Where there’s smoke…

“Fire!” somebody yelled, and as one, we all turned and fled.

My heart raced, and my palms broke out in a sweat. I took off for Mom’s office. She must have heard the commotion, because she met me at the doorway. “What the hell’s going on?”

“Mom, we’ve gotta get out of here! It’s—”

“A smoke bomb!” Tiffany yelled. I turned to see her emerge from the fog now creeping down the hall. Her eyes were watering, and she had a hand over her mouth while she coughed and gagged. “This is your fault!”

“My fault?” I asked, astonished anyone would think I’d stoop to something so juvenile and mean.

Thrusting a sheet of crinkled paper at me, she coughed and spluttered but managed to say, “Whoever opened the door and…threw the smoke bomb tossed this in first. Says right there, ‘Back off…Pink…or next time it’ll be a helluva lot worse than…smoke!’”

So much for my plan of keeping my stalker on the Q.T.

Show Her The Money
Stephanie Feagan

STEPHANIE FEAGAN

didn’t grow up dreaming of becoming a CPA. She planned to be a park ranger so that she could live in the mountains of Yellowstone National Park, marry a good-looking guy who liked bears and spend her evenings by a cozy fire, writing novels. But a funny thing happened on the way to college. Instead of a forestry degree, she graduated with a BBA in accounting and became a CPA. Instead of marrying a mountain man, she married an oilman. And instead of living amongst mountains and pines and bears, she lives in the flatlands of West Texas, amongst mesquites and jackrabbits. That’s okay for Stephanie—she happens to love the mesquites and the jackrabbits. She especially loves her oilman. And she does spend her evenings writing novels, although instead of a cozy fire, she opts for an air conditioner. Stephanie would love for you to visit her Web site at www.stephaniefeagan.com.

This book is dedicated to the memory of

Edward Cotner.

We miss you, Eddie.

Acknowledgments

My undying gratitude belongs to the following people: Jo George, CPA extraordinaire, aka Mom, for answers and inspiration. Callie and Leslea, for the gift of time. Kay Sirgo and Cheryl Cotner, for the first reads. Dan Fogelberg, for keeping me company in the wee hours, via headphones. Pam Payne, Nancy Kleinkopf and the Wet Noodle Posse, without whom this book never would have happened. Karen Solem, for believing in Pink. Natashya Wilson, every writer’s dream editor, for your patience, help and friendship. And most of all, my thanks to Mike, for the oil-field expertise, your love and support, and your unwavering faith in me.

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 1

Sitting in front of the senate finance committee was like sprinting down Dallas Central Expressway, naked. If I didn’t get run over and killed, I was bound to become the butt of everyone’s joke first thing in the morning when the newspapers came out.

Either way, I’d rather get a root canal, have lunch with Aunt Dru, who could bore God into a premature Armageddon or remarry my lying, cheating mongrel of an ex-husband than face a row of senators bent on ferreting out the truth behind one of the worst accounting hoodwink jobs in history. Never mind that they got the first scent of blood from me. Less than a month ago, I thought I could set things straight, Marvel Energy would get their hand slapped and all would be well. How was I to know that what I discovered was only the tip of the iceberg?

I’d finished giving my prepared statement, and now it was time to run through the rack line with all those fun and happy senators who vaguely reminded me of a movie I once saw about the Salem witch trials.

“Ms. Pearl, I’d like some clarification on a few points.”

Eyeing Senator Santorelli, a romantic-looking Italian with perfect hair, I nodded.

“What was your position within the accounting firm before you were dismissed?”

“I was promoted to senior manager last December, with the understanding I was being groomed to make partner within three years. This was my first year to head the Marvel Energy audit. I reported directly to Lowell Jaworski, the partner in charge of the firm’s Dallas-based energy and petroleum clients.”

“When you initially discovered the irregularities in Marvel’s accounting methods, were you aware how deeply your own firm was involved?”

“I had no idea.” That all came later. It broke my heart to discover the firm where I’d worked for over eight years was rotten at the core. But I didn’t say that. I was pretty sure the finance committee could care less about my heart.

“What sort of discrepancies, in particular, did you find while working on the Marvel audit?”

Oh boy. This was the fun part. “Based on the dollar amount of oil reserves Marvel claims to hold, they own close to a sixteenth of the world’s supply of petroleum. Marvel is a large company, sir, but not that large. My staff was only able to track down a fraction of their claim. Marvel has less than sixty million dollars of debt on the balance sheet, but I believe they owe various banks upwards of four hundred million. All of this debt was carried off the books, within a maze of partnerships and offshore trusts. As I dug deeper, I found out the company overstated their quarterly income for the past five quarters by almost twenty million.”

“When you asked about these discrepancies, what was Mr. Jaworski’s reaction?”

I cleared my throat and shot a glance at my hired gun attorney, Mr. Dryer. He nodded slightly, indicating I should go ahead. Returning my gaze to Santorelli, I caught an odd look on his face, one I couldn’t decipher. “Mr. Jaworski told me my chances of making partner would fall to zilch if I didn’t back off and leave it alone.”

Santorelli paged through the copies of documents I’d provided to the committee, then looked at me with that weird look again. He almost looked like he wanted to smile. There was a bit of a twinkle in his dark eyes. Or maybe it was just the awful fluorescent light in the hearing room. At any rate, I had the sense he found all of this amusing in some way, and that pissed me off. After becoming a CPA, landing a job at the most prestigious firm in the universe, then working ungodly hours, week after week, year after year, all so I could make it to the top, I was now on unemployment. And Santorelli thought this was funny? I couldn’t believe it. Maybe he just had that kind of face that always looks like it wants to smile.

“Ms. Pearl,” he began in a solemn voice that belied his expression, “I see workpapers and documents here, along with the preliminary findings of the Securities and Exchange Commission investigation, that go a long way toward backing up your claim that Marvel grossly understated debt and overstated assets, but nothing in here gives us any proof that the irregularities weren’t the result of error, or miscommunication, or negligence. You say the Marvel execs and the partners of your firm knowingly hoodwinked investors, that all the mis-statements were on purpose, but we can’t begin investigating anyone unless we have some sort of evidence. All we can do with these documents is allow the SEC to file suit against Marvel and the firm for what amounts to setting up a maze of companies so complicated, it would take Einstein a year to figure it out. It’s no wonder there are so many mistakes.”

The sole woman on the committee, Barbara Clemmons from New Hampshire, piped up then. “Isn’t it true that you approached the SEC after you were let go from your position at the firm?”

Again, I glanced at Mr. Dryer. He leaned over and whispered, “Tell the truth. They’re going to try and say you did all of this for revenge, and without the memos, it doesn’t look good. Just do the best you can.”

Do the best I could? Oh, Lord. Turning back to face the row of senators, I said, “Mr. Jaworski told me, if I was determined to take my suspicions to the SEC, he’d fire me. In light of what I found, I didn’t see I had any choice.”

“If you’re so certain this was a conspiracy, where’s the evidence?”

Time for some major ass-covering. I mentally slipped into my iron underwear. “The Marvel executives sold every share of Marvel stock they were legally allowed to sell the day I took my findings to the SEC, and at the same time, put a freeze on the employees and wouldn’t allow any of the retirement fund Marvel stock to be sold. Then they announced an adjustment to earnings and the stock price fell by fifty percent.”

“All that proves is the Marvel executives were running scared because they knew you were opening the company up for an SEC investigation. There’s no law against someone looking out for their own interests. Perhaps they froze the retirement fund to avoid a further drop in the price, which would protect the investors. As for the earnings adjustment, they no doubt wanted to set the record straight in their own way, rather than allow for the perception of wrongdoing among their shareholders.”

Un-freaking-believable. She was painting the execs at Marvel as the wounded party in all this. They’d lied, cheated and ripped off the investors by selling out before the stock price tanked. But Barbara Clemmons had the nerve to insinuate that I was Chicken Little, causing a panic when clearly, it was all just a big misunderstanding.

She said in a tone now almost hostile, “I was given to understand we would see evidence at today’s hearing. Instead, all you have are theories.” The other senators nodded agreement, looking annoyed. Except Santorelli.

He was frowning at Ms. Clemmons, but she didn’t appear to notice. Instead, she was frowning at me, as though I was the bad guy in all of this. Dammit! If only I had the freakin’ memos. Time to lay out The Big Confession. “Almost two weeks ago, I obtained copies of several memos between Lowell Jaworski and the CEO and CFO at Marvel. They prove the complicated partnership scheme was designed for the express purpose of hiding debt and losses that would affect Marvel’s bottom line, and therefore the price of their stock. The memos also prove that the firm agreed to look the other way in exchange for very lucrative consulting work.”

“The SEC informed us of the alleged memos,” she said, her middle-aged, jowly face set in stern disapproval, “but where are these memos? Why didn’t you turn what you had over to the SEC investigator?”

Okay, this was it. The moment I’d dreaded since the instant I realized I no longer had my ace in the hole. “The memos were scanned and saved onto several disks, one of which I stored in a safe deposit box at my bank, some I hid in my home and one was earmarked to be taken to the SEC. Before I could get the disk to the SEC, it was stolen, along with all but one of the hidden copies. The disk in the lockbox was accidentally taken by my ex-husband.” Who still had a key because I was so busy working my ass off, I didn’t think to have it changed. Because the only things in the damn box were our marriage license—yeah, like I wanted to keep that safe—and my mother’s will. Because I forgot George even had a key. Huge mistake on my part. I was convinced someone had paid George big bucks to swipe the disk, but I wasn’t going to say that. I already looked like a fringe lunatic, paranoid and grasping at conspiracy theories. No way I wanted to get into it about George.

“Did you contact the police about the theft?”

“Yes, but they weren’t able to reach any conclusion as to who might have broken into my home.” So much for the boys in blue upholding the law. They’d acted as though they’d like to arrest me for being such a pain in their ass. Floppy disks didn’t register on their radar as any consequence. That the disks represented all that stood between me and very hot water never seemed to register. They’d taken a report and I hadn’t heard from them since. “I thought I’d be able to retrieve the memos before today’s hearing. Regrettably, I could not.”

“So,” she said a bit smugly, “there will never be any evidence to prove your claim. Is that right?”

“Respectfully, no, that is not right. There is one disk remaining, but I don’t have access to it.”

Santorelli spoke before Clemmons could ask another snarky question. “Where is it?”

I panicked, and Mr. Dryer leaned close. “You have to tell them.” He raised one graying brow, reminding me of my father. This wasn’t a good thing.

Taking a deep breath, I looked at Santorelli. “Inside a box that was taken by someone who misunderstood which box I intended to get rid of.”

“The solution seems simple, Ms. Pearl. Get the box back.”

“I can’t get the box back because it was sold.” In a garage sale, by my aunt Fred, who’s the Garage Sale Queen, always hunting for inventory. But no way I was telling the senator, or anyone else. Someone had taken five of my copies, and I was determined to hang on to the sixth. It held everything the justice department needed to charge the Marvel Energy executives and the partners of my ex-employer CPA firm with felony counts of fraud, gross negligence and perjury.

The only people who knew where the box was now located were me, Aunt Fred and my third grade teacher, who’d bought the box. Me and Aunt Fred weren’t talking, and Mrs. Bohannon was currently rolling across the Serengeti in the back of a Land Rover, shooting pictures of giraffes, completely unaware she had the key to my fate stored in one of her closets. “I can retrieve the disk within three weeks, as soon as the person who bought the box returns from out of the country.”

Santorelli glanced at his fellow senators, then leveled a look at me. “I assume no one purchased an empty box, Ms. Pearl. What was in the box?”

