash through fraudulent purchases someone has made.”

  “How much is involved?”

  “Well over three and a half million dollars over the last several months.”

  Malcolm felt his face blazing. He rasped, “You’re my chief accountant. You’re supposed to be on top of things. What the hell?” He stood, fists balled at his sides.

  Arthur straightened. “I’ve been working day and night on doctoring the books for the sale of the company. I wasn’t suspicious about this until I walked through the warehouse yesterday. The physical inventory level is about the same as always, yet the book inventory is up $3 million-plus from a few months ago. The bank loan is maxed out.” His cheeks flushed. “You receive all the reports I do, Mr. Weaver, and I assumed—”

  Malcolm’s fist slammed down on the desk. “You assumed? Do I pay you to assume?” Taking a deep, ragged breath, he rose from his seat and stepped to the window. He stood gazing at nothing and returned to his desk. “All right. Drop everything you’re working on having to do with the sale of the company. Find out exactly when this started and make a list of people who should have noticed anything unusual. We’ll go over all the records carefully.” Malcolm shook a finger at him. “You’d better hope for a reasonable explanation. Otherwise, you’re toast.”

  He put both palms on the desk. “We all are! Get out! No, wait—do you think this has anything to do with the murder?”

  Arthur’s face was blank. “Oh, you mean José Colón. Terrible thing. No, I can’t see how that would … wait a minute.” He pinched his lower lip with his thumb and finger. “I’m thinking the inventory issue might well be something he knew or should have known. It could be he was involved in this fraud. Or, he simply could have discovered something and mentioned it to the wrong person.” The twitchy smile flashed again, on and off so fast Malcolm wondered if he’d seen it.

  Malcolm stared at Arthur, who gathered his papers and left. In his peripheral vision, he got an impression of Arthur straightening his back and squaring his shoulders just before he rounded the doorway. Malcolm wondered if the man was going mental under all the pressure. The quick, weird smile that flicked on his face just before he revealed the fraud. Was something else going on?

  Sharon Scott could help. He dialed her number. No answer.

  Then it dawned on him. She’d made an extra visit to the company a few weeks ago. Could she be a party to this catastrophe? He called the bank to find out where she was working and was reminded that she was an independent contractor. They didn’t have information on her whereabouts but offered the cell number he already had.

  For the first time since childhood, Malcolm prayed. Please don’t let this be what it seems. A fraud that size would put the company on the ropes. Worse, it would kill any sale of the business—and with it his exit plan.

  Please, no.

  Jake and Sharon, with identification in their new names, Bill Clawson and Vicki Strauss, glided north in the forty-foot motorhome on US Highway 27 out of Miami. Bill stretched his arms and settled further into the leather captain’s chair, Vicki relaxing in the mate’s chair beside him. He was nervous about the money on board but thought even if they were pulled over on a traffic violation, there should be no cause to search the vehicle. To be safe, he’d concealed the money under a false bottom of their under-bed storage compartment. No traffic violations, he admonished himself.

  Vicki said, “I meant to tell you something. When I had dinner with Malcolm, he couldn’t keep his eyes off a young boy with his parents. At one point, I had a thought come through to me like a whisper. All I could make out was, Pure … man and boy. It shook me up.”

  “What is that all about?” Bill took his foot off the gas, and the vehicle slowed. “Are you psychic?”

  “Sometimes things come into my mind. Not often.”

  “But still—”

  “I’m sorry I said something. I don’t think it’s a big deal. Can we talk about it later?”

  “I heard rumors about Malcolm, but I don’t believe they’re true. A lot of people detest him. Maybe you picked up on their gossip somehow.”

  Vicki shifted and looked out the window. “That kind of stuff makes me so sad.”

  Their destination was a campground off the highway twenty miles south of a town named Lake Creed, where they planned to stay until things cooled off.

  Vicki turned forward and put her bare feet on the dash. “You lost track of what you were doing at the company. I found a good bit more than $3 million in those bank accounts. After cashing everything in, even after the money broker’s commission and what we spent for IDs and the motorhome, we still have $3.2 million.”

  “Wow. I like hearing that.” Bill eyed Vicki’s feet propped in front of her, nails glistening with a fresh coat of cherry red. Her chubby feet bulged, misshapen from the pressure against the dash. He had a fleeting thought about old ladies with misshapen feet and wished he hadn’t.

  “What do you think of this rig, Vicki? Queen-size bed, two televisions, comfortable living room, modern kitchenette, two air conditioners. I think this is the nicest place I’ve ever lived.” Bill realized as he spoke he was overselling, so he replaced the eager smile on his face with a neutral expression. “Of course, any motorhome is compact.”

