Page 46 of Wired Strong

“That feeling is mutual. I assume that this is a business call?”

“Mais oui. Sophie, an investigator named Heri Leede, and I are all working a private case. An audit for a large prestigious private school.” He sighed out a breath. “It appears, unfortunately, that a sizable amount of money is going missing into an offshore account. The bank, in the Cayman Islands, refuses to give us the name on the account. Is there a way you can procure that name for us? When we bring the embezzler to light, you can get credit for the capture.”

Marcella smiled. “If it were that easy on my end, I’d say ‘no problem,’ but I do have to take this to my bureau chief, Special Agent in Charge Ben Waxman. A case must be opened.”

“Ah, I see.”

Marcella sipped her wine. “Sophie should abstain from coming into the FBI offices due to her current situation with an investigation. If you and Ms. Leede could meet me at the FBI offices tomorrow morning and present the particulars of the case to SAC Waxman, I feel confident we will be able to get the name for you eventually.” Marcella paused for a beat, her eyes drifting over the mature plumeria tree in her backyard, dropping a few spent blossoms onto a shaggy lawn that neither she nor Marcus ever seemed to have time to mow. “Are you aware how seldom the names on these accounts actually trace back to anything? The reason the offshore banks do so well is that they ask so very little in the way of identification or even business documents when shady operators open accounts with them.”

“We’re aware. But if we had some idea who owned the account, we could monitor it more effectively. This will be one more thread we can hopefully use to flush out the embezzler.”

“And, if you can show us the trail that ends with this account being illegal, we could freeze it with a court order and keep the funds from being siphoned off. Recover your money, in other words,” Marcella said. “That’s another way you could flush your prey.”

“This has been very helpful. Thank you so much. I will inform Ms. Leede; we have to consult our client first, but hopefully they’ll want to move forward with pressing charges.”

A short silence went by. “How is Sophie doing? You work with her on a day to day basis. How is she holding up?” Marcella asked.

Raveaux’s voice grew chilly. “I thought you were her best friend. Why are you asking me?”

Marcella frowned. “I’m asking you as someone who sees her from another direction. Really. How’s she doing?”

“She is well. Using work as an escape, as I suspect she always has,” Raveaux said. “She has also asked me to be a godfather for her children. I am honored, and agreed to the role.”

Marcella sat up straighter. “That’s surprising! She must trust you very much. There’s no one she loves more than Momi, and of course, the new baby on the way.”

“Sophie said she wanted the children to have male role models,” Raveaux said haltingly—he clearly felt awkward. “I am a new friend, but she knows I care for children. I . . . miss my daughter very much.”

Marcella shut her eyes on an unwelcome vision of the car bomb that had taken his wife and daughter’s lives. “A generous thing for her,” Marcella said. “But a win-win for both of you. Of course, Marcus and I will be around as much as we can, as well, but heavy workloads are a curse as an investigator.”

“I learned from losing my family that time is the one thing that can never be recovered. Treasure what you have with your husband. Never let work get in the way.” Raveaux ended the call abruptly.

Marcella lowered the phone, staring at it. He’d said that last bit with the kind of conviction that came from the heart.

She liked Pierre Raveaux very much.

* * *

Marcella bopped around,headphones on, to eighties rock as she stirred the simple marinara that she’d made. Crushed farmers’ market tomatoes, basil from a potted plant out back, a chopped clove of garlic, and a few homemade black olives. People always overdid the ingredients for a good marinara, when just the right fresh ingredients made all the difference.

A hand on her shoulder made her jump, spinning to defend herself, wooden spoon upraised—but it was only Marcus, his brown eyes sparkling, his big shoulders up by his ears as he laughed.

Marcella dropped the headphones down around her neck, threw the spoon in the sink, and launched herself at him.

She was a good-sized woman with a curvy figure at five foot seven, but Honolulu Police Department Detective Sergeant Marcus Kamuela was up for the task. He caught Marcella in his arms, hefted her up so her legs encircled his waist, and kissed her soundly as he walked over to the counter and set her butt on it, leaning into the space between her legs to nibble her neck.

“Yummy,” he said. “You smell like basil and garlic.”

“Key ingredients in a good sauce.” Marcella lifted up the headphones, and put them on him. “I dare you not to dance to this song.”

Marcus’s eyes widened. He let go of Marcella and backed away, his face blooming into a grin. He held his thumb up like it was a mic, and began a falsetto impression of Madonna’sLike a Virgin,gyrating his hips, spinning and stomping around the kitchen.

Marcella burst into laughter. “You still got it, baby,” she said, sliding off the counter to grab his hands. “Show me some moves.” With a touch of her finger, she rerouted the music to play from her phone through the living room speaker. Soon both of them were lip-syncing as Marcus twirled her around and pulled her in close.

“It’s been too long since we went dancing.” Marcus said, when the song was over. “Remember how we met?”

Marcella rubbed herself along his body, bending into a shape that fit his perfectly. “How could I forget? Not everyone meets dancing in masks at a sex club.”

“Too bad it’s not the kind of story we can tell at family gatherings,” Marcus said into her ear.

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