Lone Star Santa Page 2

  He reached his office door and looked in. It was worse than he’d thought.

  “Mitch, buddy.” Jeremy stepped over to him and took his arm—the one not holding a briefcase. The arm holding a briefcase was liberated of said briefcase by one of the SEC men.

  “What’s going on?” Mitch kept his voice low and calm. In retrospect, it might have been better if he’d shouted.

  “Buddy—why didn’t you tell me you were in trouble?” Jeremy wore his concerned sympathy face—the face he wore when he faced clients who’d followed their advice and yet, inexplicably, lost money.

  Mitch’s eyes narrowed. Jeremy had taught him that face. He’d practiced it with him. Mitch was not fooled by that face. Jeremy was worried. “What do you mean ‘trouble’?”

  Jeremy gestured as two men wheeled out his file cabinet on a dolly. “You’re over an hour late. I could have used a heads up.” Jeremy managed to speak without moving his lips.

  “I overslept! You know I spent all weekend here and—”

  “I’d keep that to myself for now.” Jeremy glanced at one of the men—the one who wasn’t wearing a windbreaker with SEC on it, but was talking into a cell phone. He stared at them.

  Mitch knew why he stared at them—Jeremy looked guilty. In fact, Jeremy couldn’t have looked guiltier if he’d held a blinking sign over his head.

  “You look guilty,” he told him.

  “No, Mitch. I look concerned, but cooperative.” His grip tightened.

  Mitch pulled his arm away. “What are we cooperating with? What’s going on? What do they think is wrong?”

  “Well, Mitch, that’s what we’re trying to find out.” Glancing over at the man again, he leaned closer to Mitch. “I’ll handle this. Just play along.”

  “It would help if I knew the game!”

  “The game is stay out of jail, buddy.”

  Mitch couldn’t think of anything to say. He simply couldn’t process what was happening. He’d always followed the rules. Prided himself on doing so, even. Nothing he’d done recently, or in the past few weeks—or ever—was even remotely suspicious.

  He drew a breath to ask if Jeremy knew what they were supposed to have done, but Jeremy rubbed the place above his eyebrow. The “be quiet” signal.

  So Mitch swallowed his questions and leaned against his office wall. Way back when they were in business school together, heck, even before that when they’d been in high school in Sugar Land, Texas, Mitch had learned that Jeremy was very good at reading people and good things always happened when Mitch stood back and let Jeremy take over. This method had worked for them in the eight years since they’d gone into partnership with each other and Mitch sure hoped it worked now.

  He watched as the men packed up his computer, every pencil, pen and paper clip in his desk and even his office plant. Some palm thing. “They’re taking my plant.” He turned to Jeremy in genuine bewilderment. “Did they take all your stuff?”

  Jeremy looked at his shoes in much the same way everybody in the outer office had found the carpeting so fascinating this morning.

  “You’re kidding,” Mitch said flatly. “Just my stuff?”

  Drawing a deep breath, Jeremy met his eyes. “I don’t care what you’ve done. I’m here for you. And we’ll get you a good lawyer. The best.”

  “I don’t need a lawyer!”

  “I’m thinking you do.” The head-honcho type approached them and handed Mitch a card.

  Mitch blinked, his vision as fuzzy as his brain, barely able to make out “FBI Economic Crimes Unit.” FBI? The FBI was here, too? Crimes? This could not be happening, at least not to him. “There’s got to be some mistake,” he said to the man. He squinted at the card. “Mr. Jenkins.”

  “Then we’ll find it.”

  “I—” He couldn’t think of a thing to say. It was as though someone had filled his head with molasses. Not enough sleep.

  He’d been working such long hours because it was nearing the end of the year and many of their clients made adjustments to their financial portfolios at this time for tax purposes. Nothing unusual. It was always this way. And the truth was, he liked the work. It meant business was good. It meant end-of-the-year profits.

  He waved his hand around his denuded office. “What am I supposed to do? Our clients—”

  “Don’t worry,” Jeremy broke in. “Go home. Take the rest of the day off. In fact take a couple of days. The rest of the week.”

