Asking for Trouble (7 page)

“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.”

Since taking over the foundation, Morgan had mastered many skills, but the one she used most often was biting her tongue while she spoke. “Yes, I understand you believe the delay isn't your fault, Doug. But Mother Nature's hissy fit and your warehouse getting flooded in the last storm wasn't my doing. If the supplies had been delivered by the date on the contract, we wouldn't be having this conversation. For the
third
time.”

The tires of her Mustang ground over loose rock and dirt as Morgan pulled into the construction site's cordoned-off parking area, killed the engine, and downed the last of her coffee.

Once upon a time she couldn't blink for hours after drinking her triple-shot latte. These days her Monday fix had as much kick as an arthritic donkey. Appropriate given the paint supplier she'd been dealing with for the last two months was an ass.

“I'm not paying for supplies we haven't received,” she stated. “And if you need confirmation of that, check the contract I signed with your boss last fall.” Just to make sure, Morgan tapped the PDF app on her phone and opened the Johnstone Paint Supplies paperwork.

Vindicated, she set the business bitch loose as Doug Vallard issued another barrage of excuses. “You know what, Doug? You can stop there. Here's what we're going to do. Either you have our order on site by five tomorrow afternoon, or we're going with another company.” Morgan rolled her eyes at his inept panic-induced sputter. If only someone would invent a death-ray app so she could zap incompetent idiots out of her universe. “Tomorrow at five is impossible?” Hallelujah. “I'll fax a copy of the cancelled agreement to your boss's office within the hour.” She clicked off the call, leaned her head against the headrest, and closed her eyes.

So this was what a car running on empty felt like.

At least her meeting with Elliot Dunbar, the foundation's new accountant, had been pushed to next week. She'd take good news wherever she could get it, and not having to turn over her books just yet? Definitely good news.

Morgan yelped at the knock on her window. After pressing a hand against her hammering heart, she shoved the door open, got out, and glared at her general contractor.

Even in the middle of a construction site, Kent Lawson made jeans and a button-down blue flannel shirt look as tailored as a Savile Row suit. Dark hair and equally fathomless dark eyes completed the handsome picture.

“So I cancelled our contract with Johnstone.” As expected, Kent's grin exposed his molars. “You were right. I should have listened to your recommendation from the start. Get me a contract you can live with and—” Wait a minute. Morgan stood up straight from having gone into the car for her purse. “I know that look.” Kent's eyebrows rose so high they almost touched his hairline. She crossed her arms over her chest, narrowed her eyes. “You already got a new contract, didn't you?”

“Last week. Paperwork is on what you laughingly call a desk in the office.” He sniffed the air. “Do I smell donuts?”

“You smell Wednesday, which is when I always bring donuts for the crew.” She shoved her phone in her back pocket, slung her bag over her shoulder, and opened the trunk to expose four pink bakery boxes from Ignacio's 24-Hour Doh!Knot Stop.

Kent opened the top box, snatched a chocolate old-fashioned, and stuffed it in his mouth as he lifted the boxes out of the car.

“You keep scarfing those, you won't make it down the aisle,” Morgan muttered, hoping her willpower stayed intact and she refused the call of the lemon-filled. She really loved the lemon-filled. Kent grinned around the cake as she followed him to the construction trailer and the snack table he kept for his crew. “How are the wedding plans coming along?”

“You'd have to ask Craig.” Kent swallowed. “Let's elope, I said. Just the two of us, no fuss, but no. He wants a party. With both our families. We're still arguing about the band, so he booked both.”

“Yeah, a real tragedy.” Morgan laughed at the gleam in his eye. “Happily ever after with the man of your dreams. Poor you.” Kent was one of the few friends she'd kept in touch with after high school. Quarterback, star of the debate club, and class president. He'd also been out for as long as she'd known him. Having become one of the most sought-after general contractors in southern California, he was Morgan's first call when the final plans for the center were approved. “Seven weeks and counting until
dum-dum-da-dum
.”

“You're coming, right?”

“Wouldn't miss it.” Not that she relished attending without a plus-one. The thought of Gage and his taut torso-accentuating tux came to mind.