A sharp look at Mr. Dryer. He only nodded, and his already thin lips completely disappeared. We’d been all through the box issue. If I lied, if I said something was in the box, other than what really was in the box, it could harm my credibility if the investigation ended with criminal charges against Marvel Energy. It didn’t seem reasonable that anyone would ever be the wiser, but Mr. Dryer assured me they had ways of finding these things out. Not wanting to arm the Marvel defense team with any ammunition, I decided to tell the truth, even if it meant laying my pride at the feet of the senate finance committee—and the rest of the United States. At least, the ones who watched C-SPAN. I looked straight at the senator and said clearly, “Mister Bob.”

“Mister Bob?”

“A blow-up doll.”

The army of press congregated behind me, along with a smorgasbord of others, including the head honcho of the SEC, chuckled and guffawed. The senators all smiled. All except Barbara. I tried to save face. “It was a gag gift, given to me on my thirtieth birthday.”

Santorelli stopped grinning, barely, and said in a pseudo-forceful tone, “I believe we’ve covered everything, Ms. Pearl. Thank you again for coming forward and we’d like to reconvene this hearing when you have the memo copies in hand.”

“Yes, sir. I will be here.”

He leaned forward a bit, his dark eyes trained on mine as though he really wanted me to get what he was about to say. “Ms. Pearl, it takes a lot of courage for a person to do the right thing, then suffer the consequences as you have. However, I must advise you of the precarious position you’re in. Although this was the first year you were in charge of the Marvel audit, you were involved with the audit over the past five years, in a lesser managerial capacity, but still in a position of authority over the audit staff. If further investigation by the SEC reveals malfeasance or negligence on the part of your firm, you are now under the umbrella of immunity this committee has extended to you in return for your testimony. You will avoid prosecution, civil or criminal. But I remind you, immunity was granted based on your full cooperation.”

“Sir, I’ve told you everything I know, provided all the documents and evidence needed to proceed with the investigation.”

“Ms. Pearl, your immunity can be revoked in the absence of all requested information. You said you had the memos. Now you say you don’t. Without them, it looks as though you blew the whistle to cover yourself in the event Marvel’s house of cards caved in. It comes down to a you-say–they-say situation. From the look of what you have provided, Marvel is very close to defaulting on a large amount of their debt. That may force them into bankruptcy, which would cause a lot of questions to be asked, perhaps putting you in the line of fire.”

I leaned toward Mr. Dryer. “Can they revoke immunity?”

He nodded. “I think they only offered it because they want those memos. Without them, he’s right and it looks like you sang just to cover yourself.”

“Does the fact I knew nothing about any of it have no impact at all?”

Mr. Dryer shot me a look that said he wasn’t buying any of it, either. Even my own attorney didn’t believe me. For eight hundred bucks an hour, the least he could have done was fake it. “Like the man said, it’s your word against theirs. I suggest you do all you can to get your hands on that disk.”

A mental picture of Mrs. Bohannon popped into my head. She was a ditzy old girl when I was in third grade. Dear Lord, please, please let her still have the box, and the disk I’d stuck in the bottom of it.

“Ms. Pearl, do you understand what I’m saying to you?” Santorelli asked in an even voice.

“Yes, sir. I will get the memos.” Or die trying.

As soon as we were dismissed, I wasted no time firing Mr. Dryer. Why give him eight hundred bucks an hour for getting me immunity that wouldn’t hold up? I could get the same service with a back-alley attorney who charged a hundred bucks an hour. Just what I’d do about an attorney, I wasn’t sure, but I’d think of something. I supposed I had to have one. Muddling through the process of hearings and handing over sensitive documents wasn’t in my repertoire. Digging for facts is more my calling. Legal-eagle stuff blows my mind. Without an attorney, I was bound to say and do all the wrong things and wind up in prison, or at the very least, owe a ginormous amount of dough after I was sued by the SEC.

When I got back to my hotel room, I had a surprise waiting for me. Another note, threatening a slice-and-dice job on my private body parts, along with a lovely gift of dog doo.

Somebody had it in for me, and the threats were arriving more frequently. The notion that someone was following me and watching every move I made was creepy enough, but the dog doo took my anxiety to a higher level. I figured, anyone who took the time to find dog poop, scoop it up, preserve it, transport it and artfully arrange it in some strategic spot where I’d be sure to find it, whether with my eyes, my nose or the heel of my foot, was severely twisted. The notes I could almost understand. Someone had a major problem with me ratting out the firm and Marvel Energy. Maybe that someone was in danger of losing their job, or even facing possible indictment.

But the poop took it to a new level. A very scary one.

Still, I wasn’t going to back off. Not that I’m a modern day superhero, or Joan of Arc, or anything. I just don’t like getting shoved around, and I really have a problem with fat cats taking investors for a ride, then swiping their cash. Dog doo or no, I wasn’t backing off.

While me and the housekeeping lady worked at cleaning up the mess, I sent a silent prayer, asking God to forgive me for having murderous thoughts. That’s the great thing about God. He’s so forgiving. Man, I wished I could do that.

But I couldn’t. I despised the Dog Doo Stalker for terrorizing me with poodle bombs and sick notes. I hated Senator Santorelli and Barbara Clemmons for forcing me to humiliate myself in front of the entire nation. And I especially despised my ex-boss, Lowell, for firing me.

The next morning, I caught the early flight out of D.C. and arrived in Dallas before lunch. Not that it mattered. My days of power lunches at places like Beau Nash and The Mansion were over. I could still afford a plate of food that cost more than a new tire, but I had way too much pride to waltz into a fancy-schmancy restaurant and eat lunch alone.

Which is how I felt. Very alone. Being a whistle-blower might earn a girl a place in heaven, but it’s hell on a social life.

I spent an hour wandering around my ransacked loft, half-heartedly picking things up and putting them in their places. Lord, but I loved the loft. It was two-thousand square feet of upscale, modern architecture. I had splurged and bought beautiful Cantoni furniture and the result looked like something out of Architectural Digest. I’d never actually wanted a home that more closely resembled a Starbucks than a cozy place to live, but it grew on me. From the bathroom’s black ceramic bowl and brushed steel faucet that poked out of the granite wall, to the kitchen’s stark wood cabinets and stainless steel appliances, to the narrow balcony that looked out over Central Expressway, the loft screamed success. And I was successful. Very. Was being the operative word.

With the sofa and chair cushions slashed, my books strewn all over the floor, the rugs ripped up and the dishes all broken, the loft was uncannily a mirror of my career, once again. Whoever had broken in to hunt for the disks did a bang-up job. They’d not only destroyed my home, they’d slashed the tires on my car and ripped out the upholstered leather seats, leaving the poor thing’s guts hanging out. I’d had the seats and tires replaced, but it almost seemed to me that the car was wounded. Sad and dejected. It didn’t run quite as well as before.

But then, neither did I. My spirit was so low, I kept asking myself if it was all worth it. Then I’d think of all the people who would suffer because of what Marvel and Lowell had done, and I knew I couldn’t roll over and give up.

As I packed up my portfolio and left for my fourteenth job interview, I wondered why I bothered. No one would hire me. I was a whistle-blower, and despite my honorable intentions, I’d come to realize that most people saw it exactly as Barbara Clemmons and the rest of the finance committee saw it—I’d done it for purely self-serving reasons. Until I had the evidence to prove otherwise, I was as guilty of creating the problems at Marvel as any of the top brass in the company and at my firm. I was a bad guy. It wasn’t fair, but what could I do? Every single interview ended the same. “Your credentials are perfect, Ms. Pearl, but until you’ve settled your affairs with the federal government, we don’t feel it’s in our best interest to offer you a position.” Which was a nice way of saying, “You may be hanging out in the joint soon, so buzz off.”

Nevertheless, I spent the next week looking for a job. By the end of the road, I was down to inquiring about a bookkeeping position with an elderly woman who had a lot of oil and gas interests. I’d office in her laundry room, account for her money and when things got slow, I would need to run a few personal errands. Dry cleaning. Weed the beds. Maybe address invitations to her monthly supper socials.

The real killer? I couldn’t even get that job. The old lady said she’d seen me on C-SPAN, and the only reason she’d agreed to interview me was so she could see me in person. Then she asked if Mr. Bob was anatomically correct.

I came home that night to a message from my mom. “Pink, baby, come home. You’re running through your money so fast, you’ll be on the streets before long. Now I know you think moving back to Midland is the worst thing in the world, and working for me is a last resort, but I have news for you, baby. You’re down to your last resort. Besides, I could really use the help. Call me.”

Most people think I followed in my mother’s footsteps and became a CPA like she did. They’re wrong. I was a sophomore in college when Mom decided she’d had just about enough of my dad and enrolled herself in summer school. She tested out of a gazillion hours, buzzed through in two years and graduated with an MBA about the same time I wrapped up my five-year plan and got my bachelor’s degree.

We each went to work for top-dog accounting firms, me in Dallas, her in Midland. I stuck with it. She didn’t. After a few years of taking orders from managers twenty years younger, she ditched the firm and went out on her own.

She’s wildly successful, and it was really very nice of her to offer me a mercy job. I was appreciative, but moving home and working for her was honestly, truly, the worst possible thing I could imagine.

Too bad I had absolutely no choice in the matter.

I called and said I’d do it. The next morning, I put the loft up for sale, packed what I could into the Mercedes SUV and headed west, waving to Dallas in my rearview mirror.

As I drove back to the town I’d sworn never to live in again, all I could think was what a miserable failure I’d turned out to be. In spite of my devotion, my marriage had crashed and burned. I’d lost a great job because I tried to do the right thing. And I was about to take a mercy job with my mother. How pathetic was that?

To top it all off, I had a notice from the IRS in the day’s mail. I was going to be audited.

I didn’t mind so much. It gave me something different to obsess about.

Midland sits three hundred miles west of Dallas, rising twenty-four stories out of the flattest land on the planet. The twenty-four stories is the tallest building downtown and it’s joined by other wannabes that make the skyline pretty impressive, from ten miles out on the highway. It’s called the Tall City, at least by locals. Everyone else calls it the armpit of Texas, or “that town where Baby Jessica fell down the well.” After George the Second got elected, they hung banners from the downtown light poles with a photo of George W. giving the thumbs-up, and a line beneath him that says, “Midland’s Rising Son.” They are real proud of George and Laura in Midland. Even the three Democrats.

I couldn’t stop thinking of Dallas’s trees and lakes and lush, green grass as I drove that last ten miles into Midland. The landscape around the Tall City is anything but lush. In fact, I’ve often wondered if they did a little bomb practice around Midland before they dropped the Big One on Hiroshima. The loftiest plant life is maybe four feet tall. Mesquite. Lots and lots of mesquite. Some cactus, a little sage and a very wee bit of some thin green stuff that looks like the hair on Charlie Brown’s head. Midland is not scenic.

Still, it has a certain charm, especially within the city limits. All that oil money buys a nice town. Mom told me once, there are more rich people per capita in Midland than anywhere else in Texas. Maybe America. I believe it.

I drove into town and went straight to my mother’s house, a zero-lot line in a small, gated community. It pained her to spend the money, but she had a certain image to uphold. Or so she said. I think she secretly craved a real house, in a ritzy part of town, and that’s exactly what she got. The place was big, with four bedrooms, decorated in luxurious fabrics, dark mahogany and old-world paintings. Very British Indies. She has a pool in the back, and with the August heat rising off the road, I’d been thinking of that pool since Abilene.

It wasn’t until I got to the door that I realized I didn’t have a key. So I got back in the car and drove downtown, to Mom’s office, located in the old First National Bank building, the one that’s the tallest. It’s had so many owners and names over the past twenty years, ever since the oil bust of ’85, nobody knows its actual name. Everyone just calls it the Old First National Bank Building.

