Dream Trilogy (37 page)

She allowed herself to dream about it—the new office, the new salary, the new prestige. She would be consulted on policy, her opinion would be weighed and respected. Giggling,
she leaned back in the chair and spun again. She would have a private secretary.

She would have everything she’d ever wanted.

Kate imagined picking up the phone, calling the Templetons in Cannes. They’d be so happy for her, so proud of her. Finally, she would be able to believe that everything they’d done for her was deserved.

She’d have a celebration with Margo and Laura. Oh, that would be sweet. At long last Kate Powell had come into her own, had done something important and solid. Years and years of work and study, of aching shoulders, tired eyes, and a burning stomach would have paid off.

All she had to do was wait.

Forcing herself to push the dream to the back of her mind, she swiveled to her computer and got to work.

She hummed as she ran figures, calculated expenditures, logged tax deductions, clucked over capital gains, and figured depreciation. As usual, she tuned in to the work and lost track of time. Kate came up blinking when the beep from her watch told her it was five o’clock.

Another fifteen minutes to close the file, she decided, then glanced up in mild annoyance at the knock on her door. “Yes?”

“Ms. Powell.” Lucinda Newman—or the Dragon Lady, as she was unaffectionately called among the rank and file—stood imposingly in the doorway. “You’re wanted in the main conference room.”

“Oh.” Kate’s heart gave a wild, joyful leap, but she kept her face composed. “Thanks, Ms. Newman. I’ll be right there.”

Well aware that her hands were trembling with anticipation, Kate pressed them together in her lap. She had to be cool and professional. Bittle wasn’t going to offer a partnership to a giddy, giggling woman.

She had to be what she always was, what they expected her to be. Practical, levelheaded. And, oh, she was going to savor the moment, remember every detail. Later, when she was out
of sight and earshot, she would scream all the way to Templeton House.

Kate rolled down her sleeves, shrugged into her jacket, and smoothed it into place. She hesitated over taking her briefcase, then decided it only made her look more dedicated to the job.

With measured steps she took the stairs to the next floor, walked past the partners’ offices toward the executive conference room. No one who chanced to see her in the quiet corridor would have realized her feet weren’t touching the tasteful tan carpet. She thumbed an antacid out of the roll in her pocket, knowing it would do little to calm her jittery stomach.

She wondered if a bride on her wedding night could feel any more nervous and thrilled than she did as she raised a hand to knock politely on the thick paneled door.

“Come in.”

She lifted her chin, put a polite smile on her face as she turned the knob. They were all there, and her heart gave another skipping leap. All the partners, the five powers of the firm, were seated around the long, glossy table. Large tumblers of water stood by each place.

She skimmed her gaze over each of them, wanting to remember this moment. Fusty Calvin Meyers with his usual suspenders and red bow tie. Elegant and terrifying Amanda Devin, looking stern and beautiful. Marty, of course, sweet and homely and rumpled. Lawrence Junior, steady, balding, and cool.

And of course, the senior Bittle. She had always thought he looked like Spencer Tracy—that lived-in face, the sweep of white hair, the stocky, powerful little body.

Her pulse bumped, aware that all eyes were on her.

“You wanted to see me?”

“Sit down, Kate.” From his seat at the head of the table, Bittle gestured to one at the foot.

“Yes, sir.”

He cleared his throat as she took her chair, settled. “We thought it best to meet at the end of the workday. You’re
aware, I’m sure, that we’ve been involved for the past several days in a check of our accounts.”

“Yes, sir.” She smiled. “Speculation’s been racing down the corridors.” When he didn’t smile back, she felt a nervous tickle at the back of her throat. “It’s hard not to get on the rumor train, sir.”

“Yes.” He let out a breath, folded his hands. “A discrepancy in an income tax payment came to Mr. Bittle Junior’s attention last week.”

“A discrepancy?” Her gaze shifted to Lawrence.

“In the Sunstream account,” he clarified.

“That’s one of mine.” The nervous tickle at the back of her throat changed to a nervous dread in her stomach. Had she made some sort of stupid error in the chaos of the tax crunch? “What kind of discrepancy?”

