“You knew the rules from day one, Drew. Ditching school is unacceptable.” Morgan shoved the washing machine in place, praying the new water hose would solve the leak issue. Not a good start to her over-scheduled Wednesday. “The answer is no. No movies. No basketball game. You’re grounded for two weeks. Kelley. Brandon. Angela’s waiting in the car.”
“It was only gym and it was last period.” Anger radiated off sixteen-year-old Drew in waves and Morgan steadied herself to ride the surf.
“Don’t care. Ditching is ditching. You have responsibilities, beginning with your education. You don’t like the agreement you made when you came to live with us, you know your options.” Since those other options were limited to an extended stay in the juvenile detention center, Morgan considered the topic closed. “You’re going to be late for homeroom if you don’t leave now.”
“This sucks,” Drew blasted, and for the hundredth time Morgan had to bite her tongue to suggest he get a haircut. She hadn’t seen Drew’s eyes in weeks, covered as they were with the too-long sandy brown bangs. His baggy jeans and T-shirts reminded Morgan of a Woodstock documentary reject and made her feel old for complaining about the clothes these young people wore today. More importantly, his attire made it difficult to see if he was maintaining his weight, or if he was showing signs of jaundice, something he’d been dealing with on and off due to the damage the undiagnosed diabetes had done to his organs.
What she wouldn’t give to take that black leather jacket that never left his sight to the cleaners for an extended visit.
“I suggest you remember just how much this sucks the next time you let your so-called friends talk you into cutting class.” Her phone chimed Für Elise, letting her know the bank opened in fifteen minutes. “Do you want a ride to school?”
“I’ll walk.”
Heaven save her from the hostile two-word teenage answer. “Okay, then. Don’t forget to check your numbers before lunch. Kids, now!” Footsteps pounded overhead like a fleet of reindeer on the roof.
“Whatever.” And with that, Drew grabbed his backpack and slammed out the door.
Morgan slumped against the washing machine. She knew how hard it was for him, a new school, dealing with his diabetes diagnosis, having to leave class every few hours to go to the nurse and be tested. It was hard enough to be a teenager these days without adding a medical issue to the mix.
There had to be some way to get through to him. At least he’d bonded with Brandon. The little guy was Morgan’s savior when it came to dealing with Drew, as the teen was incapable of staying mad with Brandon anywhere nearby.
She heard the zoom of Lydia’s motorized wheelchair as the little girl buzzed into the kitchen, big brown eyes spinning like King Arthur’s Carousel at Disneyland, her frail body swimming in the baggy jeans and Tinker Bell T-shirt she wore.
“Hey, kiddo.” Morgan pulled herself together and dropped a kiss on the top of her thinning fawn brown hair. Her color was good, her eyes less cloudy. Hope that Lydia may have turned a corner battled against the reality of her illness. Today, however, Morgan chose to cling to hope. “Where’s Nico? I thought you guys were going to make homemade pasta today.”
“He’s fixing the sink in the boy’s bathroom. Brandon said there’s something stuck in the drain. Nico started swearing so I thought I’d better leave.” She grinned up at Morgan, chasing the aftereffects of Drew’s attitude away. “You swear better though.”
“Thank you very much.” Morgan curtsied. “You hungry?”
“Got any bananas?” She stretched her chin up, searched the counter.
“Of course.” She grabbed one out of the fruit bowl, started it for her, and handed it over. Not so long ago Lydia had been on a feeding tube because she couldn’t keep anything down.
Morgan’s phone chimed again, this time Beethoven’s Fifth.
“You going to the construction site today?” Lydia’s eyes widened as she peeled the banana and bit in.
“I’m meeting with Kent in about an hour.” Morgan looked at her watch as Nico came in, stopped in front of Morgan, picked up her hand, and plopped a soggy orange plastic fish in her palm. Morgan peered closer. “Is that Nemo?”
“He was supposed to make it to the ocean,” Brandon cried as he ran into the room, then he took Nemo into his possession and stuffed him to his jeans pocket. “How far did he get?” He turned excited eyes on Nico, who was putting the wrench in the toolbox.
“As far as the u-bend.”