Mom’s office is on the fifteenth floor, and her reception area is similar to her house, with beautiful mahogany, plush fabrics and recessed lighting. Mom can be so tight, she squeaks when she walks, but she spends the bucks when it comes to her professional image. Mom says, look successful and you’ll be successful. Guess she’s right. Mom makes a lot of dough.

I walked into the office and saw a pretty, young woman with light brown hair and pouty lips manning the reception desk.

“May I help you?” she inquired cordially.

“Hi, I’m Pink,” I answered, walking close to her desk, glancing at her name plate, “and it’s nice to meet you, Tiffany.” I stuck my hand out and she shook it, then said a little breathlessly, “I think your mom’s been expecting you. Go on back.”

“Thanks.” I turned and headed down the short hall toward the big hall that houses a small conference room, five offices on each side, then opens up into the bull pen, where the lower staffers have cubicles. Mom’s large office is at the end, generally a mess, with stacks of files all over the place.

I was halfway there when she popped out of one of the side offices and waylaid me. “Pink! You’re here!”

She pulled me into the conference room across the hall, we hugged, then she held me away from her and did a quick inventory. “You’ve lost weight.”

“I’ve been a little stressed.”

“Of course you have. I’m sorry, baby.”

Sympathy from Mom has never been ample. Much like rain in Midland; infrequent, longed for, but given sparingly. I swallowed back the giant lump of Pity Party tears in my throat and managed to smile. “Thanks, Mom. And thanks for the job.”

She waved away my thanks and said pragmatically, “You need a job and I need someone to work in my new forensic accounting department. It’s almost cosmic, the way things worked out.”

“Forensic accounting? I thought your practice was solely tax prep.”

“It was, up until a month ago. I hired an MBA named Sam Weston. He was with the FBI, and I hired him as soon as he retired.”

“The FBI?” My voice sort of squeaked on the “FBI” because I was so surprised. An FBI guy, working for my mom? “What’s he going to do, exactly?”

“Trace assets in divorces, testify in court, look into bad oil deals, and things like that.”

I was beyond surprised and almost shocked. Mom is hip and modern in a lot of ways, but old school when it comes to business. Forensic accounting sounded very glam for someone like my mother. “And you want me to work for Sam?”

“That’s the plan.” Mom looked like she did the year she gave me a calculator for Christmas, when I was thirteen. I wanted a padded bra and I got a calculator. “Isn’t it exciting?” She looked ready to whoop it up and start clapping.

Compared to her penthouse enthusiasm, my excitement was in the basement, but I was definitely grateful she didn’t expect me to do tax returns, because I’m not a tax accountant. I’m an auditor. Not the sort of auditor the IRS hires to scare the hell out of people. Not the sort who pokes around a company, looking for pilfering employees. Most people think companies hire us to seek and destroy embezzlers.

They’re wrong.

All we do is look over the financial statements and make sure the company isn’t lying their ass off so people will be suckered into buying their stock and the price will go through the roof and all the Big Dog executives can make off like bandits when they sell their stock options. Companies can’t claim to have oil reserves worth eighty bajillion dollars when really they have maybe forty or fifty million bucks worth. They can’t claim to have a few measly million dollars of debt, when in fact, they owe so much to every bank on the planet, even God couldn’t bail them out.

As an auditor, it was my job to make sure everything was clean and tidy at the companies I audited. If things weren’t clean and tidy, Lowell Jaworski put his foot down and demanded things get fixed, or he’d write a bad opinion and every investor out there would dump their stock. All in all, a pretty good system. Until the Marvel Energy fiasco.

Nothing was clean and tidy at Marvel Energy, but for fifty million dollars worth of consulting income, Lowell decided he didn’t care. Which unfortunately signaled the ending buzzer for my career as said auditor.

Now, Mom was opening a new career opportunity for me, and maybe I wasn’t as over the moon about it as she appeared to be, but I was glad to have a job doing something useful, something I had a prayer of understanding. The myriad tax laws were my worst nightmare. “I’ll do my best,” I told her.

She hugged me again, which surprised me. Mom seemed more sentimental than usual, and her usual doesn’t lean toward mushy.

“I’ve never wanted anything but for you to be happy, Whitney, and I feel bad for you because this has all been so awful. You deserve a break, and a fresh start.” Dropping her arms, she stepped back and gave me a funny look. “You don’t seem very fired up about this.”

Sighing, I shoved my hair behind my ears. “I’m sorry, Mom. This is really great of you, but it’s a crummy feeling to know the only job I can get is a mercy job with my mommy. It’s humiliating. And it makes me so mad, because I don’t think I’ve done anything wrong, yet I’m being punished.”

“It won’t always be like this. When you’re all done with the finance committee and everything’s over, people will begin to see you in a different light. You’ll be able to get back the respect you’re missing right now.”

I mustered a smile and leaned over to kiss her cheek. “Thanks, Mom. I love you, too.”

She patted my arm, then nodded toward the doorway. “Come on and meet Gert. She’s the senior manager in charge of staffing and human resources.”

We walked across the hall and she introduced me to a dumpy woman who didn’t smile and stared at me like I was something she’d scrape off her shoe.

“Gert will get you all set up,” Mom said as she turned to leave. “Come see me when you’re done and we’ll talk more.”

The woman continued to stare at me hostilely and I sat down, trying to think of something personal to say to make the awkward moment go away.

I was forming a few questions in my mind, like “Hey, Gert, how long you lived in Midland?” or “Yo, Gert, love that blouse, you clever thing, and I’ve always wanted a blouse with little numbers printed all over it,” when she asked in a husky, manly voice, “What do you know about forensic accounting?”

I looked at Gert, in her pathetic blouse, with her pathetic glasses and mousy hair and grim reaper face, and thought, no way in hell she was gonna treat me like a first year staff, like a newbie, fresh out of college, without a clue.

Sitting up straighter, I cleared my throat and gave Gert my very best I’m A Professional With Balls Of Steel look. “Having worked as an auditor the past eight years, I can’t think forensic accounting will be much of a stretch.”

Gert made an odd noise, a cross between a grunt and blubbery thing with her lips. Obviously, she had no faith in my abilities. “Jane needs someone to work with Sam who is dedicated, fair and honest.”

Her emphasis on the word “honest” made me mad, but I had a feeling she intended it to, so I calmly nodded and agreed with her. “No doubt, that’s why she hired me.”

“All of her reasons to the contrary, I believe she hired you because you can’t get a job anywhere besides Burger King.”

“Why is my employment here any of your business? Did my mother make you a partner in this firm?”

That hit a nerve, and it dawned on me, she was afraid Mom would eventually make me a partner and leave her in the dust. A part of me felt sorry for her because she saw me as such a threat, but another part of me thought Gert needed a few lessons in diplomacy, politics and the subtle application of cosmetics. No doubt she was freaking brilliant, or Mom wouldn’t hold her in such high regard, but if she wanted to run with the Big Dogs, she was going to have to make some changes.

I’d known lots of accountants just like Gert. Miserable, bitter people, always clawing for a leg up, never getting that old saying that one wins flies with honey, not vinegar.

With her lips pursed together as if she’d just swallowed a cup of vinegar, she stared at me with blatant dislike. “We have a very strict policy about time. Jane doesn’t like to eat time. If we can’t bill it, she eats it.”

“Yes, I’m aware of billable time.”

“And we expect you to be punctual. Office hours are eight in the morning until five in the evening, except during tax season, when everyone stays until eight and works Saturdays.”

Remembering some audits when me and my staff stayed at a client’s office for four days straight, around the clock, I almost laughed at Gert, sounding so, “Hey, this is a tough job and you’re obviously a wuss and a Mama’s girl, so you better get ready for some long hours.” Almost laughed. Maybe I would have, if I hadn’t been ready to chuck an eraser at Gert’s head.

“And lastly, you’re to have no contact with clients unless you okay it with me first. You may say something that the firm could be held liable for.”

Okay, that was it. I’d had enough. Standing, I looked down at Gert and said, “Should I raise my hand when I want to go pee? Do I need a permission slip to leave for lunch?”

Gert narrowed her already squinty eyes and looked up at me through slits. “There is no one on earth I respect more than Jane Pearl, and I’m not going to sit by and let you take advantage of her. I’ll be watching, and if you screw up, even once, I have permission to fire you. Now, do you want to have a seat and let me go over the procedure, or would you care to give up now and go look for another job?”

Sinking down to the chair, I thought about my ex-boss, Lowell, and the Marvel execs, and wished I could line them up in front of a firing squad. They were all still lunching at The Mansion, taking off for a weekend in Santa Fe, enjoying life in Dallas, where there was live music and art films and bars that served nothing but martinis, while I was taking orders from a battle-ax named Gert. It was so unfair and everything in me railed against it. How was it that I did the right thing but was the one to suffer?

I slumped back in the chair and wished I’d majored in something like basket-weaving. Of course, knowing my luck, I would have gone to work for a guy who smuggled drugs in his baskets, and still been faced with the whole whistle-blower thing.

“Okay, Gert. Lemme have it.”

For the next thirty minutes, Gert droned on about workpaper referencing and professional etiquette and office procedure and some other accounting stuff that I pretty much tuned out. I will admit, even though I hated Gert, the CPA, I felt really sorry for Gert, the woman. I wondered why she dressed that way, and wore her hair in that awful bun, and had on no makeup. Makeup was invented for women like Gert. She looked to be maybe midthirties, and she wore no wedding ring, so I assumed she was a lonely old maid whose work was her life.

I refused to think of myself that way. It scared the hell out of me.

Finally, she wound it up, then took me around to meet the other staff, who all seemed friendly enough, whether because they were sincere, or because the Big Cheese was my mom, I couldn’t be certain. I supposed it didn’t make much difference.

Although I wasn’t able to meet my new boss, Sam, because he was in court all afternoon, that was fine by me. Dressed in a wrinkled skirt and a navy cotton top, I was not at my best.

While I got the nickel tour with Gert, a client came to see Mom, so I was told to wait in one of the empty cubicles in the bull pen until she was available. Gert looked happy to be rid of me and left me there without another word.

Very tired and thirsty after a six-hour drive and a run through the rack line with Gert, I went to the break room for a Coke. On the way back to the cube, I noticed the light was on in what I’d thought to be an empty office. I walked past and glanced inside and saw a tall, meaty guy who was a dead ringer for Sammy Hagar.

He had to be a senior, or a manager, since he was in a real office with real walls, but he was dressed in jeans and a Hawaiian shirt. Not standard Midland CPA issue slacks, dress shirt and tie. He was tan and his blond hair was long and wavy, in a ponytail. I’m serious when I say he looked like Sammy Hagar.

I went to the break room a couple more times during the next hour and always shot a look at Sammy, but I couldn’t ever get a good enough look to decide if he was hot, or just interesting because of the Sammy Hagar thing.

Finally, Mom’s client left and she waved me into her office. I shoved some files aside and took a seat on her small sofa. “Who’s the guy in the Hawaiian shirt?”

“That’s Sam. Didn’t Gert introduce you?”

“She said he was in court this afternoon.”

Mom frowned. “She must be mixed up. He’s due in court tomorrow.” She reached for the phone, punched in some numbers and said into the receiver, “Sam, can you spare a minute? I’ve got your new hire in my office.” When she hung up, she glanced at me and narrowed her eyes suspiciously, like she always does when she thinks I’m up to something. Mom Radar is more finely honed than anything the defense department can put out. “I’m sure you think he’s cute, but don’t get any ideas. I have a very strict policy about inter-office dating.”