  “I can make do for a short while. I hope you can handle all the hookups because I sure can’t. No way am I touching the sewer line.”

  Bill laughed. “Yeah, I can do all that stuff. These things are no big deal. My family had a smaller one when I was a teenager. This baby is ten years old, but it only has forty thousand miles on it. Hardly broken in. An older rig like this, towing an eight-year-old Honda, won’t attract attention.”

  “What are we going to tell people about ourselves?”

  “Relax. You’ll find most people are cordial but don’t want too much social contact. For those who make overtures, be pleasant and stick to the story. No need to overexplain. Tell them the minimum and change the subject. They’ll get the idea. Let’s be sure to keep calling each other by our new names in private, to help avoid a slipup in front of someone else.”

  “Okay. I’ll call you �
��Bill’ or ‘Handsome.’”

  He made a face.

  Two hours later, Bill Clawson made a right turn at a faded campground sign for Rocking Horse Campground, to a narrow two-lane road.

  Vicki peered left and right through the windows. “Rocking Horse? Really?” Her lips twisted in a tight smile. “Driving along, I thought we were slap in the middle of nowhere, but I believe we are actually arriving there now. Both sides of this road are empty, only nasty, vacant land. No cows, no buildings, no nothing.”

  “Ain’t it great?”

  “No. If we’re going to have to hide out in a godforsaken place like this, what was the point?”

  “Now, wait. This place isn’t so bad. The grounds are pretty, and the clubhouse is presentable.” He gestured with his palm raised. “We’re only going to stay here a few weeks. I’m thinking no one will be looking for us in Florida. Once we know where things stand, we can plan our next moves.”

  Vicki turned to face him. “I know about these places. Canadians, shuffleboard, kids. We’d better not be here long, or I’ll go nuts.” Her brow puckered.

  “We’ll be here only until we believe we’re safe moving on. Meanwhile we can make our plans. Before now, I was thinking entirely about getting away and not thinking about what to do next. My bad. Our options are practically unlimited. We just need to decide what to do.”

  “Now you’re diggin’ where there’s taters,” Vicki said.

  Bill turned right on another narrow road and pointed to a sign for the campground a quarter mile up. “How about Mexico?”

  “Mexico? I thought you wanted to move somewhere with no extradition.”

  “I’ve been thinking about that. Maybe no one is looking for us and the field is open. Hiding in the good old USA has some appeal too. Let’s not make any decisions until after things quiet down in Miami.”

  “How will we know?”

  “Best we can do is watch the papers. You can call the money guy and use your charms to persuade him to check around.”

  Vicki smiled. “My charms plus a little cash. Anyway, Mexico’s a big, fat hell no. Do you know how dangerous it is?”

  Bill nodded. “How about someplace up north? New England, Upstate New York, someplace woodsy and peaceful?”

  “Forget it. There’s a reason why no magazine is called Northern Living. South of the Mason-Dixon Line for me.”

  “Sometimes you sound like a guy at the company, Willis Turek. Ever meet him?”

  Vicki made a short, dry coughing sound. After a few seconds, she spoke. “Never did. I’m a country girl from Georgia. Could be he’s from somewhere around there too.”

  Bill sensed her studying his face. Was something going on here? “You haven’t told me much about your upbringing in Georgia—or very much at all about your life before we met.”

  “I grew up poor as they come. I don’t like to talk about it.” Vicki sighed. “As for the rest, I worked my way through college and then had several different jobs in Georgia and Florida. Do you want my resume? Or my history with men?” Her voice had become hoarse, her hands upraised.

  “No, no. I don’t have any hang-ups about past relationships, and I believe you don’t either. I didn’t mean to pry. I was making an observation.” Bill slowed the vehicle and turned in a gravel drive. “It would be better to understand more about each other, though.”

  “You’re right.” Vicki’s smile was pensive. “We should share more, over a drink sometime.”

  “I’d like that.”

  “Right now, I’ll share that I want to leave this dump soon and head for somewhere we can relax and enjoy.”

  Bill wondered where this sour attitude came from. Sure, they were going to lay low for a while, but as far as he was concerned, they were sitting on top of the world. She’d be more comfortable once they settled in.

  Bill turned off the gas under the frying pan and removed the bacon from the microwave, setting it on the counter. He walked to the back of the motorhome and stood in the doorway of the bedroom.

  “Wake up, sweetheart. We’ve got scrambled eggs with fresh chives, lots of crispy bacon, toasted Cuban bread, and coffee.”

  “I’ve been enjoying the aroma. I couldn’t get myself up.” Vicki stood, patted her hair, and donned a robe. At the doorway, she kissed Bill on the cheek. “Thank you for doing that. You’ll make someone a good hubby.”

