Part 11 (2/2)
”Not exactly. My code of ethics as a CPA is different from the code for lawyers. I'm not supposed to be an advocate. Not for you or anyone. I'm supposed to be objective. The problem is that this work is going to overlap. Who's going to pay for it? How am I to divide my hours?”
”Hey, don't sweat it. At least you'll get paid by the city.” Danny meant it to pa.s.s for humor, but neither Rae nor Sandy even cracked a smile.
”I don't doubt that you'll pay me. It's only a matter of time before the properties are made whole and sold. Bottom line is that I need to resign as the estate accountant if I accept Veronica's offer.”
Danny looked at Sandy for comment.
”I can't advise Rae in this matter. I'm your attorney.”
”Who's going to finish the work on Dee's estate?”
”And the good news,” Rae smiled rea.s.suringly, ”is that I'm done with the three personal tax returns, and Sandy is willing to take over completion of the 706 for the estate, if you're willing.”
”I think I can live with that.”
”The bad news is that there's a big chunk of personal income tax due for last year because of the payout from the grandfather's estate. You'll need to conserve estate a.s.sets. No more expensive lunches for your professional help.” Here she smiled. ”I'll try and get penalties waived because of the circ.u.mstances.”
Danny smiled back His knees, under the table, trembled slightly. Nothing his recent heart attack couldn't account for.
”Do you have any problem with my sharing financial information I got from you with Veronica?”
”Why would I?” Danny shrugged.
”Whether or not I accept the city's offer, somebody is going in to audit the Bayfield financial records,” continued Rae. ”A judge has already signed the order.”
”Does this order include Dee's personal records?” Danny asked.
”Of course,” said Rae. ”Her records are part of the big picture.”
”There's something I forgot to mention,” said Danny as casually as he could manage. ”The loan on the house funded.”
He watched Sandy's eyes avoid Rae's. Her need to know had just been minimized.
”This house?” asked Rae.
”Yeah. I needed cash to pay Pat Keech.” When his words drew an angry look from Rae and a raised eyebrow from Sandy, he quickly added, ”And to pay you guys. About time, don't you think?”
Sandy's displeasure was palpable, but Danny knew there wasn't a s...o...b..ll's chance in h.e.l.l that he'd elaborate on it in front of Rae.
”Shouldn't it have gone into the estate account?” Rae's question was inevitable.
”The t.i.tle company made the check out to me as the managing member of the LLC that held Dee's properties. I was going to make a transfer to the estate's account, but a funny thing happened to me at the sheriff's station.” His attempt at humor fell flat.
”Why don't you just give us our checks now?” Rae, ever practical. ”Save postage.”
”Can't do that. My bank put a hold on the funds. I think it's up, but I have to make sure.”
”No harm, no foul. We'll make the disburs.e.m.e.nt to Rae from the estate account.” Sandy shook his silver mane, as if to rid himself of the aggravation he so obviously felt.
Danny smiled, tight-lipped. That could be a problem, he thought.
At the end of her s.h.i.+ft on the second day after her conversation with Reggie Navarro, the La.s.siter tape was still burning a hole in Emily Wehr's brain.
She'd replayed it at home, and some new ideas jumped out at her. She remembered Reggie, behind the one-way gla.s.s, watching her interview of the La.s.siter woman. It hadn't seemed weird at the time, considering Camacho was his snitch, but... Should she confide in Commander Marsh, in case he really didn't know what he was burying?
A quick flashback to Reggie and the commander in a closed conversation did in that idea.
Wehr's routine had changed. Now her Glock went home with her in its holster, covered by a linen jacket.
It was still plenty light outside at 8:00 p.m. when she arrived home. Not much traffic to battle at that hour. She lived in a pleasant apartment in a two-story fourplex on Youngfield. It wasn't a secured building, but she had installed dead bolts on both doors and locks on the windows when she'd first moved in five years ago.
It was like any other night until she entered the kitchen and found the lid of the trash canister slightly open. She'd never properly a.s.sembled it and you had to put it back just so. And just so was how she always left it. Neat to a fault, her mother had said of her with pride. Obsessively picky was how her ex-boyfriend had put it.