“The very last thing I’m interested in right now is a date. I only wanted to know who he is, and why he looks like he just got off the bus from Laguna Beach.”

“Sam’s a little…different. But the guy’s so smart, and detail oriented, I try and overlook his odd choices in clothing. He does wear a suit to court.”

I was still bemused with Mom’s laid-back attitude toward Sam’s professionalism when the man himself walked into her office. As I stood to shake his hand, I realized he was even bigger than I’d thought. I also noticed his eyes, unlike the dark brown of Sammy Hagar’s, were as blue as the Pacific. “How do you do?”

“You’re my new hire?” he asked in maybe the sexiest male voice I’d ever heard. He dropped my hand, gave me the once-over, then dismissed me as inconsequential. He looked to Mom. “I told you I wanted a man.”

Before Mom could respond, I said, “In spite of my lack of a penis, I can actually count to twenty-one.”

He frowned at me. “It’s got nothing to do with how smart you are. I need a man for this job.”

“Why? Are you threatened by females?”

“Only when they whine, which you’re bound to do, a lot. This job entails getting out in the field, maybe getting your hands dirty, and most of all, dealing with men in the oil business. Your mother told me you grew up here, so you know exactly why it’s a major handicap to be a woman, looking for information from guys in the oil business.”

“Hmm, yeah, I did forget this is the land before time.”

“Jane, I understand sticking by family, but this has disaster written all over it.”

Mom looked disappointed and it dawned on me, she was going to go with Sam. She was going to make me do taxes! No way could I let that happen. “Sam, you can look at this like I’m bound to be ineffectual, or you can look at it like I’m a CPA with eight years of audit experience. The fact that I grew up here is a point in my favor. I know a lot of people, and I can open a lot of the same doors a guy could. At least give me a chance. Isn’t that fair?”

“I’d consider it a big favor,” Mom said, looking hopeful.

What was up with Mom? She’s a barracuda when it comes to business and her pansy attitude was blowing my mind.

Sam stared at me for a long time, and I had the feeling he expected me to look away, or squirm, or otherwise cave under his direct eye contact. I therefore stared back. Finally, he said with a hint of a growl in his deep voice, “Aw hell, I know damn well I’m gonna regret it, but okay. One chance. Screw this up and you’re gone. Understand?”

I didn’t like his patronizing tone, but I admired his honesty. I decided to overlook the tone. “Understand.”

He glanced at my clothes and shook his head. “Do you always dress like that?”

“Only when I’m moving out of my house, then driving for six hours in one-hundred-degree temperatures.”

His blue eyes crinkled at the edges when he smiled at me. “You’re a real smart-ass, aren’t you?”

“Usually.”

“Good. You’re gonna need a smart mouth.” He headed for the door. “Follow me, and pay attention.”

I glanced at Mom and noticed she looked a little smug, as if she knew all along it would turn out this way. Knowing Mom, she probably did.

Chapter 2

In Sam’s office, I watched his arm stretch when he spread some document copies across his desk, and noticed a tattoo of an anchor on his forearm, above his skin diver watch. “Nice tattoo,” I said. “Did you get it in the Navy?”

“Uh-huh.”

“When were you in the Navy?”

“Pink, I like to keep business and personal separated. Understand?”

“Got it.”

He pointed to the documents lining the top edge of his desk. “These are bills of lading for Domino Pipe Company. They’re a primo pipe supplier and our client buys from them on a regular basis. His name is Ollie Shanks and his partner is his cousin, Bert. Ollie and Bert are each fifty percent partners in Shanks Resources, a small oil company they started back in the eighties. Ollie thinks Bert is switching the primo pipe for some crap pipe, selling the good stuff and pocketing the difference.”

“Why does he think that?”

“Because every well they’ve drilled and completed in the last six months has sprouted casing leaks and they’re losing a lot of barrels back to the hole.”

Looking over the division order, I asked, “Is Bert a moron? He has to pay half the cost of the new pipe, which he can’t sell for what they paid for it if he’s doing it on the sly. And he’d probably make twice the money off the oil he’s losing to the hole.”

“He’s dumb like a fox. He has to split the oil with Ollie, but by selling the pipe he only had to pay for half of, pocketing one hundred percent of the profit, and buying crap pipe on the cheap, he comes out ahead.”

“So what are we supposed to do?”

“Prove that Bert is switching the pipe. Ollie needs solid evidence that his cousin is cheating him because he wants Bert out of the company.”

“Because he’s a crook?”

“Among other reasons.” Sam gathered up the documents and the bank statements and handed them to me. “Go get ’em, tiger.”

I walked toward his door. “No problem, but if you ever call me tiger again, I’ll hurt you. Understand?”

“Got it.”

I spent some time getting acclimated to the Shankses’ information, but had barely begun to work out a plan before five o’clock came. Almost as though a silent alarm sounded, the bull pen became a hive of busy activity, the staff tidying up desks, closing files, gathering up purses and briefcases. I joined the frenzy, anxious to get to Mom’s and float in the pool, a cold Corona in hand.

Faster than a herd of crazed cattle, we all stampeded down the hall, but as we got closer to the reception area, I caught a whiff of something so vile, so nasty, I covered my nose and mouth to keep from gagging.

Then I saw the smoke.

“Fire!” somebody yelled, and as one, we all turned and fled back to the bull pen.

My heart raced, my palms broke out in a sweat and my only thought was to get Mom. I took off for her office, but she must have heard the commotion because she met me at the doorway. “What the hell’s going on?” Her dark eyes were wide with worry.

“Mom, we gotta get out of here! It’s—”

“A smoke bomb!” Tiffany yelled.

I turned to see her emerge from the fog now creeping down the hall. Her eyes were watering and she had a hand over her mouth while she coughed and gagged.

Sam came out of his office and immediately took control, which effectively calmed everyone down. The shrieks and shouts stopped in favor of Sam’s stern commanding voice. He barked an order for someone to call 9-1-1 and directed one of the seniors to take everyone down the exit stairs.

Turning to follow, anxious to get Mom out of there because she looked so frightened, it hadn’t yet occurred to me to wonder why anyone would set off a smoke bomb in the office.

Not until Tiffany came up behind me and said in a choked voice, “This is your fault!”

The group stopped before passing through the stairway door and stared at me with giant question marks in their eyes.

“My fault?” I asked, astonished anyone would think I’d stoop to something so juvenile and mean.

Thrusting a sheet of crinkled paper at me, she coughed and spluttered, but managed to say, “Whoever opened the door and…threw the smoke bomb, tossed this in first. Says right there, ‘Back off…Pinkie, or next time it’ll be a helluva lot worse than…smoke!’”

My earliest memory is when I was three years old and my dad ran over the cat. Mom loved that cat. I wouldn’t know that by observation because as I said, my first memory was when the cat went to the big litter box in the sky. I know Mom loved the cat because she talked about Blix for the next twenty-eight years of my life. Part of my hazy memory is Mom wigging out in the driveway, crying and accusing Dad of doing it on purpose, so maybe she just talked about the cat because it reinforced her opinion of my father. I don’t think he did it on purpose because he has a real soft spot for animals. A mean son of a bitch to people, but no way he’d run over poor Blix on purpose, even to piss off Mom.

All the same, I don’t think she ever forgave him. And I don’t recall Mom ever wigging out like that again.

Until Tiffany read the note from the Dog Doo Stalker.

While me and Mom and the rest of the staff, except for Sam, who stayed behind to check out the smoke bomb, tromped down fifteen flights of stairs, she hysterically asked questions in a shrill voice that was beyond unnerving. I answered all of them as truthfully as possible, well aware the staff was listening to every word. So much for my plan of keeping the Dog Doo Stalker on the q.t. I was already persona non grata to most people—the Dog Doo Stalker would reduce me to leper status.

Outside, in the late afternoon heat, we had to wait for the fire department and the Midland bomb squad to check the building. Being a captive audience, I had no choice but to take it while Mom hounded me for details, railed against me for keeping it from her, insisted I had to destroy the disk so “that maniac” would leave me alone.

I patiently listened and let her go off on me, until she said I had to destroy the disk. “Mom, you can ask me to do just about anything, but not that. As soon as I get the disk, I’m handing it over to the finance committee.”

Finally aware of our audience, Mom gave the staff the evil eye and they slowly moved away, although they couldn’t go home because the fire department had the parking garage blocked off.

“The disk isn’t that important!” she said in a stage whisper the firemen could probably hear on the fifteenth floor. “The SEC has enough for an investigation. Let them take care of it.”

“They can prove Marvel has a lousy accounting system, maybe even prove there’s some funny money involved, but it will all fall on the grunt people, the little guys who had to follow orders. I’m certain the Marvel execs and my firm have already destroyed any documents that could prove they set the whole thing up, that none of it was due to stupidity or carelessness. If I don’t turn over the disk, not one of the lousy bastards at the top will pay for what they’ve done.”

“Pink, you’ve always been so damn righteous! Is this whole Marvel mess worth getting yourself killed? It’s only money, for God’s sake!”

Anger threatened to overtake rational thought, but I managed to keep it under control. I’d like to say it’s because I’m calm, collected and handle myself with reasonable gracefulness, but the truth is, I knew I couldn’t win an argument with Mom if I got too pissed. The woman is amazing. I took a deep breath, let it out slowly and explained why I wasn’t going to mind her. “To you, it’s only money. To thousands of investors, it’s their life savings, their college funds, their retirement packages. Last year, the CEO at Marvel bought an island. An island, Mom! And the greedy crook bought it with other people’s money. If I witnessed a guy robbing a bank, would you want me to say nothing and let the guy go free? Because this is no different.”

“I might, if the bank robber was threatening to kill you!”

She looked ready to blow a gasket and I began to worry she’d pass out from heat and fury.

Sam came out the front door of the building and headed toward us, a policeman in tow.

“We’ll just ask Sam what he thinks,” Mom said. “He was with the FBI for almost fifteen years. He’ll tell you how dangerous this stalker person is.”

Lucky for me, Sam wasn’t personally involved. Unlike Mom, who clucked after me all the years I was growing up, who was now roaring like a mother bear, Sam couldn’t care less what happened to me. Well, that’s not really fair. I’m sure he cared, but obviously not like Mom does.

While the cop stood by and listened, nodding as though he agreed completely, Sam said to Mom, “This guy wants to scare Pink into giving up, but I don’t think he’ll cross the line and hurt her, or anyone in the office. He’s bluffing.”

“How do you know? Are you a mind reader?” Mom turned her anger and frustration toward Sam and I felt for him.

He shot a look at me, then focused on Mom’s very red face. “Because, Jane, if he wasn’t bluffing, she’d already be dead.”

After answering police questions for over an hour, I was finally able to leave. Mom said she had to pick up some tax information from a homebound client, so I had a brief reprieve from her nervous, worried looks and angry grumbles.

Relaxing a little, I drove to her house, anticipating a float in the pool. And the Corona. Maybe two. Or three.

It wasn’t until I drove up to her house that I realized I’d never gotten a key. Dammit. I parked in back, in the driveway, climbed through a window and hurried to shut off the security alarm before time ran out and the cops were called. But when I got to the control box, I realized the security alarm wasn’t on. The hair on the back of my neck rose up when I heard someone whistling. Stepping close to the door so I could haul ass if it turned out to be a burglar, or the stalker, I called out, “Hello! Who’s there?”

A medium-built man with a small beer belly and thick, brown hair stepped into the living room and smiled at me. “I’m Harry, the air-conditioner guy.”

Breathing a sigh of relief, I smiled at him. “Hi, Harry. Mom having trouble with her air conditioner?”

“Just needed a little Freon.” He narrowed his brown eyes. “So you must be Pink.”

“Yes.”

