Lisa Gardner - Touch & Go

Wyatt took a deep breath and declared, “I think Justin Denbe might have been embezzling from his own company. An In Case of Divorce fund. Except sixteen years later, he also started talking about it. I think he told his lover, Kathryn Chapman, who saw Ruth Chan’s travel itinerary. She took the steps to wire out the funds before Chan ever landed in the Bahamas. Then ordered Justin and his family kidnapped, in order to keep the eleven million for herself.”

“I think you’re part right,” Tessa Leoni said. “I think Justin Denbe definitely embezzled from his own firm. I think he’s also very much alive.”

“WHO ELSE HAD ENOUGH ACCESS?” Tessa quizzed shortly. “We’re looking for someone who worked for Denbe Construction for at least sixteen years, who knew intimate details of the Denbes’ home life, including security code, interior layout, family schedule. A person who might know former special forces, current guns for hire—which we’ve established are part and parcel of the construction trades. Not to mention someone brilliant enough to devise such a scheme, and ballsy enough to pull it off. I say, Justin Denbe, Justin Denbe, Justin Denbe.”

Wyatt wasn’t arguing with her. Hearing the words out loud only fit the lightbulb already going off in his head. “The kidnappers weren’t supposed to harm Libby and Ashlyn,” he muttered by phone. “Hence Mick was Tased for attacking Libby. Most likely, instructions from Justin himself. He had nothing against traumatizing his wife and daughter. He just didn’t want them hurt.”

“But he needed them,” Tessa countered. “If he just faked his own kidnapping, his own death, it would be suspicious. Hence, for his Embark on a New Life plan, he needed them all abducted from their home and held against their will. Libby and Ashlyn became his witnesses, two people who could swear under oath they saw him die before their very eyes.”

“Knife to the chest. Not so hard to fake with a blood packet. And we still haven’t found the body.”

“Exactly.”

“I think he cheated on her,” Wyatt said abruptly. “Pure conjecture, but the money skimming started sixteen years ago. I think it was triggered by the first time Justin was unfaithful to Libby. She would’ve been pregnant with Ashlyn right about then. A stressful time in any marriage. He fell off the wagon, followed in his father’s footsteps, whatever. But at that moment, Justin realized he was his father’s son—fidelity challenged. And he started to worry, because Libby wasn’t necessarily his mother, the kind of woman who would turn a blind eye. If she left him, divorced him…”

“Fifty percent of all personal assets,” Tessa supplied.

“So he stopped taking money out of the business, bought the town house in the company’s name. Except that meant he didn’t really have cash. So he created an offshore slush fund. Why not? From his perspective, it was his money, after all. But as any corporation is subject to audit, of course he couldn’t just have the accountant write him a check. He had to create a fake vendor, bill his own firm, then pocket the cash. Amounts small enough not to be noticed, large enough to give him peace of mind. Ingenious, really.”

“Except Libby didn’t find out,” Tessa picked up. “He got away with that affair, she gave birth. Maybe they were going to live happily ever after, except then he met another girl—”

“Leading to another fake billing cycle…”

“And continued with a crazy dual life as a loving husband/cheating husband, great boss/embezzling boss.”

“It happens,” Wyatt said.

Which was true. When it came to crime, innocent people hemmed and hawed all the time, how could he, how could she, why I never suspected a thing. That was because innocent people had consciences. And guilty people, such as Justin Denbe, didn’t.

“Sixteen years,” Tessa murmured. “Then, finally, the shit hit the fan. Libby found out about the latest woman, and Justin started devising an exit plan. Ironic, really, given that Libby still wasn’t planning on leaving him.”

“I don’t think that mattered,” Wyatt said curtly. “Where are you?”

“Denbe Construction offices, looking for Justin.”

“He’s not there.”

“Given that I’m here, walking the offices, I already know that. So here’s a question: How do you, by phone, also know that?”

“Because Libby wasn’t leaving Justin. You heard her—they were working on their marriage. Meaning…” He paused a beat. Tessa finally got the rest of the story.

“He was leaving her.”

“And why does any husband leave his family of eighteen years?” Wyatt asked.

“Fuck. He thinks he’s in love with Kathryn Chapman.”

“Meaning…”

“He’s hiding at Kathryn Chapman’s house. Most likely getting everything in order before they hop a flight to some exotic locale first thing in the morning.”

Wyatt said, “Last one there buys dinner.”

“Please. I’m already in the city.”

“Yep, but at this point, so am I.”

KATHRYN CHAPMAN LIVED IN MATTAPAN. Her mother’s house, a white-painted triple-decker. Tessa had the address, because she’d gotten it off Chris Lopez. Wyatt, on the other hand, had police dispatch, an in-vehicle computer system, not to mention GPS, which explained how he managed to pull up just seconds before her. She literally veered around him as he parallel parked four blocks over, where his sheriff’s cruiser wouldn’t spook Kathryn Chapman or Justin Denbe.

He gave her a cheery wave. Tessa rolled her eyes and drove around yet another city block in search of parking. Always fun in Boston.

She found parking two blocks over and trotted back to Wyatt’s vehicle, where he was leaning against his cruiser, waiting for her. She thought he looked particularly good in his brown sheriff’s uniform, which was just as well.

“Dinner,” he declared. “Your treat.”

“Do I get to pick the restaurant?”

“Fair is fair.”

“I want to wear heels. Maybe a skirt.”

“Hell, I’ll pay for that.”

“No, my dinner. But I expect a jacket from you. Maybe even a tie.”

“And you’re in heels?” he pressed.

“Yes.”

“Done.”

They turned their attention to Kathryn’s darkened duplex, a couple of blocks down. Five A.M. Sun would be rising soon. Already, lights were appearing in homes with early morning commuters. Not the best time of day for stealth.

“How do you want to play it?” she asked.

“We don’t have a warrant.”

Tessa shrugged. “More your problem than mine. And you don’t even have jurisdiction in Massachusetts.”

“You’re right, we should call for backup.”

She gave him a look.

“Or,” he countered, “I could close my eyes, and if the front door happened to open, giving me cause to worry about the safety of the individuals inside the residence…”

“Then as a conscientious representative of law enforcement, naturally you’d have to check it out.”

“Naturally.”

“Three minutes,” Tessa said, and walked away.

She could feel his eyes on her back as she departed. And it wasn’t a bad thing. More like a warm, giddy feeling that promised good times to come.

Tessa reconned the house. Front door had a bolt lock and a chain. Too time-consuming. She turned her attention to a back garden door. Older, only the key-in, key-out lock, which five minutes later finally gave way to her steadily improving lock-picking skills.

She took her first step into the rear-facing kitchen, already breathing hard. Sky was lightening. Shadows disappearing. Full daylight dangerously close.

She got halfway across the peeling vinyl floor.

Then heard a floorboard creak above her head.