Dangerous, dangerous, dangerous. She'd been unable to shake the thought of him since she'd left him in the middle of the street. She shook her head as if her mind were an Etch A Sketch. Didn't work. No matter how many times she tried.

“I thought maybe you'd want to change to a plus-one now that you made a new friend.” Kent waggled his eyebrows as he filled a paper cup with coffee.

“What new friend? What are you— Oh, God.” Morgan rubbed her eyes. “You saw the paper. I thought print was dead.”

Kent chuckled and tossed her a copy of the
Lantano Valley Times
, which she attempted to deflect into the recycling bin. Instead it plopped on the table in front of her.

“It was one dance, Kent. It wasn't anything.” But it could so easily have been.

“Are you seeing the same picture I am?” He let out an attention-grabbing whistle. “Break!” He gestured to the boxes. “I always suspected there was a social butterfly lurking beneath that Joan of Arc facade,” Kent teased over his shoulder. “Glad to see you had a good time.”

Morgan could almost feel Gage's arms around her and hear the echo of the string quartet as she gazed at the picture. “Too bad there's no time.”

“Make the time, Morgan. You can change the world all you want, but it doesn't mean anything if there's no one to share it with.”

Cranky Morgan reared her head like a horror movie jack-in-the-box. “Anyone ever tell you you're an irritating combination of Dr. Phil and Yoda?”

“Surprisingly, yes.” The grin returned. “That last permit we were waiting for came through. Let me grab the paperwork and I'll show you what's been done since your last visit.”

Morgan pulled out her phone and scanned her calendar. “I can give you until one, then I have to hit the road for a pickup in L.A.” And hopefully miss crush-hour traffic both ways. “Those new fixture and tile samples came in but they want to charge us two arms and a leg for delivery. I'll drop them by here on my way home.”

“I could have had one of the guys go get it.” Kent headed up the three stairs into the trailer.

“I had to go in anyway. No need to take one of your people off the job.” She marked off the three phone calls she'd scheduled, along with her drop-off at the bank and the meeting with Kent. That left two pickups for fund-raisers from Los Angeles schools, the samples and the meeting with the linen suppliers. Just in time to get home and check the bathroom sink for Nico. “I'll wait for you in the lobby.” Or where the lobby would be once construction was completed.

“Thanks for the donuts, Morgan.” Morgan glanced up at the swarm of workmen passing by on the way to the snack table, clueless as to who had spoken, so she smiled at all of them.

“You're welcome.” The faces were familiar to her, having seen them at least once a week for the past eight months, but trying to put a name to any of them was futile. “You're doing a great job. Oh. Thanks.” She caught the fluorescent yellow hard hat as it sailed through the air. “Almost forgot.”

And then everything around her vanished except for the center.

Hour by hour, day by day, her dream, her family's dream, was coming to fruition. She loved these once-a-week visits, loved seeing the meat go on the bones of the skeletal structure.

This was what mattered. Getting the center built, opening the doors, bringing patients in, and giving them their lives back.

Nothing, not new accountants, not construction delays or legally questionable financial situations, was going to stop her.

And neither was Gage Juliano.

***

Had Gage not spotted Morgan's Mustang parked in front of the three-story house he might have thought he had the wrong address. Finding dilapidated chic where he expected pristine Victorian was yet another reminder Morgan Tremayne was anything but predictable.

Wedged comfortably between the bustle of Los Angeles and sedate Santa Barbara, Gage considered Lantano Valley an eclectic conglomeration of businesses and culture-rich neighborhoods—a throwback of sorts, with zoning restrictions on big-box stores and an economy that thrived on independent movie houses and yoga studios, cafés, and art galleries.

Days like this, when the sun had burned off the clouds and a cool breeze bathed the city, he was glad he'd come home. Days like this, he was glad for an excuse to get out of the office. He'd be more glad if Agent Kolfax would stop sniffing around the D.A.'s office like an over-hyped bloodhound. Twice he'd seen Kolfax lurking in the lobby trying to play invisible secret agent man. As if Gage wouldn't notice him wearing the same appalling suit Evan had caught on film.