“Put it in your journal,” Morgan called as they ran out to the car, managing not to laugh until they were gone. “Need me to check the sink?” Morgan asked him, knowing Nico wasn’t as comfortable with plumbing issues as he was with other repair work.
“If you could, great.” Nico washed up. “Lydia and I will take care of dinner. Angela and Kelley are going to make fruit salad for dessert. Will you be home in time?”
“Ummm.” Morgan skimmed her schedule, added a note to double-check the sink. “I doubt it. Late meeting with Vanity Cleaners—I’m thinking they might be a good local source for linens and cleaning services once the center opens. Be nice to get more local businesses on board. So save me a plate?”
“It’ll have your name on it.”
“Great. I’m off.” Morgan grabbed her purse from the kitchen table and headed out the back door, adjusting her Bluetooth. Once she was in her car, she pulled out the white envelope containing the checks she’d collected from various stores and individuals over the last couple of days, along with the bundle of cash she’d saved for a rainy day.
Except her rainy day was more like a typhoon.
All the more reason to get the money into the account and start whittling down the missing two hundred grand.
When she’d first siphoned money from the center’s construction fund into the operating expense fund, it had been with the intention of repaying it as soon as possible, and for a while she’d been doing well.
But that was before construction delays set in. Before the bills mounted. Before money set aside to repay the “loan” had been gobbled up by Morgan’s refusal to turn any patient away.
Within six months what had initially been one hundred grand had doubled and then exploded into the impossible.
She hadn’t been able to fill the hole fast enough to keep up with the books. Until Nemesis stepped in.
And then stepped out.
She started the engine and turned on the radio as she did a final check of her calendar for the morning. The local news was spouting about the college basketball team and how they’d been pulverized by a neighboring community college during a practice game. Morgan couldn’t remember the last time she’d gone to a game of any kind.
The local newscast blared its syncopated theme song as news personality Lara Stark’s voice floated over the airwaves. Morgan withdrew the deposit bag for one final check.
“Sources inside District Attorney’s office revealed the Nemesis investigation isn’t running as smoothly as anticipated. Rumor is the D.A. is considering filing charges of receiving stolen property and/or collusion after the fact against anyone suspected of accepting money from Nemesis. As we’ve been reporting for the past few months, numerous individuals and businesses have publically thanked Nemesis for giving them large amounts of cash, money that has saved homes, paid bills, and in one instance, allowed for a life-saving medical procedure. But D.A. Marshall believes that while the public and media have embraced Nemesis, in doing so, they’ve goaded Nemesis into committing more crimes, as evidenced by the Cunningham burglary this past Saturday night. More details to come as this story develops. This is Lara Stark reporting.”
Morgan’s throat closed around the icy air in her lungs as her hand froze on the Nemesis cash.
Rumor has it. Nothing confirmed. It wasn’t as if Morgan had taken out an ad on the evening news. She hadn’t told anyone about the four “donations” she’d received from Nemesis. How could she when it meant admitting to shuffling money between the foundation accounts like she’d pilfered the cardboard Monopoly bank.
How Nemesis had gotten those envelopes onto her desk at the construction site was the question that gnawed at her most, but then that was what Nemesis excelled at, getting in and out of places without being seen. She wasn’t going to question the gift.
Morgan dug into the bag and pulled out the bundle of twenty-five thousand she’d hoped to deposit today. Her pulse beat double in her neck. Better to be safe at this point, keep the deposit under the reportable ten grand. No red flags, no filings to the FBI or treasury. Not that large cash deposits were out of the norm for her for the foundation. But now wasn’t the time to take chances, not when she still had four weeks and three days to find the rest of the money.
She’d done the wrong thing, she knew, but for the right reason. That money she’d taken had saved lives, and for that she would never regret her actions. But that didn’t mean she wasn’t desperate to cover her trail. No matter whose help she had to take. All the more reason to be relieved that Gage Juliano was out of the picture. She imagined he’d be the type of man she’d find herself wanting to confide in, and that wouldn’t lead to anywhere good.
Morgan’s ribs ached from her holding her breath. Blood pounded in her ears. Could be this stack of cash would be the last she’d receive from her not-so-anonymous benefactor. Which, given the D.A.’s pronouncement, was good news.
Wasn’t it?
