Page 2 of Elusive Enforcer

“At least that’s one less thing for us to worry about. Did you see the actual folder? Or a record of the police department’s transaction history?”

“Not yet, but I’m confident we’re looking in the right place.”

We sit in silence for a few moments, then Aurelio answers my unspoken question.

"That's enough for today. I want you back out there tomorrow with more information and a solid plan for extracting the documents."

“Yes, Boss.”

He hangs up without a goodbye, which is par for the course. He’s a busy man. Aurelio doesn’t have time for pleasantries and he loathes small talk. That’s one reason we get along so well.

I’m about to start up the car and head back to the Caparelli compound when I get the overwhelming urge to get one last look at the strangely addicting woman. When I turn my attention back to the filing room, I don’t see her.

That’s fine. It makes sense. She has other things to do. It’s fine. I don’t need to see her. Why would I waste time on something that’s not relevant to my mission?

And yet… as I pull out of my well-hidden parking spot across from the accounting firm, I can’t deny the pain and tightness in my chest. It’s almost like my heart is trying to escape and go back to the mysterious woman with long red hair and shimmering green eyes.

Or maybe I’ve just been cooped up in this damn car for too long. Yes, that has to be it. I’m sure I’ll forget all about her after a good night’s rest.

2

FLORENCE

“At laaaaaaast, my love has come alooooong.” I turn the volume up on my phone and sway to the beat of the song. I’m no singer, but Etta James brings it out in me. How can anyonenotbelt out this song? It’s so full of passion and raw emotion. I almost feel like I know what it’s like to be in love.Almost.

I haven't had a lot of love in my life, and certainly not the romantic kind. My dad loved me. I know he did. He wouldn't have left if he had a choice, but… But there's no use dwelling on what might have been. The facts are that I was put in foster care after a huge injustice against my father.

Truthfully, I consider myself lucky. Most of the kids I met in the system either never knew their parents or had horror stories of how they ended up as wards of the state. While I don’t remember much of my mother before she took off, I have lots of memories of my father. It’s still hard to fathom that he was in handcuffs, being thrown into the back of a cop car the last time I saw him.

None of that matters now. I’m out of the system, I got a degree in business accounting, and I’ve been gainfully employed for over a year at the Hanson & Hanson firm. That’s more thanany of my foster parents thought I was capable of. What’s that saying?Success is the best revenge.

I’m about to join Etta James on verse two when my cat, Sprinkles, jumps onto the back of the couch where I’m sitting. “Mrrreow,” he informs me, rubbing his head against my shoulder.

“Oh yeah? Is someone feeling ignored?”

“Mer. Meow. Mew, mew, mew,” he answers as I scratch his cute little noggin.

"Is it dinner time already?" I look at my phone, and sure enough, it's six thirty-two. Exactly two minutes later than His Majesty normally has his dry food. "Such a stickler for your schedule, aren't you?"

The second I make a move to get up, he leaps onto the floor and trots to his food bowl. The fluffy, pure white Persian cat looks up at me with wide blue eyes, imploring me to get the food from its hiding spot. He mews impatiently as I open the bag, then sticks his head in his bowl, blocking me from filling it up.

“Sir, you’re going to have to move for this to work. We go over this every night.” I nudge him a bit and he reluctantly tilts his head to the side until his bowl is full. “You’d think no one fed you around here,” I say under my breath.

I should probably get something to eat myself, but it feels like a lot of work at the moment. Instead of cooking a whole meal, I settle for crackers and peanut butter, along with some strawberry yogurt and string cheese.

Gathering my assortment of snacks that will suffice for my dinner, I walk back to my couch and spread everything out on the coffee table next to the stack of papers I took home from work today. Something isn’t quite right with a few accounts I was handed last week, but I haven’t been able to figure out exactly what.

I take a bite of yogurt and flip through one folder in particular that seems to be missing something. The numbers just don’t add up. Numbers don’t lie. People, on the other hand…

My face scrunches up involuntarily when the image of Larry Hasnson flashes across my eyes. He's as slimy as they come. He'll hit on just about anything with two legs, which is strange, considering everyone in the office jokes about Larry and his mother, Mary, having a rather scandalous relationship. The rumors aren't true, of course. At least, I don't think. Then again, what forty-one-year-old man wears matching accessories with his mother to the office every single day? It makes me shudder to think about them having matching pajamas and swimsuits.

Ew. Instead of going down that path, I bury myself in the mystery of account number 30913-45. That’s another strange thing. We usually have the name of the entity on the cover page of these reports. Even if the business entity wants things to be under the radar, we still use an internal naming system based on the type of account and a bunch of other factors. This one just has a string of numbers.

After a few hours, I finally discovered the issue. Or, at least one of what I assume are several issues. Some of the invoices are here in print, but they were never uploaded to our system. That's not very secure. It's certainly a massive oversight for the person in charge of this account.

I searched the documents, both digital and print, scouring them for the name of the original accountant who set this up. There's nothing in our system, but on the very last page of the folder of printed documents, I see a signature scrawled messily at the bottom.Mary Hanson.

Yikes. I don't think I have enough experience or sway in the firm to confront the very owner herself. Maybe I could bring it up to someone else in the office and have them look over the account? Then again, it's not like I'm close to any of my co-workers. Even though I've been at the firm for almost a year and a half now, we all keep to ourselves. I'm the youngest one there by a decade, so I don't imagine anyone jumping up to help me confront the boss.

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