Chapter 18

 

Penelope checked her image in the hall mirror as she clipped a diamond to her left ear. Light flickered across the wall, and Benton Case’s car pulled through her circular drive and stopped at the front door. She adjusted a strand of hair that was out of place and picked up her evening bag. She didn’t need another night out this week—her work with the Heist Ladies had eaten a goodly share of her writing time already—but she’d committed to be Benton’s date for the bar association fete where he was to be honored for his years of service in the district attorney’s office.

He hadn't noticed her through the beveled glass yet, and she watched as he got out of his Lexus SUV and walked up the steps. With his silver hair and tuxedo he was a very handsome man and Pen had to admit it was a pleasure to be seen with him in public. More important, though, was the bond they’d formed over the years. They’d been lovers for a few years after she, as a young widow, had moved to Phoenix but then the relationship settled into one of shared confidences and solid friendship.

He reached for the doorbell and she opened the door at the same moment. They both laughed.

“Ready for a thrilling evening of rubber chicken and windy speeches?” he asked, giving her a light kiss on the cheek.

She took his arm and looked up at him. “You’re the honoree, darling. Anything they have to say about you will be brilliant.”

He made a little yeah-yeah-sure noise and opened the passenger door for her.

“At least it should be over fairly early, and afterward we’ll go have a drink.”

The event venue was the Arizona Biltmore, where the bar was known for the who’s-who of celebrity faces one might see there. Benton drove up the stately driveway, past the sweeping lawns and banks of flowering shrubs. At the front entrance he stopped before the clipped boxwood that spelled out the words Arizona Biltmore. A valet held the door for Pen and took the car after Benton handed over the keys.

Contrary to his dire prediction, the meal was excellent prime rib with an especially nice merlot. The accolades came after, a fitting tribute to a man who had served the city well, and Pen felt proud when Benton walked to the podium to receive his engraved plaque and say a few words. By the time they retired to the bar, with its deeply burnished woodwork and windows facing the pool and palm grove, he was noticeably more relaxed.

“It’s not comfortable for you, is it? Hearing praise and receiving awards,” she said after they’d placed orders for Italian Amaro.

Some of the bar’s other patrons had eyed the classy couple, wondering where they’d seen these faces before. It was the type of place Pen dreaded someone pulling one of her books from a bag and making a fuss. Luckily, no one did.

“I wanted to talk to you about this newest venture the ladies and I’ve got ourselves working on,” she said when their drinks arrived. “We’re in hopes that our efforts will help a woman whose husband was so unfair in their divorce settlement that she’s found herself homeless. We’re trusting that new evidence might gain her a new hearing with a judge.”

“Fill me in. What new evidence do you have?”

She went over the first meeting with Mary, how Clint Holbrook had defaulted on the payments on the home and how the paltry amount of cash she’d received was quickly gone.

“He’s living at Vandergrift Towers in Scottsdale and showing off his business from a spacious suite of offices in a downtown high-rise. There are huge amounts of money in his bank accounts.” Well, there recently had been.

She quickly skimmed back to the subject of Mary’s new job and apartment, not wanting Benton to ask detailed questions about how she should happen to know how much money was in Clint’s accounts. Amber’s hacking into the bank records to learn that information would not be viewed kindly by the law. They tended to favor search warrants and gaining information through channels. Such a bother.

“If there was fraudulent reporting of assets during the divorce proceedings, wouldn’t there be a possibility of having the settlement reviewed?” she asked. “I think we can definitely get the information to prove it.”

Benton picked up his glass. “How does Mary know he didn’t earn all this money after the divorce was already final? You said she wasn’t active in his plumbing business for a few years before they split up.”

It was a concern, Pen knew. Clint would simply claim his newfound success happened after Mary was out of the picture.

“Pen, when people have hidden, offshore bank accounts, it’s often because the source of the funds was illegal or undeclared.” He scoffed. “Often—I should say nearly always.”

“What are you saying? He’s been running drugs or something?”

He shrugged. “Could be that. Could be nothing so direct. Maybe he’s taken construction jobs for mobsters, someone who’s paying with illicit money, laundering it, and has told him it was an under-the-table deal. Advised him not to declare the money either. You know, a little nudge-nudge, wink-wink thing.”

Mobsters? It was something the Ladies had not even considered. Pen watched the rich drink swirl in her glass.

“If he’s been doing that—laundering money—how will we find it?”

“It would help to find records dating back to their time together,” Benton said. “Mary should have copies of their joint tax returns, banking documents. If you can put your hands on older financial statements for the business, dated bank statements, that sort of thing, they can be compared to the more recent activity.”

He swigged the last of his drink. “Of course, if you come up with enough information to show cause, this is exactly the kind of thing the Attorney General’s office would take on. Racketeering and hidden money—the government loves to ferret out these guys.”

Except once the government got hold of the money, it would take a miracle for Mary to ever see a penny. Pen became quiet. Sandy had gone through the financial data they had, but now it appeared they would need more. And from what Amber had told everyone at their last gathering—the fact that money had disappeared from some of the accounts she originally located—meeting the criteria for a new hearing could prove impossible.

He stared at her face. “Don’t give up quite yet. If you ladies can gather enough information to make a decent case, and if there’s no mob connection, there are a couple of attorneys … I’ll get some names for you. And there’s at least one judge, Marta Eggers, who’s shown a lot of sympathy toward women who’ve gotten raw deals in divorce.”

Pen perked up at the news.

He noticed her expression. “You can’t request a particular judge, you know. Random selection is what keeps our judicial system impartial.”

She chafed a little at the knowledge. It felt as though they had a long way to go to solve Mary’s problem. What had started as a straightforward matter—they knew who took the money, they simply had to get it back—was now taking all sorts of convoluted twists.