***
The Tremayne Investments and Securities building revamp made Gage’s office look like the turn-of-the-century factory space it was. The ultra-modern beveled glass of Jackson Tremayne’s firm allowed for every ray of sunlight in the city to stream through and bathe its employees in a bright and positive atmosphere.
From a security standpoint, the design made sense to Gage. Nothing could be hidden in this open space. From a practical perspective, the lobby spoke of streamlined elegance and a down-to-business attitude. Any client would feel at ease both personally and financially.
As instructed by the sign posted just inside the rotating glass door, Gage checked in at the security desk, behind which two uniformed guards kept watch on a bank of screens that rotated various camera angles every five to ten seconds.
A badge was printed out as soon as his name was entered into the system. Gage looked up after clipping it to his lapel and found Nathan Tremayne emerging from a closed door across the hall.
“Gage, good to see you again.” Nathan greeted him with a warm smile and an open hand. “Hope you don’t mind, but Dad asked me to sit in on your meeting. Just give me one second. Hey, Todd.” Nathan slapped his hand down on the counter to get the young man’s attention. “Go on home. Sawyer said he’ll cover your shifts for the rest of the week.”
“Thanks, man.” The mingled look of excitement and relief on the second security guard’s face told Gage Nathan had made the guy’s year. “I was just venting before, about Courtney and the baby. I didn’t expect—”
“I know. It’s your first kid, give yourself a break. So go home, both of you put your feet up, watch some old movies, and wait for the baby to decide he’s ready.” Nathan tapped his knuckle on the counter. “And pick her up some ice cream on the way. Sorry, Gage.”
Gage shrugged. “That was nice of you, giving him the week off.”
“Poor guy’s wife is a week over her due date.” He led the way to the escalator at the far end of the lobby. “So you want to bounce some ideas off us about Nemesis?”
“Looking for some confirmation on some things. Appreciate your time.” Truth be told, Gage had been surprised at how easy it had been to get an appointment. In his experience, being told to “call my office” was code for “I don’t have time for this shit.”
“If a meeting with you means putting a stop to Nemesis’ reign of, well, terror seems a bit of an overstatement. He’s a nuisance, but a diverting one at times.”
“He does have a sense of humor.” Albeit a warped one. “So the firm does enough business to warrant owning an entire building in downtown Lantano Valley?” As they moved toward the elevator, Gage noticed the subtle design shift from modern to paying homage to the historical attributes of the Romanesque, a transformation that finished once the elevator doors opened on the fifth floor.
“Dad took the firm global a little over ten years ago, which was when he made plans to buy the building. No financing, mind you. He waited until he had the cash in hand. Did the same thing when it came to the renovation. It was worth the wait.” Then Nathan chuckled. “Too bad it means we won’t be expanding for the next year or so, but hey, no debt. Always a good thing.”
Sensible, confident. Gage could see a divide the size of the Great Barrier Reef between the Tremaynes and some of the other residents of Lantano Valley Gage had had the not-so-great pleasure of dealing with. Whatever Kolfax’s interest, the agent was off base. As Gage had thought the other night, Jackson and his offspring destroyed Gage’s perception of the wealthy elite.
Offspring. Morgan.
“Nathan, did you sign the birthday card for Beth Ann in accounting yet?” The fortysomething woman sitting behind a half-moon workstation aimed a warning look at Gage’s escort when they stopped at her desk.
“Not yet, Corrine. Will do as soon as I’m done here. Inspector Juliano for Dad.”
“Hello, Inspector.” Corrine stood and held out her hand. She was tall, quite curvy, with pale blond hair draping down her spine in a graceful curtain. Her round face didn’t carry a hint of stress despite the lights exploding on the phone at her side. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. Jackson is still on that call with Kurisan in Japan,” she told Nathan. “Should be another ten minutes.”
“Gives me time to go sign that card then. Be right back.”
“Where should I—?” Gage glanced around the spacious floor plan.
“There’s a waiting area to your left,” Corrine told him. “Would you like something to drink? Coffee, perhaps?”
“Thank you, I’m fine.”
“Gage.” Sheila pushed out of a nearby office, file folders clutched against the front of her pale yellow dress. A flouncy skirt danced around her knees as she strode toward him on what he could only describe as needle-thin stilts. Her blond hair bounced in airy curls around her shoulders, framing a picture-perfect face he suspected was responsible for her run on the pageant circuit. “What brings you by? Corrine, would you mind?”