“How’d you get a name like that?”

“Remember Pink Pearl erasers?”

“No.”

“Well, they’re erasers that are pink and they’re Pink Pearl brand and lots of accountants used to use them. When I went to work as an accountant, I got the nickname because my last name is Pearl and it just sort of stuck.”

He still looked confused, but I wasn’t going to discuss my stupid nickname any further.

“You don’t look like your mother.”

I sighed and leaned against the column. “No.”

“Does your dad have blond hair and blue eyes?”

“Yes.”

“Because your mother is dark, with dark hair and eyes. She almost looks Italian.”

I resisted being sarcastic and thanking him for telling me what my mother looked like. “Indian.”

“How’s that?”

“Her grandmother was Cherokee. She’s dark because of the Indian thing.” I turned away and said as politely as possible, “If you’ll excuse me, I think I’ll unload my car now.”

“Sure, sure. Do you need some help?”

“I’ve got it, thanks.”

Forty-five minutes later, Mom got home and came outside. “Whitney Ann!” She walked to the edge of the pool and stared down at me with one of those You’ve Been A Naughty Girl looks.

“If you say one word, I swear to God, I’ll leave and never speak to you again. And I am not kidding.” I held my second Corona next to my face, loving the feel of the cold glass.

“I wish you wouldn’t be so—”

“Mom, I’m warning you.”

“Fine,” she snapped in a voice that indicated it was anything but fine. She glanced at her watch. “Already past seven. You hungry?”

“Starving.”

“Then go get some clothes on. I brought fajitas home and we’re having company.”

“Aw, Mom, gimme a break! I’m so tired, I’d have to wake up to die. And I’m half-looped. Who’s coming for dinner?”

“A lawyer named Ed.”

“A lawyer? Are you dating him?”

“Of course not! You know I don’t date. Besides, he’s young enough to be my son and that would be weird.”

“Well, I know you wouldn’t be trying to fix me up, so what’s with Ed?”

“He refers a lot of his divorce clients to me for tax advice, and I send him my tax clients who’re getting divorced. Now, he and Sam work together on our mutual clients. He’s a good attorney, I think, but besides that, he owes me a big favor.” Mom took a seat at the end of a teak chaise lounge and watched me float around with the beer. “Since you got rid of that overpriced Washington attorney, you need another one, so I coaxed Ed into helping you for a discounted fee.”

“How much discounted?”

“Two grand, plus expenses.”

“And he’s a lawyer? You musta done one helluva favor for him. What’d you do? Spring him out of prison?”

“Ed won a very large case last year and failed to make his estimated payments to the IRS. I got all of his penalties abated.”

“What’s with this guy not paying his taxes? Is he a deadbeat?”

“No. Ed’s just…well, he’s sort of a free spirit.”

“Which means he’s a bum. Your only daughter, about to be crucified on the altar of the U.S. government, and you find me a bum of a lawyer.”

She stood and walked toward the back door. “Don’t be so dramatic. You’ll like Ed. Trust me.”

After dragging my exhausted, half-drunk ass out of the pool, I showered and dressed in a loose, cotton sundress, one of my better Target finds, and went to the kitchen to help Mom get supper on the table. She was just pulling the fajitas out of the oven, saying, “I love Rosario’s fajitas, but I guess maybe they’re better when you eat them there.”

A deep voice responded, “They’ll be okay.”

I moved farther into the kitchen and spotted a tall guy leaning against the opposite counter. In a faded red T-shirt, he was buff, with longish, dark hair that didn’t look like he wore it long on purpose. It looked like he either forgot to go get a haircut, or blew it off. Glancing at the hole in his jeans, I voted for blew it off. Ed was not a guy who cared what he looked like.

He definitely looked like the type of guy I’d love to have hot sex with, then send home right after. Not relationship material. Bad boy material. And I knew all about bad boys. I married one.

Mom spotted me and said, “Pink, this is Ed.”

I stuck my hand out to shake his and smiled politely. At least I think it was polite. Feeling his huge, warm hand wrap around mine was very stimulating. I may have leered at him, but I’m not sure. The hot sun and the Coronas and my complete lack of a love life over the past year and a half all added up to a few lightning-bolt zings in the vicinity of my hootus. So maybe I did leer at him and probably held his hand too long. He smiled back and mumbled something like, “Nice t’ meet you.”

I finally let go of his hand and we stood there, eyeing each other like moose in mating season. Hmm. Nice body. Good teeth. Smells awesome. For a minute, I wished I was a moose. Then we could go get it on and no one would think anything about it.

But alas, I wasn’t a moose. And Mom was right there, noticing all the animal attraction and clearing her throat, as if to say, Back off you two and save the drooling for later.

I turned to glance at her and noticed her eyes, those dark, flashing Mom eyes, said, See, I told you so.

Mom loves to say “I told you so.” Most times, I don’t care. It gives her a charge, so why not? Other times, it really ticks me. This was one of those times. I decided not to like Ed, just to show her she wasn’t always right. Looking up at him, I asked casually, “So, Ed, what’s with you not paying your taxes?” I ignored Mom’s sharp breath.

He never so much as blinked. “I forgot.”

“And the IRS bought that?”

“No. They bought that I’ve never made that much money before and didn’t realize I needed to pay in quarterly.”

“So, how much did you make?”

“Whitney Ann!” Mom said in a take-no-prisoners voice, “Stop asking such personal questions and behave yourself!”

Ed still didn’t look away, or appear one bit concerned. “A little over five million.”

“Musta been a good case. Who’d you sue?”

“Marvel Energy.”

Just like that, he got me, right between the eyes. “You enjoyed that, didn’t you?”

He smiled then. Grinned, actually. “Loved it. Wanna go for round two?”

“Maybe later. I’m starving.”

Mom looked ready to wring my neck, but she didn’t say anything else, or call me Whitney Ann! again. We sat down in her elegant dining room and ate fajitas out of a foil pan and talked about the Midland school board and their latest attempts to pass a gigantic school bond. Ed wasn’t as dumb as he was a slob. In fact, he seemed very intelligent.

By the end of supper, I knew I needed to steer clear of him. He was an accident waiting to happen, and I was doomed to be the sole casualty. My ex-husband, George, was just like Ed. Well, except that George was a mechanic and Ed was a lawyer. But other than that…And I suppose Ed did have better manners. George would never have asked if Mom and I would like more iced tea as he got up to pour himself another glass. George would have grunted, pointed his fork at his glass and waited for me to jump up and get it. He got away with that exactly once. After that, he waited so long, his ice melted.

Ed poured more tea into my glass, then Mom’s, and retook his chair. “Tell me about Marvel Energy and the senate finance committee.”

“What? Don’t you watch CNN? I’m the flavor of the week. Me and Senator Santorelli. They’ve got me sleeping with him.”

“Well, he is very attractive,” Mom said. “And he’s single now, since his wife passed away. You know the media loves him, and they really get off on pairing him up with single women.”

“I don’t even know the man. And I don’t think he’s the least bit attractive.”

“Why?” Mom frowned at me over her fajita stuffed tortilla.

“Gee, let me count the ways. Could it be because he made me tell the entire United States about Mister Bob?”

“He meant well. How could he have known about Mister Bob?”

She had a point, but I was not in the mood to be understanding. I refocused on Ed’s face. His very attractive, manly face, with a five-o’clock shadow and really nice brown eyes. “What do you want to know that isn’t already out there?”

He swallowed his drink of tea, set the glass down and said easily, “I want to know how you knew about the memos and how you got them.”

Sitting back in my chair, I stared at him for a long time.

“You’re going to have to trust me,” Ed said.

I took a long drink of tea. Would he believe me? Or would he be like Mr. Dryer and Barbara Clemmons and assume I was as guilty as the partners at the firm? I supposed there was only one way to find out. “When I discovered the enormous amount of debt Marvel carries off the books, and how close the company was to defaulting on those loans, I went to Lowell and told him. He said I should forget the loans, that I should just conduct the audit and make sure I had workpapers to back up clean financials.”

“He told you to lie?”

“Only a lot. That’s when I knew he’d set me up. He promoted me and put me in charge of the audit so when the news broke that Marvel is basically bankrupt, I’d be in the hot seat. I’d get my license jerked for gross negligence while Lowell stood back and acted like he had no clue. The firm would stay in business and my career would be history. I was the sacrificial lamb.”

“He didn’t count on you blowing the whistle.”

“Not hardly. Or maybe he just thought I wasn’t smart enough to figure it all out. The day I suggested we should go to the SEC with what I’d found, he went ballistic. I told him I was gonna do it, and he fired me. The next day, I turned over copies of Marvel’s debt instruments to the SEC, thinking they’d investigate, fine the company and demand they clean up their act. Instead, they asked me a lot of questions about how we’d conducted the audit in the past, about how much debt Marvel had during those years and how we missed it. That’s when it dawned on me, Marvel had been hiding debt at least three years before the current year, and Lowell must have known all along. That’s when I knew we weren’t just talking about losing a CPA license. We were talking about criminal charges against any of the management who worked on the Marvel audit during the past several years, including me. By blowing the whistle on Marvel, I’d basically set myself up. No way anyone would believe I wasn’t aware of the cover-up.”

Ed gave me a funny look and I held my breath. He had to believe me. If he didn’t, how could I hire him to represent me, to help me get through the next hearing?

“If you’d realized the hidden debt was there in years past, would you still have gone to the SEC?”

“Yes,” I answered without hesitating. “It all would have come out eventually because Marvel didn’t have the income they needed to pay off the loans, but I hoped I could get things straightened out before they had to declare bankruptcy. I hoped I could keep the stock from losing all of its value.”

“Even if it meant putting yourself on the line?”

“Even then, but I didn’t realize my position until I went to the SEC and they started asking a lot of questions. I was scared to death, and figured my only hope was to find something that proved the deal was between Lowell and the CFO and CEO at Marvel, which would go a long way toward proving me and the others who worked on the audit had no clue about the debt.”

“The memos,” Mom said, her dark eyes wide.

“As it turned out, there were memos, but for all I knew, it could have been on the back of a cocktail napkin. I went to the office late one night, got in with a key card I swiped and hit pay dirt. I called the SEC the following morning and set up an appointment to deliver one of the disk copies a couple of days later. They asked if I was willing to testify in front of the finance committee and I said I’d have to consult an attorney. I hired Mr. Dryer, and he set up a deal that I’d have immunity from any prosecution, if it came to that, in exchange for my testimony. When the disks were ripped off, I didn’t want to admit it, thinking I might still be able to get my hands on the Mister Bob copy.”

“Do you think they offered the deal because of the memos?”

“Mr. Dryer said so. He says if I don’t get the last disk, they’ll withdraw immunity and I can be prosecuted along with Lowell and the other principals at the firm.”

“Santorelli made it sound like they can’t prosecute anyone without the memos,” Mom said, her face pale. “If you don’t turn them over, they can’t prosecute you, so why does it matter? You don’t need immunity.”

I hadn’t counted on Mom being so difficult. “I lucked out when I found those memos, and I’m sure they’ve been destroyed by now, but there may be other letters, or e-mails or something they can use to bring charges against the firm. It may even become obvious that the firm signed off on fraudulent financial statements. I have no idea, Mom.”

“You can’t be prosecuted if you’re innocent!”

“I’m afraid she can,” Ed said in a deep, calm voice. “Guilt by association. She might not be found guilty, but she can certainly be prosecuted.”

Mom rubbed her hand across her forehead. “What a nightmare.” She looked at Ed and said, “And as if it’s not bad enough, she’s got some maniac after her.”

“Maniac?” He turned a questioning look toward me.

