Total pages in book: 111
Estimated words: 105708 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 529(@200wpm)___ 423(@250wpm)___ 352(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 105708 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 529(@200wpm)___ 423(@250wpm)___ 352(@300wpm)
“Yeah. No. That would be tricky and potentially illegal.”
“Everyone doesn’t care, as you know.” She sets a document on my desk. “That is the detailed breakdown, but from what I can tell, it might push up revenues, but not much. And I still cannot find any documentation that indicates a development, highway or otherwise, that would affect Reid Winter Winery. As for oil or minerals, there’s certainly been gold and various other findings in the state, but nothing specifically in Sonoma or on that property. At least any not that is properly documented.”
The same answers Beck gave me yesterday, but I’m still not satisfied. North walks into my office, still just as Clark Kent, super geeky, but extra damn skinny. “Did you almost die or what?”
“Yes,” he says, shoving his thick glasses up his nose. “I did.”
“You’re fine now?”
“Yes.”
I eye Rita. “Have him do everything you already did on Reid Winter Winery. See if he finds anything else.”
“Typical Nick Rogers,” she says, not even the slightest bit offended. She sets a stack of documents on my desk and spreads them out. “Sign. Sign. Review. Review. Sign. I’ll be back in thirty minutes.” She heads for the door and motions to North. “Follow.”
They exit my office, and my cellphone rings, and a glance tells me it’s Beck. “Tell me something I fucking want to hear for once,” I say.
“Well, hello sunshine,” he replies drily. “Fuck you in the morning, too. You never asked about flag dude again.”
“I wasn’t aware I needed to micromanage you to do your job. What about him?”
“Jess Wild. Ex-CIA. Does contract-to-hire work and makes my kind of bank.”
“Which tells us what?”
“He has a thing for wine. He spent time in wine country investigating a French operative who also liked wine.”
“You’re telling me he was vacationing?”
“I’m telling you he showed up there last week at the same time a married female executive of Davenport Data showed up. And since he’s banging her, we suspect she’s either his client or his target.”
“Does she connect to Faith or anyone connected to Faith?”
“Not that we know of, but we aren’t stupid, despite your general opinion that we are. Banging a powerful hot chick as a cover is what I’d call brilliant. We’re watching him.”
“And the problems at the winery?”
“I have nothing new. Obviously, someone is still squeezing Faith to sell. And all I can say is history—”
“Do not repeat that history-repeats shit again.”
He changes the subject. “I hacked the autopsy report again.”
“And?”
“The written form filled out to order the proper testing was scanned and marked correctly, but when it was input into the database for actual completion, the data was incorrect. The important tests were left off. It could have been an input error, but per the internal memos, the person who input it insists she didn’t make an error.”
“It was hacked.”
“That’s my conclusion,” he says. “Someone knew you ordered the autopsy and made sure certain toxins were not checked for. And we both know that there are substances that won’t show up if you aren’t looking for them.”
“Jess Wild,” I say. “That flag-wearing ex-CIA agent. It has to be him.”
“Except that he let you know he was there. That’s a stupid move with someone like you. Then again, he could be such an arrogant prick that he wants to challenge you.”
“I need to buy us some time,” I say. “Play the game. Give them what they want.”
“If you mean put the winery on the market, you risk someone like Bill fearing the bids will get too high. Once a killer—”
“Always a killer,” I supply as he repeats my thoughts from the other night. “We need to reel in the uncle. Make him think he can get in with Faith, and that’s a big order.”
“You can be her voice of reason,” he says. “Of course, you’ll have to convince Faith that this makes sense without sharing your suspicions.” He laughs. “Good luck with that one.”
My phone beeps, and I glance at the caller ID to find Kurt’s number. “I’ll be in touch,” I say to Beck and disconnect, answering the other line. “Kurt,” I greet, eyeing my watch. “I’m expecting you in the next hour, correct?”
“My attorney can’t look at this until this afternoon.”
“Then get another attorney,” I say. “You’ve had time, and this is a gift. I can insert another name in this paperwork in sixty seconds. Have the signed documents here by three or I will.” I hang up and start counting. One. Two. My phone rings again.
I answer. “I’ll just sign the damn thing. I’ll be there at two.” He hangs up.
And I have the outcome I’m after. That club is not mine. Faith is.
I spend the fifteen minutes that I manage to spare for lunch on the phone with Faith, sharing her excitement that her paintings have officially been received. By two, I have my document from Kurt. By four, I have about ten crisis situations that ensure I’m going to have to work late. I text Faith: I’m going to have a late night. I’ll text you on the way home about dinner.