“I’ll leave them on your desk.” Corrine accepted the files and disappeared around the corner.
“So.” Sheila gave him a slow smile, linked her arm through his, and guided him to the waiting area Corrine had pointed out. “How did you enjoy the fund-raiser the other night?”
“I had a very nice time, thank you.”
“Mmmm. I think Morgan enjoyed herself.” She blinked her lashes faster than a hummingbird’s wings. “Have you spoken to her since?”
“Subtlety is not your strong suit.” Gage tried not to laugh. But he shouldn’t be surprised at her interest. After all, he was the one who had mingled business with pleasure. “No, I haven’t spoken with your sister since the party. But that’s something I plan to remedy by the end of the week.”
“Excellent. I think you’re just the man to remind her she’s a woman and not a walking appointment book.” Gage felt his face flush as Sheila veered him down the hall. “And in preparation for that, um, conversation, there’s something you should see. We’ll be showing this to the public at the next foundation event in August, but you’ve earned the right to a sneak peek.”
She turned into a room so bright he thought about pulling out his sunglasses.
“I thought you might like to see the object of Morgan’s obsession,” Sheila said. “This is what we hope to open by the end of the year.”
The quarter inch scale replica of the Pediatric Cancer Treatment Center stole the breath from his lungs as effortlessly as a morning breeze. The mix of grey stone and glass surrounded by lush serene walkways and water features reminded him of the Japanese Tea Garden in San Francisco. The cold, sterile environment one associated with a medical facility didn’t exist in Morgan’s creation. No, this place was one of comfort. Softness in the angles and curved lines of the windows and walls belied natural elements and features he couldn’t recall seeing in another Lantano Valley project.
“It’s remarkable,” he told Sheila. “Nothing like what I expected.”
“Before he died, our brother would draw pictures of what made him feel better.” She gestured to the framed drawings on the wall behind the display: crayon-imprinted images of waterfalls and moss-covered stone houses. Sunlight. Lots and lots of light. “Morgan kept them in a scrapbook for when Mom was ready to talk design. They worked on it together, then with Kent Lawson. He’s a general contractor but he dabbles in architecture.”
“That’s not dabbling. It’s genius.” Gage bent down, circled the model. “And what’s this going to be over here?” He pointed to the expanse of grass behind the structure.
“She can’t decide. Exercise and fresh air is an important part of the program Morgan wants to implement, something along those lines.”
“So this is all Morgan? You don’t have any say?”
Sheila shrugged, and for a moment Gage thought he saw resentment flash across her features. “I have some ideas, but she hasn’t asked. She doesn’t ask for anything.” She wagged a finger at Gage. “You need to be aware of that up front if you’re going to be speaking to her again.”
“I’ll remember.”
“And also remember that this”—Sheila pointed to the center—“has been her life ever since she was a teenager. She lives it, breathes it. She will do what she has to in order to make it happen. As a concerned big sister, I’d like her to see there’s more to life than a building, no matter its intent.”
“My mother said something similar to me recently,” Gage murmured, then realized he’d spoken out loud. “Just that—”
“There you two are.” Nathan popped his head in. “Dad’s ready for us. Ah, you’re looking at Morgan’s baby.”
“I thought I should warn him about what he’s up against should he try to eke out some time in Morgan’s schedule,” Sheila said with a too-wide smile. “I’ll let you get to your meeting. Good to see you again, Gage.”
“You too, Sheila.” As he followed Nathan to Jackson’s office, Gage pondered how interesting and baffling the sister relationship could be. His own were either plotting together or trying to verbally kill each other. Did Sheila and Morgan associate in the same way?
“Jackson, I appreciate you seeing me.” He greeted the senior Tremayne just inside Jackson’s office.
“No trouble. Corrine?”
“Coffee?” His assistant nodded. “Of course.”
“Thank you. So, Gage, how’s the case coming along and how can we help?”
Gage heard the question as if from under water. He tried not to gape at the wonder of this room. Stepping into Jackson Tremayne’s office was like walking into the pages of a Jules Verne novel. Brass and wood intermingled in paneling and shelving that housed everything from antique books to a collection of spyglasses.