I explained about the loft, the car and the missing copies of the disk, but before I could finish, Mom went off about the Dog Doo Stalker.

I ate my fajitas and didn’t add anything. I didn’t need to.

“…and after she went to the SEC, he started calling in the middle of the night, threatening to kill her if she gives the disk to the finance committee. I told her, she should get rid of the disk, but she insists…”

I tuned her out by wondering if Ed was married, or had a girlfriend. I wasn’t interested in starting a relationship or anything like that, but I’d been alone a long time, and something about Ed really punched my buttons.

When Mom was on the verge of foaming at the mouth about the danger I was in, Ed held up his hand and stopped her. Turning to look at me, he asked, “Do you have any clue who he is?”

I slanted a “duh” look at him. “Because of me, at least fifteen men are about to lose their jobs, and some of them may be starting new careers making license plates in the joint.”

“You think one of the Marvel executives, or a partner at your firm may be behind all this?”

I shrugged. “Stands to reason, doesn’t it? They have the most to lose.”

“Yes, I suppose that’s true.” He narrowed his eyes. “I’ll represent you, Pink, but you have to agree not to talk to anyone at Marvel. They have a branch office here in Midland, so you’re likely to run into some of the employees. And do not tell anyone where Mister Bob is right now. After what I discovered during the lawsuit against Marvel, I don’t trust any of them. This is the big leagues. The dog shit dude is a nuisance, but these guys mean business. One wrong move, one small leak of information, one hint that all you’ve got can be taken, and you could be playing a harp.”

He managed to scare me spitless. I shot a look at Mom and felt an enormous guilt trip for freaking her out so badly. Her food forgotten, she sat back in her chair and stared a hole through me, a couple of fat tears rolling down her pretty cheeks. “Jesus, Mom, don’t cry.”

“How can I help it? This is like getting mixed up with the mob.”

Ed took a drink of his tea and set the glass down carefully. “Worse. This is worse. At least with the Mafia, you know who the bad guys are.”

Early the next morning, I stopped by the donut shop on the way downtown to buy a couple dozen for the office. In spite of their outward friendliness the day before, after the smoke bomb, I was afraid they all either hated my guts, or were scared to death to be anywhere close to me. So I thought maybe donuts would make everyone happy. Hell, I wasn’t above buying friends.

With that in mind, I pulled into the parking lot next to the Donut King and went inside, my mouth immediately watering from the yeasty scent. As I stood at the case, deciding which round pieces of fried dough I should get, I heard a man behind me say, “Glory be, look who it is! Pink, is that you?”

I turned and smiled, and even though I remembered Ed’s warning about not talking to any of the employees, there was no way I could turn away from one of the nicest guys at Marvel. “Roy! How are you?”

“Never better.” We shook hands. “I came from Dallas to Marvel’s Midland office for my monthly meeting, and I had to stop off at the Donut King. Really love their donuts.”

Making myself not look down at the evidence of his love affair with the Donut King, I simply said, “Who doesn’t?”

Roy chuckled, then slowly sobered. “You know, Pink, we’re all rooting for you at Marvel. Took a lot of guts to do what you did, and even though it’ll shake things up at the company, it’s a good thing. I think the only ones who’re upset with you are the execs, and the way I see it, they were about due for a comeuppance.”

“Thanks, Roy.” I smiled again, and wanted to throw my arms around him, I was so grateful for any morsel of support. Roy Kipper had always been amiable, and a big help to me and the staff during the audits. He managed the revenue distribution division at Marvel’s head office in Dallas. “Can I buy you lunch today? It’d be like old times.”

Reaching up, he smoothed back the patches of hair growing on either side of his otherwise bald head. “No can do, but thanks for the offer. We’re having a big powwow about maybe closing the Midland office, and since I’m gonna have to be the bad guy, I need to stick around.”

My spirits sank again and I nodded my understanding. “I’m sorry, Roy.”

“Hey, that’s the way it goes. I’m not an executive, but I’m upper management, and a year from retiring, so bein’ the bad guy sort of fell on me. Hate to do it, but the company needs to tighten its belt if we’ve got a prayer of stayin’ up.” He smiled at me and patted my shoulder. “Good to see you, Pink.”

I watched him leave and it was another five minutes before I could order my donuts because I was so choked up. It made me furious, Lowell and the Marvel brass’s greed and complete disregard for anyone else. People would lose their jobs, and investors would lose their savings. It all made me sick, and I felt guilty because I was the one who started the fall of their house of cards.

By the time I got to the office, it was about eight-twenty. I came in balancing the boxes of donuts and a few of my desk things and said hello to Tiffany. Her pretty blue eyes widened like she was afraid and I thought, geez, they’re only donuts. “You want a donut?”

“Goodness, no,” she said, “I never eat donuts.”

Of course she didn’t eat donuts. She was skin and bones. I turned and headed toward the break room, where I left the donuts, then went to get started on the Shankses’ project.

Within an hour, I had several things figured out, but most of it only led to a longer laundry list of questions. For one thing, there were quite a few checks to a company called Birds in Flight. Sixth sense told me there was something behind those checks, that they had something to do with Bert’s shady dealings. The endorsements on the back were no help, simply a stamped For Deposit Only, followed by an account number. The Birds in Flight bank was in Miami, which I thought was peculiar. I couldn’t think of any oil-related companies based in Miami.

With my methodical approach to the project, I came up with ten different ways to prove Bert Shanks was cheating his cousin. Problem was, all but one of them required information I didn’t have and wasn’t likely to get, because it was all information Bert would have. Even if Bert wasn’t the sharpest tool in the shed, I didn’t think he’d hand over information that would prove he was a crook.

So I’d have to go with the tenth plan, which involved staking out the pipe yard and waiting to see who bought the new pipe from Bert. The buyer wouldn’t hire a trucking company to drive out and pick up a load of what amounted to black market pipe, so chances were good they used their own vehicle to transport the pipe. Once I had a license plate number, I would go from there. If I was really squirrelly, the truck might have a company name painted on it.

I decided to go check out Shanks Resources’ equipment yard, but on the way out of the office, I thought I’d snag one of the donuts I’d yet to eat. As I walked toward the break room, I passed Tiffany and noticed what looked suspiciously like cinnamon sugar stuck to her lip gloss. I was polite and pretended not to notice. Then I got in the break room and saw both boxes of donuts were empty and wished I’d said something to her like, “When you said you never eat donuts, you meant before ten, didn’t you? Once ten o’clock rolls around, it’s a free-for-all, right?” I was so hungry, even Mom’s raspberry infused sawdust diet bars started to look tasty. Resigned to my fate, I grabbed one and left the office.

I drove out the Rankin highway, to the south side of Midland, where a lot of oil companies have yards. Most of them are several acres of scrubby land, enclosed by metal fences, and at any one time, there might be a couple of pumpjacks, a few tanks, extra pipe or wellhead equipment scattered around, looking rusty and old. When a well depletes and stops producing economically, it has to be plugged, but all the equipment is saved for whenever a new well is drilled and proven to be productive. Or the old equipment is sold off. Either way, it ends up in somebody’s yard until it’s needed again.

The Shankses’ yard was farther out, actually outside of the city limits, away from the highway by a couple of miles. It was the perfect setup for a cheating partner. I drove around, looking for a spot to park when it was dark, where I could see what was going on, but no one could see me. I was glad the Mercedes was black and that it was an SUV, although it groaned a lot when I ran over a stump, and I had the sneaking suspicion it wasn’t really made for off-road. But how could I have known I’d need an off-road vehicle when I bought it a year ago? The farthest off-road I ever got was the parking lot at Northpark Mall.

I found a good spot behind a cluster of mesquites and made a mental map so I’d know how to get there in the dark, without headlights. Driving back around, I cruised through the Shankses’ yard, scoping out their equipment, particularly the pipe. There were several strings of brand-new pipe, already strapped and ready for delivery to a rig.

From the bills of lading, I knew the pipe had been delivered the day before yesterday, so it was a good bet Bert would be selling it off soon. If I was lucky, that very night.

After congratulating myself for being so clever about the whole thing, I headed off to look for an apartment. I knew Mom would go ballistic and tell me it was too dangerous, not to mention I was silly to pay rent when I could live with her for free. But I had to have some space, sans Mom.

I saw five apartments before I found one, and it wasn’t anything to write home about, but it would do. On the second floor, it was a one-bedroom, furnished with cheesy, cheap furniture, including a scratchy couch with wooden arms supported by half wagon wheels. The grounds were well tended, and although there was no pool, there was a small duck pond, complete with a cutesy sign that said Duck Xing. I never did see any ducks.

After signing a six-month lease, I paid the deposit, then went to get my hair cut. I headed for Mabel’s House of Beauty to see if anyone could squeeze me in.

Mabel’s is one of those old-time beauty parlors, housed in a tired shopping center storefront, with avocado-green linoleum floors and faded photographs of the nineteen-sixty-five Junior League Charity Ball marching around the walls. Every picture features some of Midland’s leading ladies in their glory days, all with Mabel’s House of Beauty bouffant hair-dos, thick eyeliner and elbow-length evening gloves.

When I stepped inside, I was greeted by the whirs of multiple hair dryers, female chatter, a ringing telephone and Buck Owens on the stereo. It was like stepping back in time. I’m pretty sure I was the only woman under fifty.

The receptionist, a short, stout woman with a name tag that read Bessie, smiled warmly. “Can I help you, hon?”

“I don’t have an appointment, but I need to get my hair cut.”

Bessie nodded enthusiastically. “We’ve got a new gal, Dot, and she just happens to be free right now.”

I followed Bessie to the back of the shop, toward Dot’s station. Dot was maybe the skinniest woman I’d ever met, with a deep smoker’s voice and coal-black hair, the kind of dyed black that looks blue in fluorescent lighting. We chatted a bit while she washed my hair, and I discovered Dot was from Big Spring, that her husband died and left her no money, so she had to go back to work, and even though she was “right mad at him” at first, now she figured he’d done her a favor because she’d made so many new friends at Mabel’s.

While she snipped my hair, she rambled on about her grandkids and her Buick and George W. and the best recipe for King Ranch chicken. I didn’t pay close attention, but I was listening, sort of zoning out with the buzz of the sounds in the shop and Dot’s smoky voice.

I guess that’s why I started so violently when someone shouted, “Lord a Mercy! It’s pink!”

“Sugar, you shouldn’t jump like that,” Dot said from behind me. “I cut a bit too much when you moved.”

Her words didn’t fully register, I was so fascinated with the scene unfolding two stations away. The woman I’d thought yelled my name was actually talking about her hair, a big, fluffy mass of cotton-candy pink. She was righteously pissed off.

“Goodness,” Dot said, “looks like Miz Colder’s on a tear again. Reckon she’d learn her lesson after last time.”

“Last time?”

Dot leaned close and whispered, “She’s a stubborn old thing and insists on picking out her own color, even though she don’t know nothin’ about it. Last time, her hair was blue as the sky, and I’m not lyin’. She got mad and swore she wouldn’t come back, but there she is.”

Mrs. Colder was ancient. At least a thousand years old, with serious wrinkles and a hunchback. Dressed in a colorful silk blouse and red knit pants, she stood behind the operator chair, her spidery hands clutching the grips of her walker, her sharp, blue eyes staring at the mirror and her thin lips pressed into a straight line. “I want my money back!” she yelled, making me start again. Amazing that such a small person could pack so much punch into a shout.

Her hairdresser, a harried woman who didn’t look much younger than her client, murmured something I couldn’t hear, which appeared to send Mrs. Colder over the edge.

“Been comin’ here for nigh on forty years, paid Mabel scads of money, and this is the thanks I get!”

