Page 24 of Four Steps to the Perfect Fake Date

Carlisle was the only town on Fernley Island, and the location of the island’s ferry terminal. The town was built on a gentle slope, so most of the residences had a view of the water. The sheriff’s department was near the top of the slope, just down the street from the medical center, so they turned onto one of the main arteries leading down toward the water, then turned right to head toward the industrial side of town.

They left quaint shops and artisanal bakeries behind as they drove toward their destination. They passed workshops and warehouses, along with equipment-rental yards and a few smaller businesses. Barela Contracting was located beside a glassblowers’ workshop, with a big yard full of stacked lumber and machinery behind the construction office’s main building.

Flint parked the car in the front lot, and they got out. Daphne took a deep breath, reached into her bag to make sure the manila folder was where she’d put it, and followed the sheriff inside.

He believed she could do this. Now she just had to convince herself of the same thing.

Chapter 9

Jerry Barela was in his midfifties and possessed a wealth of curly salt-and-pepper hair. He was sitting behind a messy desk squinting at a computer screen when Calvin walked into the office just ahead of Daphne. Calvin had seen her square her shoulders before entering, had seen that stubborn clench of her jaw as she stepped over the threshold.

“Mr. Barela?” Calvin asked, coming to a stop in front of the desk.

The older man leaned back in his ancient rolling office chair and arched his brows. “Morning. Is there a problem?”

“No problem. I’m Sheriff Flint and this is Ms. Davis. We were hoping to ask you a few questions about the work you did over at the sheriff’s department a few years ago.”

Jerry snorted as he combed thick fingers through his hair. He wore a gold wedding band and no other jewelry. “What do you want to know?”

Calvin glanced at Daphne, who took a deep breath as if to center herself. Calvin wondered why she’d be nervous when she was the one who’d tried to stop not one but two criminals by putting her body on the line. How was this any more nerve racking?

She straightened her spine and gave the other man a nod. “Hi, Mr. Barela. Could you tell me why the work on the extension was never completed?”

The man spread his arms. “I never got paid, that’s why. Do you work for free?”

Daphne frowned. “You weren’t paid?”

“Got the deposit and started working, bought all the supplies, and then zilch.”

“I have invoices here that are marked as paid.” She dug through her bag and brought out a folder filled with old paperwork. After flipping it open, she found an invoice stamped with “Paid” with a bank confirmation stapled to the back, and handed it over to the contractor.

“This is an invoice for insulation and drywall as well as the electrical rough-in. It’s dated four years ago and is marked as complete. I walked through the extension yesterday, and it doesn’t seem to have more than a frame and a bare concrete floor.”

Barela pawed at his desk, then seemed to remember his glasses were hanging off a string on his neck and put them on. Furrowing his brow, he read the invoice. After a few moments, he handed it back. “Don’t know what to tell you, Ms. Davis. I never got the money.”

“And is this your bank account information?” Daphne pointed to the bank confirmation on the second page.

Barela looked at the string of numbers, then turned to his computer and tapped it a few times. A printer whirred, and he grabbed the fresh sheet from the tray. He handed it over to Daphne. “Payment information is at the bottom of every quote. Hasn’t changed in thirty years.”

Daphne frowned as she compared the two account numbers, then nodded. “May I keep this?”

“Be my guest,” he said, waving a hand. “I can even show you all the materials that we bought for the job and haven’t been able to repurpose.”

Calvin met Daphne’s gaze, then turned back to Barela and nodded. “Sure.”

The man groaned as he stood, then ushered them through the back door. He paused, grabbed a couple of fluorescent vests and hard hats, and handed them over before donning a hat of his own. The hard-packed gravel of the lot crunched as they stepped onto it, neat rows of stacked materials spreading before them. A forklift moved a palletof PVC pipes at the far end of the yard, while Barela led them in the opposite direction.

They entered a small warehouse cluttered with materials. A saw whined as carpenters assembled a frame to the right. Barela nodded to the men as they glanced up and watched their troupe walk by, then led them down to the far end of the warehouse.

“We repurposed most of the timber and drywall, but the flooring and electrical fittings were a loss. I had half a dozen guys working on that place for three months before I called it quits,” he said. “That bastard Bill Jackson gave me the runaround, and I finally told him I wouldn’t be back until the money was in my account.” Barela snorted as he shook his head. “That was it. Never saw a dime, so I never went back.”

Calvin glanced over to see Daphne peeking at the flooring and taking notes. She looked good in her hard hat and vest, staring at everything like she could figure out the mysteries of the world just by digging into the financials. She had a little wrinkle between her brows, her lips pursed as she turned to the light fittings stacked on nearby wire shelves.

Jerry Barela had no idea who he was up against.

Calvin turned to the contractor. “Was Bill Jackson your main point of contact for the work?”

“Yeah, him and—”

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