  “You might give us a few hours before you head back home.” Jenkins smiled without mirth. “Do some early Christmas shopping.” He handed Mitch a piece of paper. “You can make one ATM withdrawal.”

  Several beats passed before Mitch understood that Jenkins’ men were in his town house, presumably leaving it in the same condition as his office.

  No.

  He turned, but Jenkins stopped him. “You’ll have to sign the paper.”

  “What is this?”

  “Basically, it says we’ve impounded the contents of your office until such time as we evaluate the evidence.”

  The words swam before his eyes. “What if I don’t sign?”

  Jenkins shrugged. “Stuff tends to get lost.”

  Right. Mitch signed, aware that Jeremy had been remarkably quiet during everything. He was no doubt as shocked as Mitch was.

  Mitch handed Jenkins his precious paper and promptly took his own shocked self back home.

  BAD MOVE. OUTSIDE HIS town house, Mitch leaned against his car, which he’d parked at the curb because, hey, he didn’t want to block the truck into which SEC minions were loading his possessions.

  And, oh, it wasn’t his own personal car. It was a rental because his own personal car had been impounded.

  As soon as he got his breathing under control—getting just the right speed to avoid hyperventilation was tricky at the moment—he’d give Jeremy a call. Just a, “Hey, how’s it goin’? What the hell is going on?” call.

  He gripped the cell phone and held his breath. It beat breathing into a paper bag.

  He speed dialed Jeremy.

  Jeremy answered with, “This isn’t a good time for me.”

  “Well, buddy, this isn’t such a hot time for me, either.” Mitch spoke through clenched teeth. He hoped anyone watching would think was a smile. “A Jenkins clone is here with his minions. They’re taking ‘items of interest.’ Then I’ll be allowed to pack. Then, they’re sealing off my town house and I won’t be able to get back into it for God knows how long. They don’t seem to care where I go—maybe because they’ve made it so hard for me to go anywhere. Did I mention they took my car? I had to rent one. I used the corporate card, since all my freaking credit cards are frozen.”

  “I have no idea what they’re looking for,” Jeremy said in a barely audible voice. “You know with all the corporate malfeasance of the past few years the Feds are probably being extra careful.”

  “Whatever.” Mitch was suddenly very, very tired. “Maybe we can figure it out tonight. Obviously, I need a place to crash. After Jenkins II is finished here, I’ll come by the office and get your key, unless you’ve got an extra floating around somewhere outside your place.”

  A couple of beats went by. “That doesn’t work for me.”

  Mitch blinked. “It doesn’t work for me, either, but I’ve got nowhere else to go and the three hundred bucks I got out of the ATM isn’t going to last me too long.”

  There was silence. Mitch watched as two men hefted his eight-foot palm into the van. “What is with them and plants?” He turned away. “Come on, Jeremy. I was the neat roommate. We lived together for four years, I think you can stand a few days or however long it takes before the SEC realizes they’ve made a huge, tax dollar–wasting mistake.”

  “I think it’s best if we keep our distance until this blows over.”

  He did, did he? Who the hell did he think he was? “Have you got a girl living with you? Is that it?”

  “Yes, but no.”

  “Then why?”

 
“Because we’re lucky only one of us is being targeted.” Jeremy spoke in a near whisper.

  “I don’t feel lucky.”

  “I can help you better this way, buddy. If I get dragged into this investigation, too, then there’s nobody on the outside.”

  “I plan to stay on the outside!”

  “That’s one thing I’ve always admired about you, Mitch. Your positive attitude.”

  This conversation was not making Mitch feel positive. It was making him feel slightly sick. “Why shouldn’t I feel positive? You… Jeremy? Hey, man, you don’t believe I’ve done anything, do you?” Mitch couldn’t believe he actually had to ask.

  Jeremy hesitated. He actually hesitated. “Let’s see what the lawyer says, okay?”

  “You can’t make up your mind without a lawyer?” A thought occurred to him. “Do we have a lawyer yet?”

  “I’m working on it.”

  Mitch gritted his teeth. “Work faster.”