“The client’s copy of the tax form indicates a federal payment due of seven thousand six hundred and forty-eight dollars.” Lawrence opened a file, took out a thick stack of papers. “Is this your work, Ms. Powell?”

He was the only Bittle who called her Ms. Powell. Everyone in the firm was accustomed to his formality. But it was the clipped manner of his speech that put her on alert. Carefully she took out her glasses and slipped them on as the papers were passed down to her.

“Yes,” she said after a quick glance. “It’s my account, I did the tax work. This is my signature.”

“And as with several of our clients, the firm cuts the checks for tax payments for this one.”

“Some prefer it.” She dropped her hands into her lap. “It distances them, a bit, from the sting. And it’s more convenient.”

“Convenient,” Amanda commented and drew Kate’s eye. “For whom?”

This was trouble, was all Kate could think. But from what and where? “Many clients prefer to come into the office, discuss the tax situation and the results—argue and vent.” They all knew this, she thought, scanning the table again. Why did
she have to explain? “The client will sign the necessary forms and the account exec will issue the check out of escrow.”

“Ms. Powell.” Lawrence took another stack of papers from his file. “Can you explain this?”

As smoothly as possible, Kate wiped her damp palms on her skirt, then studied the forms passed to her. Her mind went momentarily blank. She blinked, focused, swallowed hard.

“I’m not sure I understand. This is another copy of the 1040 filed for Sunstream, but the tax due amount is different.”

“Twenty-two hundred dollars less,” Amanda pointed out. “This is the form and the payment made on April fifteenth of this year to the IRS. The check drawn out of escrow was for this amount.”

“I don’t understand when or how the other copy was generated,” Kate began. “All work sheets are filed, of course, but any excess forms are shredded.”

“Kate.” Bittle drew her attention with one quiet word. “The excess money was transferred via computer out of the client’s escrow account in cash.”

“In cash,” she repeated, blank.

“Since this came to our attention, we initiated a check on all accounts.” Bittle’s face was grave as he watched her. “Since late March of this year, amounts that total seventy-five thousand dollars have been withdrawn from escrow accounts, seventy-five thousand in excess of tax payments. Computer withdrawals, in cash, from your accounts.”

“From my clients?” She felt the blood drain out of her face, couldn’t stop it.

“It’s the same pattern.” Calvin Meyers spoke for the first time, tugging on his bright red tie. “Two copies of the 1040s, small adjustments on various forms, to total excess on the client’s copy in amounts ranging from twelve hundred to thirty-one hundred dollars.” He puffed out his cheeks. “We might not have caught it, but I golf with Sid Sun. He’s a whiner about taxes and kept after me to look over his form and be certain there was nothing else he could use to cut his payment.”

Embezzlement. Were they accusing her of embezzlement? Was this some awful nightmare? They knew about her father and thought . . . no, no, that was impossible. While her hand flexed nervously in her lap, she kept her voice even.

“You examined one of my accounts?”

Calvin lifted an eyebrow. The last thing he’d expected from steady-as-she-goes Kate Powell was blank-eyed panic. “I did so to get him off my back, and in examining his copy, I found several small errors. I thought it best to look further and pulled out our file copy of his latest return.”

She couldn’t feel anything. Even her fingertips had gone numb. “You think I stole seventy-five thousand dollars from my clients. From this firm.”

“Kate, if you could just explain how you think this might have happened,” Marty began. “We’re all here to listen.”

No, her father had stolen from clients. Her father. Not her. “How could you think it?” Her voice shook, shamed her.

“We haven’t come to any firm conclusion,” Amanda countered. “The facts, the numbers, however, are here, in black and white.”

Black and white, she thought as the print blurred, as it overlapped with visions of newspaper articles from twenty years past. “No, I—” She had to lift a hand, rub her eyes to clear them. “It’s not. I didn’t.”

Amanda tapped one scarlet nail on the tabletop. She’d expected outrage, had counted on the outrage of the innocent. Instead, what she saw was the trembling of the guilty.

“If Marty hadn’t gone to bat for you, if he hadn’t insisted we search for some rational explanation, even incompetence on your part, we would have had this meeting days ago.”

“Amanda,” Bittle said quietly, but she shook her head.