She had a big, black leather bag, big enough to carry a month’s supply of Depends. Or a 747. It was huge, and bulky. With an incredible show of strength, despite her thin, scrawny appearance, she hauled the bag up and rested it on her walker. Reaching inside, she thrashed about for a bit, then withdrew a cell phone. “I’m callin’ my lawyer, you hear?”

“Miz Colder,” her hairdresser said in a firm voice, “we can’t give your money back because you haven’t paid yet!”

Ignoring her, Mrs. Colder made her call.

The entire shop had gone quiet, even the ladies under the hair dryers switching them off so they could hear what was going on. The only sounds were Buck Owens’ twangy tune and Mrs. Colder’s intermittent shouts.

We were all so focused on the old lady, I never noticed the presence of a sinister figure until something dark caught the corner of my eye and I glanced in the mirror. In the place where Dot was supposed to be stood a man in a black jump-suit with a ski mask over his face. Before I could do anything, like run, or scream, he clamped one hand over my mouth, grabbed me with his other arm and hauled me out of the chair. Looking wildly about for help, I saw that Dot had moved close to Mrs. Colder, and the rest of the shop was focused toward the front. No one was looking, no one knew I was being abducted in broad daylight!

I was so frightened, I guess my body went on autopilot, and without consciously thinking about it, I kicked out and my toe connected with Dot’s little cart. It crashed to the floor, scattering rollers and hair pins and cans of Aquanet.

Everyone turned toward me, including Mrs. Colder. “Let her go,” she shouted, still holding the phone.

The man only held me tighter, squeezing the wind out of me, causing sparkles in my vision, forcing me to stop kicking and squirming. If I live to be a hundred, I will never forget just how Mrs. Colder looked as she reached into her black hole of a bag and pulled out a small, silver gun. An old lady with a walker and a pistol. Jesus, that blew my mind.

“Let her go, swine, or I’m gonna blow a hole in you!”

I don’t think the guy believed her. He never slowed down.

He should have believed her. She fired the gun and the small fax machine on the counter at the back of the shop exploded into a thousand flying pieces. I heard him mumble, “Holy shit!” But still, he kept going.

While I watched in horrified fascination, Mrs. Colder aimed the gun right at the man, which meant the gun was pointed directly at me. Jesus God, I was going to die! An old lady with pink hair and a shaky hand was about to end my life, and there wasn’t a damn thing I could do about it.

She fired again and I flinched, then hit the floor when the man dropped me. Had she shot him? Was he dead? A little dazed, I glanced behind me and all I saw was the exit door as it closed. The man was gone.

Drawing in a deep breath, I noticed three drops of blood on the avocado linoleum. Wide-eyed, I turned my head and looked at Mrs. Colder. “You shot him!”

“’Course I did, but he’ll live ’cause I only nicked him. Been shootin’ since I was knee-high to a grasshopper. Reckon I could pick the wings off a fly at fifty feet, if I was of a mind to.” She shuffled over with her walker and looked down at me from piercing blue eyes. “You okay, little missy?”

I was scared and shaky and completely freaked out, but I’d get over it. Offering the old lady as much of a smile as I could muster, I nodded. “Thank you, ma’am.”

She was about to say something, but before she could speak, I heard Ed’s voice. “What the hell’s going on here?”

“Ed?” I peeked around Mrs. Colder’s red pants and saw him rushing toward us. He was dressed in another pair of faded jeans and a black T-shirt that was exactly like the red one. He looked like a guy who rode a Harley and had sex with girls with gigantic breasts. Ed looked mighty fine. He didn’t look anything like a lawyer.

“You know Ed?” Mrs. Colder shouted.

I decided she had a speech problem and that’s why she spoke with intermittent shouts. “He’s my attorney.”

She slapped the handle of the walker. “Mine, too!”

“I was in the car when Mrs. Colder called, and heard everything, but I had no idea what was going on.” Ed bent to lift me to my feet and held on to me when I swayed. “What happened?”

Before I could say anything, Mrs. Colder gave him the blow-by-blow, her voice rising and falling with her odd, shouting cadence. I noticed the rest of the shop was staring, eyes wide, mouths hanging open in stupefied shock. No doubt, Mrs. Colder’s showdown with the bad guy was destined to become a legend at Mabel’s House of Beauty.

Ed insisted on taking me to lunch, so after the police came, asked a lot of questions, took some of the blood off the floor, and Dot finished my haircut, we took off in his old 4-Runner.

He turned to look at me when he stopped at a red light. “I talked to Santorelli this morning and advised him I’m now your counsel.” His voice was low and solemn. “He told me the Marvel legal team filed a request for injunction to keep your disk from being admitted as evidence. They’re claiming it’s inadmissible because you obtained it illegally.”

“What will happen if they get the injunction?”

Ed stared at me for a moment before answering. “Santorelli says he’d have no choice but to withdraw your immunity because it’s based on you turning over the disk.”

“If there’s an injunction, that’s not my fault. Besides, I was the one who went to the SEC. Doesn’t that mean anything?”

He shook his head, sending my heart into my shoes. “It might be a mitigating factor if they prosecute, but just like a crook who turns himself in, your honesty after the fact doesn’t alter your involvement.”

How stupid I’d been to naively believe I could do the right thing, that I could be open and honest, and the bad guys would pay. I read the writing on the wall, and it told me I was going down. Lowell and the Marvel guys could afford enough legal muscle to weasel out of any charges the government could lay on.

I, on the other hand, had Ed. He was bright and good-looking, and probably enough of a shark to make the big time. But he was inexperienced and unconnected to anyone in Washington. Looking across at him, I swallowed hard. What choice did I have? No way I could afford a lawyer like Mr. Dryer. I’d have to take my chances with Ed.

“Cheer up,” he said as he reached out and rubbed a tear from my cheek with the pad of his thumb. “I’m gonna help you.”

I know it’s awful, but that only made me cry harder.

Chapter 3

Midland is known for oil and rich white men and Baby Jessica, but it should also be known for Mexican food. There are forty-seven Mexican food restaurants in Midland, and the population is right about ninety-five thousand. That’s a Mexican restaurant for every two thousand people. That’s a lotta enchiladas and tamales and tacos. That’s a Mexican food lover’s wet dream.

I have personally eaten at all forty-seven, and do have a few favorites. Bettina’s House of Enchiladas is one. So is El Corazon, which means The Heart, and makes no sense, because they don’t serve any kind of heart, and nothing in the place is a heart, or resembles a heart, but a white guy who spoke no Spanish opened it in the fifties and I guess he thought El Corazon sounded cool.

Ed took me to Bettina’s and I nearly had an orgasm right there in the corner booth, beneath a piñata shaped like SpongeBob SquarePants, because the hot sauce was so good. That’s another thing. In Midland, in all of west Texas, nobody calls hot sauce, salsa. That’s a foreign, sissy word. It’s hot sauce, and we have chips and hot sauce. Not chips and salsa.

Bettina outdid herself and I practically ignored Ed while I dived into the awesome food. There are undoubtedly a lot of women who’d have lost their appetite after what happened at Mabel’s, but I wasn’t one of them. It was almost as though I enjoyed it more, could fully appreciate being alive.

That’s not to say the guy planned to kill me. The part of my mind that keeps the fires of hope burning wanted to believe he’d only intended to rough me up a little, to convince me to lose the disk.

Ed talked while he worked through the Plato Grande, which means Big Huge Plate of Everything in the Kitchen. “Is there any way at all to get your hands on that disk before Mrs. Bohannon gets back home?”

“Not unless I break into her house, and even if I did, I can’t be sure the box is there.”

He shook his head as he polished off his taco. “I really thought the guy was just bluffing, but now I think he’s serious about hurting you. Your mom has a good security system, doesn’t she?”

“The best, but it’s not going to do me much good while I’m living in an apartment.”

“Pink, you can’t move to an apartment. It’s too dangerous.”

“Maybe so, but I’m moving anyway. Besides, I already rented one.” Seeing an argument forming in his expression, I said quickly, “Living with Mom is not an option. After what happened this morning, she’ll follow me everywhere I go and fret about it and keep harping on me to blow off the disk. It’ll be bad enough at the office all day, but listening to her around the clock will make me a raving maniac.”

He conceded the point, but he still didn’t look too happy about it. Then he asked, “What’s it like to work for your mom?”

“I can’t say for sure since this is technically my first day, but based on how I grew up and the relationship we have, I’d say it’s going to be great sometimes, difficult sometimes and absolutely awful the rest of the time. I love Mom and I’m so proud of what she’s done with her life, but she’s very different from most moms. When I was four, she wanted to teach me to swim, and because she’s a big believer in just doing it, she tossed me in the deep end and shouted, ‘Swim!’”

“And you swam, I bet.”

Looking across the table at him, I realized he was a member of Mom’s Fan Club. Not that I thought that was a bad thing. It just made it harder for him to see, well, certain realities about my mother. “No, Ed, I didn’t swim. The lifeguard pulled me out and did mouth-to-mouth, then threatened to call the cops on Mom for child endangerment. I know you wanted me to say, yes, I swam, and all was well and Mom did the right thing by shoving her four-year-old into the deep end of the Midland Country Club pool. But all was not well, and I was too afraid of the water to go swimming again until I was twelve, when Brandy Hernandez had a pool party and invited Lucky Barnes. I was hot for him and didn’t want to embarrass myself, so I took lessons, but even now, I’m not real hip on bodies of water any bigger than my bathtub if I don’t have a flotation device.”

“You were hot for Lucky Barnes? The guy’s a loser.”

“Maybe now he’s a loser. In sixth grade, he was hot. Besides, he had a cool bike and listened to Def Leppard.”

“Did you go out with him?”

“Not a chance. He went with Brandy because she jumped in the pool and lost her top and he was wowed by her boobs.”

“He wasn’t wowed with yours, I take it.”

“Well, no, because I didn’t jump in and lose my top like Brandy did. That’s not to say he would’ve been wowed if I had lost it, because I was only twelve.”

“So was Brandy.”

“True. But she was obviously a wild child, losing her top like that, and Lucky being Lucky, he went for the wild thing.”

“You weren’t a wild child?”

“I had my moments, and I probably would have jumped in and lost my top and given old Brandy a run for the money, but I was too afraid of the water, so I just stood there and watched Lucky take her around the side of her house to make out where her parents wouldn’t see.”

“You wanna know what I think? I think Lucky was probably a lousy kisser and you’d have been disappointed.”

“Why would you think that?”

“I’ve seen the guy eat and it’s not pretty. He’s probably one of those wet kissers. You know, the slobbery kind.”

“Ed, how sensitive of you,” I said with a smile. “I bet you’re right. And he probably tried to cop a feel off Brandy.”

“No doubt about it.” He returned my smile, making his handsome face look good enough to eat. Or kiss. “So you see, your fear of the water turned out to be not such a bad thing. In a strange way, what your mom did turned out okay.”

My smiled died. “No wonder you’re an attorney. That was friggin’ amazing.”

“Thank you.”

“I didn’t actually mean it as a compliment.”

His smile morphed into a grin. “I know.”

The man was just way too good-looking for comfort.

He stood and handed me his keys. “You can go on out to the car if you like. I’m going to stop off in the men’s room.”

A little bemused by him, I watched him walk away, then got to my feet and headed for the door. I was halfway there when the Marvel CFO walked in, followed by the COO and a guy who’s the corporate attorney, but looks more like a bald bodyguard in a pinstriped suit. Roy Kipper brought up the rear. He looked as awkward and uncomfortable as a nun in a whore-house, and when he caught sight of me, he turned bright red, all the way to the top of his bald head. He mumbled something about taking a leak and scurried off to the men’s room.

