Page 57 of Concerted Chaos

“Your birthdate is on your file. I’m older.” He turns back to the screen, so distracted by my age assumptions he’s ignoring that I’ve bestowed an unasked-for nickname upon him. “I completely misjudged you. I thought you were another one of those spoiled rich kids, but I’m going through your files. The food bank, domestic violence shelters, medical relief funds, you throw money at every cause.”

“I grew up poor,” I tell him, not that it’s any of his business. He doesn’t need to know about our homelessness after my dad’s death, or the series of shelters and apartments with sketchy roommates. My mother’s hard work and determination saved us from that lifestyle long before she married Hank. But now that I think about it, all of that information is probably in whatever dossier the FBI has created about me. “I like to give back.”

“You do. But you haven’t given money to any charities in the past six months.”

“Yes, I have!” I know that for a fact, because I have auto donations scheduled.

“No, you haven’t. Look here.” He taps on my computer screen and I read the name.

“Maricopa County Coalition against Domestic Violence? I’ve donated to them for years.”

“Carefully read the name again. Marico-Q-a.”

I squint at it. He’s right, there’s a ‘q’ that isn’t supposed to be there. I’m positive the county hasn’t changed its name. “What’s happening here?”

“Someone got into your finances and altered the recurring donations to accounts that mimic your typical charity names, but with slight misspellings. Those false entities are set up so that money flows into their off-shore account—one that changes monthly—but on your end, and, more importantly, on your accountant’s end, it appears to be all going to the usual places.”

“Do you think my accountant had something to do with it?” He’s another friend of Hank’s, and he’s overseen Powell’s finances for years too. I can’t imagine he would be defrauding me.

“No, probably not. I bet he didn’t notice the typos in the recipient names and that’s how he missed catching where the money was going. This scam could have continued until next tax season, when the charities send out their annual donation letters and you found out you hadn’t been making them.”

“So what now?” My mind is wandering. Those charities depend on me. If I haven’t been donating for months, are they cutting services? I donate a couple hundred a month to an organization that provides books to low-income children. Are all those kids being cut off? Why didn’t they contact me? I’m going to have to make a few phone calls and get the money flowing again.

“Now we bring a forensic accountant in here to go through all your records.”

“And they’ll get my money back?”

“Maybe, but probably not. I’m more concerned with what it’s being used for. You’ve had over a hundred thousand dollars stolen. The helicopter mechanic was only paid thirty thousand to place the bomb. We don’t know who put the device on the car, but assuming they received the going rate, there’s still plenty of money left over to pay for another attempt.”

Coldness settles over me. Here I had been so focused on the charities’ losses, I wasn’t even considering the risks. I personally financed Jace’s murder and mine and Tanner’s injuries. And I could still be paying for someone to kill my brother.

When I finally leave my office—the other Cassidy still typing away—I rush out of the gym. I need to get home and talk to Powell. Also, Brix and I have massage appointments scheduled. But my priorities are in order, so first I’ll inform my brother that there’s still enough cash floating around out there to pay for his murder.

Before I can make it to my car, I hear someone call my name and turn to see Tanner. He’s triumphantly wearing his Rusty Mug T-shirt.

“You’re welcome,” I tell him, pointing at his prize. His entry was delicious, but we all know Brixley’s support is what earned him the win. There were some absolutely amazing gingersnaps that some brilliant person paired with a coffee stout, and they came in a distant second.

He thumps his chest proudly. “I got bragging rights, too.”

“I remember. Alright, go ahead. Brag.” I cross my arms and wait. His dimple appears.

“Hey, Cass, guess who makes the best cookies in an entire dive bar?”

“That’s not the accolade you think it is, but congrats anyway. Oh, by the way, what are you up to the day after tomorrow?” I assume he’s going to be hanging out in his van being obnoxious.

“Just hanging out,” he says, leaving off the being obnoxious part. But I bet I’m right.

“You know Whitney, my assistant manager? She and I are planning a double date,” I tell him. “Are you interested?”

A slow smile spreads across his face, and his damn dimple deepens. He can be cute sometimes.

“Really? Yeah, of course! That sounds fun. What time?”

I provide him with the details and tell him I’ll pick him up, but he has to let me know where his van is parked or broken down, whichever it might be. My assumption is my back parking lot, but I’m still pretending to be unaware of his overnight trespassing.

That was easy. No Powell, no problem. Now to see how Whitney reacts. If she’s mad or disappointed, I’ll know who she was truly after.

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