Irritated, Gage had called a contact at the Los Angeles FBI office, asked on the QT if the Tremaynes or their foundation were on anyone's radar, and while he had yet to receive a direct answer, no red flags had gone up. Hearing that Kolfax had more enemies than friends in the agency perked him up considerably.

The “leaked” story about the D.A.'s office pressing charges against anyone accepting Nemesis' help was a long shot. When it came to scaring people into proper behavior and sharing information, if it meant endangering their wallets, silence was the more predictable outcome. Still, the threat wasn't a bad notion to have floating around. If anything, it might make Nemesis think twice before putting those he wanted to help at risk of jail time.

Not that Gage expected Nemesis to stop his midnight visits. Nemesis had invested an armored truckload of ego and was having far too much fun to stop now.

Then again, a crime scene at just the right time—say, Sunday afternoon around one—would solve his present social dilemma. Gage let out a long-held breath and stared out at 947 Tumbleweed Drive.

He hadn't been to the historic section of Lantano Valley since he'd come home last year. Odd, as his parents' house was less than a mile away. But while the Juliano residence was two-story brick modern, the Tumbleweed house looked as if a plastic surgeon gave up halfway through a facelift. It was, however, in far better shape than the other houses in the area, a number of which were in foreclosure or for sale.

Gage reached for the paper bag that held the gift-wrapped shoe box. Janice had saved his sanity by wrapping the shoes in purple and silver and topped it with a glitter-edged fabric hydrangea—a special touch, she'd said with a wink. He'd been tempted to delay leaving the office to postpone her inevitable call to update his mother on “The Morgan Situation.”

As he crossed the street, a Ford minivan rumbled into the driveway and parked beneath the shade of one of the two enormous oak trees in the front yard. No sooner did it stop than the side door slid open and two little kids tumbled out, squealing and laughing, racing around the lawn as if the game of tag had become an Olympic sport.

A tall, slender woman in her mid-fifties climbed out from behind the wheel, thick grey hair pulled away from her windblown face as she circled to pop the hatch. He knew when she spotted him. She cast a cautious glance to the children as she watched him approach. “Can I help you with something?”

“Inspector Gage Juliano,” Gage introduced himself. “I'm looking for Morgan Tremayne.”

Her face broke into a smile and her face flashed recognition. “Oh. Of course. I'm Angela Fiorelli. Kelley. Brandon. Come get your bags. Sorry. School holiday. Only time I had to take them for new shoes. Morgan's in the garage. I'll show you around in a minute. Kids, now, please.” Gage shifted Morgan's gift under his arm and took some of the bags as Brandon and Kelley skidded up beside him.

“Hello,” he greeted them and was rewarded with a skeptical step away by the towheaded boy and a comical double take by the sprite-like girl.

Dressed in a bright yellow dress and sparkly purple sneakers, the girl's baby-doll blue eyes blinked up at him from beneath an enormous floppy hat big enough to protect the pale skin of her face and arms. Her smile tugged at his heart. “It's him,” she whispered, stepping closer, only to be stopped by the boy's hand on her shoulder.

“Excuse me?” Gage asked, but the boy spun her away and grabbed the next bags Angela held out, and they disappeared into the house.

“Sorry about that.” Angela laughed. “Kelley's been preoccupied with fairy tales and with that picture of you and Morgan in the paper—”

“Ah.” Good thing he wasn't working at the precinct any longer. He didn't want to think about the torture his fellow officers would have conjured up.

Angela closed the hatch and gestured for him to follow. “Appreciate the help. Can I get you anything? Something to drink?”

“No, thank you. I have to get back downtown but I wanted to get this to Morgan.” He cocked his arm, indicating the package. Gage glanced up at the front of the house and saw a second-floor window curtain pulled to the side. A teenage boy stared down at him with a combination of curiosity and suspicion, radiating hostility like an overheating furnace. “It's a gift.” Of sorts.

Angela held the front door open. “Women love to get presents.”

He was counting on it.

As Gage headed inside he noticed a number of porch planks and posts had been replaced, but work wasn't close to complete. While the outside still needed work, most of the attention had been paid to the interior.