Panic set in. I wasn’t sure whether to ignore them, be polite and say hello and keep moving, or stop and speak like the friends we used to be.

In the end, what I wanted didn’t make any difference. The CFO, a tall, lanky guy named Larry Sparks, but whom everyone knows as Sparky, stepped in front of me before I could get to the door.

“Hello, Pink,” he said in a neutral voice.

“Hi, Sparky.” I nodded at the COO and the lawyer, then looked at Sparky, waiting for him to say something.

“Saw you on C-SPAN.”

I nodded again.

“Just curious, Pink, how does it feel to fuck a senator?”

Oh-ho, so that’s how it was gonna be. “Just curious, Sparky, how does it feel to be a greedy bastard, commit fraud and ruin thousands of people’s lives?”

Sparky took a threatening step closer, his nostrils flaring and his cheeks pink with either anger or too many of the martinis I could smell on his breath, which was hot on my face. “If you turn over that disk, you’ll be the one who ruins their lives.”

“I have no choice. Even you can see that.”

“We all have choices. You just seem to be inclined to make all the wrong ones.” His angular face formed into a dark frown. “Like sleeping with Santorelli.”

“If you believe everything in the news, then you must believe that you and Lowell Jaworski set up a plan to defraud the state of Texas out of millions of dollars of past oil and gas overrides.”

“You know that’s not true.”

“Yeah, Sparky, just like I know it’s not true I sleep with a senator.” I caught his look of pure hatred before he schooled his features into mild dislike. I admit, it unnerved me and I decided I needed to leave. Immediately. “I have to go,” I said, stepping aside to move around him.

He stepped aside at the same time, blocking my way.

“Look, Sparky, you’re not going to intimidate me. No matter what you say or do, I’m handing that disk over to the finance committee.” With a firm grip on my nerves, I stepped aside again and made to walk out.

Again, he blocked my way. Then he went one worse and grabbed my arm. “Not so fast, sister. I just want to hear you explain how it is you never caught any discrepancies last year, or the year before that.”

“Get real,” I said, now thoroughly furious and disgusted. “You know I was promoted to senior manager in December, and this was my first year to head the Marvel audit. I didn’t have access to the memos and spreadsheets before this year.”

“Do you seriously expect anyone to believe you? Don’t you get it? By squealing to the feds, you’re digging your own grave. They’ll throw you in jail same as the rest of us.”

His hand on my arm tightened painfully and I flinched, wanting to kick him, knowing I couldn’t cause a scene. I cast about for some kind of a comeback, anything to make him let go of my arm. For once in my life, I was at a loss.

While the COO and the refrigerator-size attorney mumbled something from behind him, Sparky took advantage of my muteness. He leaned closer. “Here’s a little advice, for old time’s sake. Don’t hand that disk over, or something very, very bad will happen to you.”

Every hair on my head stood on end. I glanced down at his hand, still holding my arm in a bruising grip, and saw a white bandage. Mother of God! Was Sparky the Dog Doo Stalker? He didn’t seem the type, but he’d just threatened me, and his hand was wounded. Maybe from a gunshot?

Shocked and tongue-tied, beyond freaked, I was about to cry out and get someone’s attention when I heard Ed say, “I suggest you let go of my client before something even worse happens to you, Mr. Sparks.”

Looking as though he’d just awakened from a trance, Sparky’s eyes widened, he let go of my arm and stepped back. Jerking his head to his companions, he walked toward a table and they all took a seat, smiling and talking as though he hadn’t just been a major asshole.

Ed nudged me and I walked outside, sucking in the dry, hot air. I was more shaken than I wanted to admit. “Ed, his hand was bandaged. I think he’s the guy who grabbed me at Mabel’s.”

“I doubt it, Pink. The police think the guy was hit in the arm, and I happen to know, Sparks was in a meeting all morning. A lot of the Marvel execs are in town to go over their Permian Basin holdings.”

“Does that mean the Dog Doo Stalker isn’t connected to Marvel?”

“No, it just means I don’t think Sparks is your man.”

“Then the guy’s still out there.”

“True, but he’s got a bum arm now, so maybe it’ll keep him quiet for a while.”

“Wonder what happened to Sparky’s hand?”

“I’d like to think he closed it in a car door, or sliced it open on a meat cutter, or something equally painful.”

“I still can’t get over how he acted, Ed.”

“Just be careful, Pink. If you see him, or any of the others, don’t talk to them.”

“But, Ed, I tried to walk away!”

He stared at me with a worried frown. “Next time, try harder.”

Mom was out for meetings all afternoon, so I spent the remainder of the day working on my spreadsheets of Shanks Resources’ bank statements. I found several more checks to Birds in Flight and spent some time on the phone and the Internet, looking for information, but came up empty.

At five, I joined the cattle drive and left the office, headed for Mom’s to tell her about what happened at Mabel’s, and to drop the bomb that I’d leased an apartment. I dreaded it, but figured it was best to bite it and get it over with. Besides, I needed to get out to the Shankses’ yard as soon as night fell, which would be close to nine o’clock since it was late summer.

Mom wasn’t home yet, so I took the opportunity to float in the pool. I’d been there half an hour when Harry showed up.

“Hey, Harry,” I said as he came outside, “Mom need more Freon?”

He looked at me and shook his head. “No. She said there’s a noise, or something, so I came to check it out.”

Thinking it sure was late for an air-conditioner guy to be working, I said, “This must be a really busy time of year for you.”

“Uh, yeah…yeah it is. Real busy. Been at it since seven this morning.” He stepped back, said he’d talk to Mom later and left.

He’d looked sorta uncomfortable and I checked to see if I was coming out of my bathing suit, but I wasn’t. I wondered if Harry was casing the joint, but decided he wouldn’t have come out to say hello if that was his purpose.

Mom finally came home and set to work making chicken and dumplings. She said she thought I could use some comfort food, which had the effect of making me feel even more guilty for renting an apartment and dissing her.

I dropped a kiss on her cheek and inhaled deeply. Mom smells good, always. Don’t know what it is. Just Mom. “Thanks, Mom. You need some help?”

“No, I’ve got it.” She slanted a look at me as I settled on a barstool on the opposite side of the kitchen island. “I hear you got a haircut today.”

Yikes. She’d already heard about it. “Who told you?”

“Ed. He was at a meeting I went to this afternoon. Are you okay?”

“I’m okay.”

While she stood there, all Mom-like and domestic, making dumplings, she casually said, “Let’s go over to old lady Bohannon’s tonight, break in and get the disk out of Mister Bob’s box.”

It took me a minute to recover from my shock enough to speak. “Uh, Mom, that’s known as breaking and entering and can get us ten years in the Big House.”

“Only if we get caught.”

“You’re not serious.” She couldn’t be. Could she?

She glanced up from the dough. “I’m dead serious. Let’s get the disk, get it to the boys at the SEC, and this maniac won’t have any reason to stalk you.”

“It’s tempting, Mom, but too risky.”

“Not as risky as a stalker who tried to haul you off in the middle of the day, from a crowded place.”

“Maybe not, but I’ll take my chances and avoid prison.”

“Well, okay,” she said with disappointment edging her voice, “but let me know if you change your mind.”

With a cup towel in her hands, she turned toward me. “Where were you at ten-thirty? I came to ask you to lunch.”

Oh, man, this was it. I’d hoped I wouldn’t have to tell her until later. I sucked in a deep breath. “I went to look for an apartment.”

“Did you find one?”

“As a matter of fact, I did. It’s a one-bedroom on the west side of town. The Windmills.”

“I’ve seen those before. Not too dumpy, but kind of old.”

“This one has turquoise appliances.” I was waiting for her to start the lecture about the danger of living alone and the foolishness of wasting my money.

“When do you move in?”

“Anytime I want. I signed the lease effective today.” Any time now, she was going to get wound up.

“Let me know if you need some help. My air-conditioner guy does some other stuff for me, and he’d be available.”

“Okay, sure, Mom. Thanks.” I waited for her to say it.

“I think I’ll go take a quick shower before dinner.” She turned and walked out of the kitchen.

Watching her go, I coulda caught several flies, my mouth was so wide-open in shock. Where was the lecture? Where were the hangdog looks? Where was her favorite martyr routine?

Something was up with Mom, and I intended to find out what it was. Shoving off the barstool, I trailed her into her bedroom and confronted her in the bathroom. “Mom, aren’t you going to say anything about me not staying here with you?”

She tossed her skirt into the hamper, then turned my way. “No, why would I?”

“I don’t know. I just figured you’d be upset about it.”

“Why would I be upset?”

Looking down, I nearly had heart failure. “Where’d you get that bra?” It was a black lace thing, a push-up. Mom’s breasts were way, way out there, her cleavage so deep, she could hide a television in it.

“Picked it up on sale at Missy’s Lingerie. You like it?”

“Yeah, but, Mom, it’s kind of sexy,” I said, thinking maybe she didn’t realize that bras like that were designed for appearance, not comfort.

She turned and preened in the mirror. “It’s not kind of sexy. It’s real sexy.”

“Why do you care? You hate men.”

“So? Doesn’t mean I don’t want to feel sexy. I’m only fifty-five, Pink. Not hardly ready for the home.”

It finally dawned on me. “You’re dating someone, aren’t you?”

“Heavens, no! After your father, I’d rather be shot than date someone. Men are such a pain in the ass. Can you imagine me living the life I do with a man hanging around, expecting me to cook and clean and wash his underwear? No thanks. I like being single. I can go where I want, work when I want, spend my money how I want.”

“Mom,” I said pointlessly in an age-old argument, “not all men are like Lurch. There are some real nice guys out there.”

“Maybe, but not after I get hold of ’em. I’m just no good with men.”

That was true. Mom has iron ovaries when it comes to work, but around men, she reverts back to a doormat. I don’t know why. She doesn’t, either. “Speaking of Lurch, how is he?”

“I haven’t talked to him since he moved up to Lake City, right after his divorce from Nelda. That was maybe four months ago. I expect he’ll call when he gets sick of fishing.”

“You know, of course, it’s totally weird that you helped Dad divorce his second wife, and you still talk to him.”

“It’s not out of any great benevolence on my part. I’ve got a vested interest in him hanging on to his retirement fund. I get a thousand bucks a month off him until he croaks, and he can’t pay me if he loses his whole wad to some idiot like Nelda. The very idea, buying pink phones for her Mary Kay business. She was a piece of work, that one. And your father was stupid enough to let her run through half his retirement fund before he woke up and smelled the disaster.”

“Good ol’ Lurch. He just stays clueless.” At the best of times, my relationship with my father is lousy. At the worst of times, it’s closer to war. I don’t get along with my dad. No one gets along with my dad. He’s gruff, rude, arrogant and just not a very nice guy. One of my cousins called him Lurch once, years ago, and it stuck. We’ve called him that ever since, but not to his face. I slipped up a couple of times and he asked me, ‘Why do you call me Lurch? Who’s that?’ That sums up Dad to a tee. Who the hell doesn’t know who Lurch is? Nobody, that’s who. Nobody except my dad.

Mom unhooked her bra, then stepped out of her panties. She got in the shower and continued talking, her voice coming over the glass door, along with clouds of steam. “I still don’t know why you thought I’d be upset about you not living with me. It’s maybe more dangerous, but it’s not as though I’d be much defense against this nutcase who’s stalking you. The thing is, Pink, you’re thirty-one years old, and living with your mama would be kinda pathetic. For another thing, and don’t take this the wrong way, I do actually have a life, and you living here would cramp my style.”

“Cramp your style? What style? All you ever do is work.”

“How would you know? You’ve lived in Dallas the past eight years. Maybe I’m a real swinger and you just don’t know it.”

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