  “Hey, this is a busy time. And now that you aren’t here to take up the slack—”

  “Slack? I’m the one who spent the entire weekend working while you were the one who went to the Cowboys game.”

  “With clients. I was with clients. I was working. You know how you hate that part of the business.”

  This was true, Mitch grudgingly admitted to himself. And yet, it didn’t seem to be quite the same.

  “Mitch, I’ve got to go. I want to do damage control before anyone realizes there’s been damage.” Mitch heard him tapping his computer keyboard. “You’ve got the corporate card. Check into a hotel. Try that new spa one downtown. Knock yourself out. And keep in touch.” Jeremy disconnected.

  Keep in touch. But from a distance.

  Mitch gave his head a hard shake. Check into a spa hotel? Was Jeremy nuts?

  His phone rang. He answered without looking at Caller ID. “Donner.”

  “Mr. Donner, this is Carson Rentals. There’s a problem with your credit card. You are no longer an authorized user.”

  The corporate card. “I was an authorized user an hour ago when you rented me the car.”

  “We’ve received updated information—”

  “Never mind.” Mitch gave them Jeremy’s cell number. “Tell him he can authorize the rental, or I’ll drive his car. His choice.”

  “If you could come back to sign—”

  “No. Mr. Sloane will take care of any paper work.”

  He clicked off and before the car rental girl could call him back, he pressed “1” on his speed dial and closed his eyes. In a situation like this, there was only one thing to do. One place to go. Two people who believed in him, which were two more than believed in him here.

  “Mitch!”

  At the delight in her voice, he relaxed for the first time in hours. “Hey, Mom, guess what? I’m coming home for the holidays.”

  Chapter Two

  After Thanksgiving. At least a week. The leftovers have been eaten and those who’ve arrived for a “holiday visit” should have long since departed. But they haven’t. They’re hanging around making their parents nervous.

  SHE WAS GETTING FAT. Fat, fat, fat. Wearing a retro full black slip, Kristen twisted and turned in front of the full-length mirror and vainly tried to find her hip bones, but they were hiding in the shadow made by her new stomach pooch. And if she needed more proof of fatness, Kristen had caught herself lingering on the television shopping channels when they advertised anything with elastic waists.

  She couldn’t even blame her mother’s cooking. Oh, sure, her mother, Barbara, had cooked a turkey with trimmings for Thanksgiving. Okay, technically, she’d heated up a takeout bird along with the prepackaged side dishes, but the mashed potatoes had been made from scratch with Kristen’s very own two hands.

  Ah, mashed potatoes. How long had it been since she’d scarfed down their fluffy, buttery goodness? Well, breakfast, actually. Kristen pulled on her new black skirt and tried to work up some guilt. And failed.

  Had no one noticed that while the other turkey dinner leftovers had disappeared at a proportional rate, the mashed potatoes had magically reappeared meal after meal?

  Kristen closed her eyes and remembered the cheese and jalapeños she’d added to yesterday’s mashed-potato lunch, after which she’d drunk water all afternoon. It had been worth it. How could she have survived all that time in carbless Los Angeles without cheese and jalapeños?

  And potatoes. Wonderful, glorious potatoes. They oozed warm comfort. Filled the belly. Relaxed the mind. Nature’s perfect food.

  There was a time when her mother wouldn’t have let her eat three meals of mashed potatoes a day, but meals had been very casual since Kristen had come home. What had happened to the family dinners when they all gathered around the table and Kristen and her little sister Nicole would report on their days?

  Okay, so Nicole was married now and Kristen was technically living in Los Angeles until… Oh. It was after December first, so she was technically living in her old room at her parents’ house. An old room she’d expected to see in the same condition she’d left it after coming back for Nicole’s wedding. Then it had been cleaned up some, but still had her furniture and curtains and her stuffed animals and trophies. It wasn’t a shrine, but it was an awfully familiar-looking guest room.

  However, that was all gone. No more lilac-and-white eyelet. Now the room was painted a soft sage green and held exercise equipment with a pullout sofa bed and a computer.