  “Oh, I was a hubby before. I wasn’t a good one, apparently.” Bill made a face. “After we eat, I’ve got a surprise for you.”

  “Tell me now.”

  “Nope. I want you to enjoy the breakfast. Afterward, I think you’ll be pleased with what I have to show you.”

  They ate in silence at the dinette opposite the stove. Vicki hurried through the meal, trying not to be obvious about it. She usually had food still on her plate when Bill finished but not today. “That was good. Now, what’s the surprise?”

  Bill opened his laptop, where he had the electronic edition of the Miami Herald on the screen. He clicked on an article.

  Local Businessman Disappears, Feared Drowned

  Malcolm Weaver, president of Global Source Enterprises Company, is reported missing. His luxury cabin cruiser was found drifting in Biscayne Bay early Thursday, but there was no sign of Weaver. The Coast Guard has begun a search of the waters in the area and said so far there is no evidence of foul play. Weaver’s son, Malcolm Weaver Jr., said he had been unable to contact his father for two days and called the police. A source indicated there were empty whisky bottles in the boat but no indication anyone else had been aboard.

  Bill laughed. “This is a real piece of luck. People will assume he was overwhelmed by company problems and took his own life. If they don’t find a body, they’ll think he scammed his own company and went into hiding.”

  Vicki shook her head. “Those aren’t the only possible outcomes. He still might turn up. Or they might find a body and conclude he drowned. Not suicide. In any event, there’ll be an investigation at the company.”

  “All true. Still, best case, no one suspects either of us in all the confusion. Worst case, they end up looking for me and possibly you, and we have our tracks covered.”

  “The worst case is they come after us and find us.” Vicki got up and cleared the table, setting the dishes in the sink. She turned to Bill. “I worry too much. I can’t shake the feeling we might be caught.”

  “You wouldn’t be normal if you didn’t have the jitters. You’ve been the strong one when I faltered. You’re entitled to be a little worried. No one will find us. All we need to do is wait and keep our eyes and ears open.

  “Oh,” Bill muttered.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I just remembered something. GSE is going to collapse. I need to send some money to an employee, to help her keep going after GSE comes apart.”

  A wary expression on her face, Vicki said, “I don’t understand.”

  “No, I’m not into any funny business. I was helping an employee, a young mother, overcome her struggles in her job at the company. Rita Padrón. We can’t just leave her hanging. Is there any way we can get $25,000 to her?”

  “I’m sure the money broker can handle it. I’ll take care of the details.”

  “You’re the best.”

  Chapter 11

  The previous week, Malcolm Weaver had sat at a desk in the accounting department, heart pounding. It was true. Three and a half million, gone. He’d been cleaned out, his company destroyed, his future ruined. As if he needed more evidence of fraud, he found many purchases from companies he didn’t recognize, each having a post office box as an address. He’d retraced the steps in Temkin’s review, noted the swollen inventory figures on the books, then walked through the warehouse. The extra inventory wasn’t there, as Arthur had said.

  Do something, a voice in his head told him.

  He calle
d Jake Foster’s cell and landline. No answer. He dialed Willis Turek at his home and explained to him what he knew.

  Willis was silent.

  “Turek, do you know about this?” The trembling in Malcolm’s body carried into his voice, and he cursed himself for sounding so weak.

  More silence before Willis spoke. “Malcolm, you and I need to talk. Can you meet me in a half hour at Las Tradiciónes Restaurant?”

  “This is confidential. We can’t talk about this in a restaurant.”

  “It’s so loud in there we’ll have to sit close, but we won’t be overheard.”

  Upon entering the restaurant, Willis faced a bakery straight ahead, offering Cuban pastries. To the left, the spacious dining room featured dark wood paneling and cream-colored tabletops. The floor was small octagonal tiles, laid in larger octagons of green and white.

  While he waited, Willis ordered a Cuban coffee from the waiter, who wore a starched white shirt, black crossover tie, and black pants. The male waiters moved with a certain formality. Servers wore black knit shirts and black pants. Willis couldn’t decide what role the women in white-piped dark green uniforms played.

  Weaver arrived, furious and distraught. He smoothed the strands of hair on his scalp, scanning the room twice before nodding and lunging forward. He checked his stride and slowed to a normal walk. Turek set his Cuban coffee down and pointed to a chair.

  Malcolm sneered. “You said it was loud, but I didn’t think it would be this loud.”

  “You wanted confidential; we got confidential.” The waiter appeared, and Willis ordered a Cuban baguette sandwich.

  Malcolm said, “I’ll have the Ceviche tropical. American coffee.” The waiter stiffened infinitesimally, but his businesslike expression remained unchanged.