“Pretty impressive, right?” Nathan said as Gage bent to examine a patina sculpture, an artist’s rendering of the Greek gods surrounding what appeared to be the Arthurian Round Table. “Dad’s been collecting for years.”
“My late wife indulged my obsession of certain types of antiquities,” Jackson explained. “History’s always been an interest of mine. There’s something about drawing from the power of what we were that makes me less cynical about what we’ve become.”
Nathan cleared his throat as he took a seat at the small conference table in front of the paned window. “So, what’s on your mind, Gage?”
“I have this list.” Gage pulled a sheet of paper out of his jacket pocket and handed it to Jackson as he continued to scan the endless shelves of items. “I was hoping you could tell me what these names have in common.”
Jackson scanned the list, passed it to his son. “To start with, they’ve all been targets of Nemesis.”
“Despite what they claim now.” Was that a Remington? “Sorry. I could stay in here for hours.” Gage shook himself free and refocused on the case. “Yes, Nemesis has paid them each a visit. Anything else?”
“They’re Tremayne Investment and Securities clients,” Nathan said before placing the sheet on the table. “Or they were at one time. But you knew that before you walked in the door.”
Gage had expected some hostility, but he needed to get Kolfax and the FBI out of his head and out of his case. Proving the Tremaynes had nothing to do with Nemesis was his best bet.
“Nathan.” Jackson patted his son on the shoulder. “Gage is doing his job just as you would. We’ve worked with each of these families, Gage. Lance Swendon and his wife chose to take their business elsewhere about a year and a half ago after one of my brokers refused to alter some financial records for his taxes.”
“And we discontinued our relationship with Van Keltin in January when he accused us of making irresponsible investments on his behalf,” Nathan said.
“Investments he requested,” Jackson clarified.
“In writing, the idiot,” Nathan scoffed. “He threatened to sue us for his losses until we sent him a copy of the email he sent to Dad.”
“And yet both men attended the foundation fund-raiser the other night,” Gage observed.
“Appearances are everything in Lantano Valley, Gage,” Jackson said. “James Van Keltin was one of the first to donate to the foundation’s funds for the center. He can’t very well withdraw his support of a charity he helped establish without raising some eyebrows and feeding the rabid rumor mill.”
“Not that his wife would ever let him,” Nathan interjected. “She and my mother were tennis partners for over a decade. Appearances,” Nathan added with a quirk of his lips. “Equal parts entertainment and irritation.”
“Doesn’t sound to me as if you’re fans of these two.” While Gage wasn’t surprised by Jackson’s genial tone, he found Nathan’s sarcasm and honesty of more benefit. “What about the others on the list?”
“Charles Baker is a spineless weasel,” Nathan observed. “But other than that he’s okay. Grant Alvers, Josiah Fitzgerald.” He shrugged. “Nothing comes to mind other than they’re all more interested in expanding their profit margins than anything else.”
“There is one interesting commonality, but I’m not sure it means anything,” Jackson trailed his finger down the list again. “If you check court records, I think you’ll find a number of these people were represented by James Van Keltin at some point. Corrine, thank you. The table will be fine.”
Corrine offered a polite smile as she carried in a shellacked tray filled with cups, a decanter of steaming coffee, and a plate of cookies. “I brought in oatmeal cookies for the birthday party this afternoon, but set a few aside.”
“Best oatmeal cookies in the county,” Jackson pronounced as he plucked one off the plate. Corrine withdrew from the room. “Lest we forget, Nemesis was the Goddess of retribution and vengeance. Nasty fellow in the myths, but then none of them were particularly likable, I suppose.”
Brady Malloy had also made mention of the origin of Nemesis’ name in his notes. “You think Nemesis is avenging something or someone?”
“Getting into Nemesis’ head is your job, not mine,” Jackson said. “I was merely pointing out it’s an interesting choice of moniker for what is essentially a glorified thief. While I can appreciate the idea without agreeing with it, vengeance doesn’t get anyone anywhere in the long run. Most times it comes around and bites you in the ass. Does any of this help?”
“Yes, it does.” Gage took an offered cookie, drank his coffee, and felt the case open in a new direction. “It most definitely does.”