  Because they were always working late, her parents weren’t around a whole lot in the evenings. No sitting in front of the TV eating Healthy Carbolyte frozen meals for them. And no apron-clad mother slaving over a hot microwave for Kristen. Dinner—and breakfast and lunch—was grab and eat, except for Friday nights, when she and her parents linked up over takeout food.

  It wasn’t what Kristen had expected. But then again, the turn her life had taken wasn’t what she expected. In addition to being fat, she was bored and broke, so she’d officially gone to work for her father.

  It sounded worse than it was.

  She slipped the matching black suit jacket off the hanger and shrugged into it. Adjusting the mighty shoulder pads so they were actually on top of her shoulders and not horrible deformities on her back, Kristen buttoned the jacket.

  Not so bad. She wasn’t really fat fat. She had put on weight, but it had smoothed the sharpness of her collarbones. Part of the extra weight had landed in her hips, of course, but some had lingered in her chest and for the first time since her Miss Sweetest days, Kristen had a hint—actually more like a strong suggestion—of cleavage.

  Yes, she could actually be a salsa sushi girl without the tape.

  In actuality, she was something just as bizarre. Incredibly, her father had retired doing whatever he’d done for an oil company, and had opened a private investigation agency inspired by old film noir movies, the very ones Kristen had imagined her parents watching all the time. If that wasn’t a midlife crisis, then she didn’t know what was. She had to give him points for being more original than going the red-convertible route. Anyway, Kristen had accepted the role of femme fatale receptionist while the freelance investigator her dad used part-time worked on a case out of state.

  As it happens, someone’s midlife crisis was someone else’s clever marketing ploy and the place was doing a lot of business.

  “Don’t think about it,” she whispered on an exhale and stepped into suede round-toed pumps.

  Okay. Good to go. She had seamed stockings, a replica vintage black suit, a hat with a tiny veil and bright red lips. The lipstick got on everything from her fingers to her teeth to the telephone, but that gave her a real reason to whip out that silver compact and check her face.

  This was actually kind of fun. Certainly better than sitting around wondering what had happened to her parents.

  “Kristen?” Her mother knocked twice on her door. “Are you ready to go?”

  Her mother had to give her a ride to work every day since Kristen
had no car and she was supposed to open up the agency by seven-thirty. That was seven-thirty a.m., so help her.

  “Let me put on my gloves.” The gloves had been an inspired addition to her work costume. For some reason, the hat and gloves kept her effortlessly in character.

  “You look fabulous,” her mother said. “Your waist looks so tiny. I don’t know why we don’t go back to that look.”

  “You did. It was called the eighties.” Kristen picked up her purse and looked her mother up and down. “You look pretty wow yourself.” In an incredible alternate-universe kind of way.

  Kristen simply couldn’t accept that the chic woman with the streaked blond bob and professional make up was her mother. Her mother also wore a black suit. Kristen squinted. “Is that Prada?”

  “Yes, but last season.”

  Her jumper-wearing, aproned mother not only knew what Prada was, but also worried about last-year’s style?

  Kristen couldn’t get used to this version of her parents. That and the shoes. “Manolos?”

  “Jimmy Choo.”

  Of course they were. “The real estate business must be good.” Kristen followed her mother down the stairs.

  “If you have talent and work hard.” Barbara stopped abruptly at the bottom of the stairs. “I didn’t mean to imply—”

  “I know you didn’t.”

  Kristen and her mother hadn’t had an official heart-to-heart about Kristen’s experiences in Hollywood, but then again, did they need to? It wasn’t as though Kristen had been able to call home to rave about more than those stupid orange juice commercials.

  Actually, they hadn’t been that stupid. The residuals had supported her for many months. Had given her hope. It might have been better for her if she hadn’t had that quick, but minor, success.

  Anyway, this job with her surprising father could be considered acting. Kristen felt her skirt swish against her seamed stockings. Definitely acting.

  Her mother locked the door and pressed the button to open the garage. “I need to stop at Patsy Donner’s and give her a check for the agency’s parade sponsorship before I drop you off.”