The edge on her nerves sharpened as she walked into her bedroom and noted the plaid bedspread. Not rumpled exactly. More like dented, as if someone had sat on it, then tried to straighten it out again. The hairs on her arms rose, not from the air conditioning, but from the thin gap she observed between the bottom of the bedroom window and the sill. The window was unlocked.
In one swift movement, she drew her gun and swept the room, holding the weapon firmly with both hands. She had never shot anything but targets at qualification. As she kicked open a closet door, the steadiness of her hands surprised her. After locking the window, a methodical efficiency took over as she searched each room of the small apartment.
Nothing was missing. TV, stereo, VCR, even the diamond pendant her parents had given her for college graduation-all present and accounted for. But all had been touched in ways only her eyes could see.
When she was satisfied that the intruder was no longer there, she holstered the Glock and returned to the bathroom. Wehr was still breathing rapidly as she opened the doors of the small marble-topped vanity. She had to kneel down to reach the Tampax box at the very back of the storage s.p.a.ce. To her immense relief, the La.s.siter tape was still inside the box.
It was not quite dark at 9:30 when Wehr turned off her laptop after printing out some items of interest: law enforcement openings in other jurisdictions. She needed more than a transfer. Goodbye, Colorado. She eyed one of the printouts with special interest. h.e.l.lo, Nebraska. How far would she need to go? What could she do to ensure she wasn't followed? And, really, if somebody wanted to find her and had the right connections, there was no place that was far enough.
There was not a doubt in her mind that the intruder had been Reggie Navarro. She'd been correct in her a.s.sessment of him-a macho a.s.shole who'd rather stick his hand in a pile of s.h.i.+t than in a Tampax box. Even so, it shocked her to think he'd actually violate her privacy like that. It was one thing to suspect and take precautions, but quite another to have her suspicions confirmed.
Moving to the kitchen, she opened the freezer and took out a burrito which she popped into the microwave. Somebody needed to see the tape. If for no other reason, to give the vic's family the truth. Part of the truth still eluded her, but she had her own thoughts on what had sparked Reggie's sudden interest in resurrecting that tape. Maybe he'd worked undercover so long that the lines were blurred. It happened. Maybe Reggie wasn't beyond a little blackmail.
That thought dispatched what remained of her appet.i.te. She pushed aside the burrito, washed away the taste with a Diet c.o.ke, then turned down the air conditioning.
How to detach from the d.a.m.n tape without destroying it? Veronica Sanchez. She wanted it, though she didn't know it existed. Wehr reached for the landline phone on the kitchen wall, then had another thought. If Reggie had the b.a.l.l.s to break into her apartment, bugging her phone wouldn't give him a second thought. A public phone in a public place was what she needed right then.
The evening was turning cool. She put on her linen jacket, now wilted from the drive home, and grabbed her laptop. n.o.body needed to see those job sites she'd just visited. Unnecessary precautions. Maybe. Wehr locked the front door after her and walked out to her car.
As she slowly drove away, she observed a dark gray Crown Victoria pull out from the curb and follow her. A red light stopped her at the intersection of Youngfield and Ward Road. The Crown Vic lagged behind, but one glance at the bulky silhouette of the driver said it all. f.u.c.k you, Reggie.
As she drove, she felt her options narrowing. Reggie was driving his unmarked WRPD vehicle, meaning either he was on duty or had completely crossed the line.
If Reggie was on duty, did this mean she was being set up to take the fall for deleting the La.s.siter file? If push came to shove, who would confirm her orders to make it disappear? For sure not Commander Marsh, one year away from retirement. What had they thought? That because Mrs. La.s.siter had been a messed-up crack head it was okay to cover up her a.s.sault? End justified the means? But, what if somebody outside their little department thought differently? Who would be sacrificed?
And Reggie was still on her a.s.s. Not really. A couple of cars back. She turned right, down Colfax Avenue. The traffic was light. He had to really work at staying with her and not appearing to do so.
Wehr replayed the day of Deidre La.s.siter's interview. Reggie had already been tapped by Metro, probably because he could give them JJ.
She remembered how he'd just popped into the station when two other Wheat Ridge guys had brought in Mrs. La.s.siter. As she watched Reggie get stuck at a light, she asked herself how come he plopped himself down behind the one-way gla.s.s to watch her take the vic's statement? Reggie had known about the welfare check and came in to run interference for his boy, JJ Camacho.
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