“Larry, this is embezzlement, and over and above the legal ramifications, client trust and confidence have to be considered. We need to clear this matter up quickly.”

“I’ve never taken a penny, not a penny from any client.” Though terrified that her legs would buckle, Kate shot to her feet. She would not be sick, she told herself, though her
stomach was heaving into her throat. “I couldn’t.” It seemed to be all she could say. “I couldn’t.”

Lawrence frowned at his hands. “Ms. Powell, money is easily hidden, laundered, spent. You’ve assisted a number of clients in investments, accounts in the Caymans, in Switzerland.”

Investments. Bad investments. She pressed a hand to her throbbing temple. No, that had been her father. “That’s my job. I do my job.”

“You recently opened a business,” Calvin pointed out.

“I’m a one-third partner in a secondhand boutique.” Grief and fear and nausea swirled inside her, made her hands shake. She had to be coherent, she ordered herself. Shaking and weeping only made her look guilty. “It took almost all my savings to do it.”

She drew in a breath that burned, stared straight into Bittle’s eyes. “Mr. Bittle—” But her voice broke, and she had to begin again. “Mr. Bittle, I’ve worked for you for five years. You hired me a week out of graduate school. I’ve never given this firm anything but my complete loyalty and dedication, and I’ve never given a client anything but my best. I’m not a thief.”

“I find it difficult to believe you are, Kate. I’ve known you since you were a child and always considered my decision to hire you one of my best judgment calls. I know your family.”

He paused, waiting for her to rebound, to express her fury at being used. To demand to assist the firm in finding the answers. When she did nothing but stare blindly, he had no choice.

“However,” he said slowly, “this matter can’t be ignored. We’ll continue to investigate, internally for now. It may become necessary to go outside the firm with this.”

“To the police.” The thought of it dissolved her legs so that she had to brace herself with a hand on the table. Her vision grayed and wavered. “You’re going to the police.”

“If it becomes necessary,” Bittle told her. “We hope to resolve the matter quietly. Bittle and Associates is responsible,
at this point, for adjusting the escrow accounts.” Bittle studied the woman standing at the end of the table, shook his head. “The partners have agreed that it is in the firm’s best interest for you to take a leave of absence until this is cleared up.”

“You’re suspending me because you think I’m a thief.”

“Kate, we need to look into this carefully. And we have to do whatever is in the best interest of our clients.”

“A suspected embezzler can’t handle accounts.” The tears were going to come, but not yet. She could hold them back just a little longer. “You’re firing me.”

“A leave of absence,” Bittle repeated.

“It’s the same thing.” Accusations, disgrace. “You don’t believe me. You think I’ve stolen from my own clients and you want me out of the office.”

He saw no other choice. “At this time, yes. Any personal items in your office will be sent to you. I’m sorry, Kate. Marty will escort you out of the building.”

She let out a shuddering breath. “I haven’t done anything but my best.” Picking up her briefcase, she turned stiffly and walked to the door.

“I’m sorry. Christ, Kate.” With his lumbering stride, Marty caught up with her. “What a mess, what a disaster.” He started huffing when she took the stairs down to the main level. “I couldn’t turn them around.”

She stopped, ignoring the pain in her stomach, the throbbing in her head. “Do you believe me? Marty, do you believe me?”

She saw the flicker of doubt in his earnest, myopic eyes before he answered. “I know there’s an explanation.” He touched her gently on the shoulder.

“It’s all right.” She made herself push through the glass doors on the lobby level, walk outside.

“Kate, if there’s anything I can do for you, any way I can help . . .” He trailed off lamely, standing by the door as she all but ran to her car.

“Nothing,” she said to herself. “There’s just nothing.”

* * *

At the last minute she stopped herself from running to Templeton House. To Laura, to Annie, to anyone who would fold her in comforting arms and take her side. She swung her car to the side of the road rather than up the steep, winding drive. She got out and walked to the cliffs.

She could stand alone, she promised herself. She had had shocks, survived tragedies before. She’d lost her parents, and there was nothing more devastating than that.

There had been boys she’d dreamed over in high school who had never dreamed back. She’d gotten over it. Her first lover, in college, had grown bored with her, broken her heart and moved on. She hadn’t crumbled.