A Good Kind of Trouble (A Trouble in Twin Rivers Novel Book 1) (9 page)

Lindsey rested her head against the couch, her mind racing. This was not what she was expecting, but it made sense that her anonymous source was someone who understood the financial jujitsu going on in these contracts would want the public to understand what it was getting into.
 

"So EFB gets paid at every turn?" Lindsey asked. "When the bonds get issued, and again every time there's a rate swap?"

"Yes," Ben said. "EFB gets a percentage of the bond package, so it's a pretty penny. Plus fees for just about everything you can imagine."
 

Lindsey took a long drink of beer. The percentage could be even higher considering ValCorp's record of cost overruns. Her instincts had been right—she was on to a good story here.
 

"So, why don't you tell me about how you ended up with these contracts," Ben said.
 

She explained her involvement with the arena story to Ben. Her troubles had started when she was assigned to cover the stadium issue. The city wanted a major league sports team—any sport, any team, and at any cost. The staggering sum to build the downtown sports complex would be paid off over many years through bonds.
 

Lindsey had joined a handful of the other local media outlets—a couple radio stations, four or five television reporters, and one other print reporter for the local alternative weekly—at the press conference announcing the arena plan. The story was huge. A multi-year construction project would put a lot of people to work downtown, and at the end, the council members promised the stadium would elevate Twin Rivers to a first-class city.
 

Lindsey couldn't find a critic of the project for her first article. Business owners who would be affected by the construction griped a little about traffic and inconvenience, but in the end, they'd rather have a pro sports team nearby than an empty rail yard and some abandoned warehouses.
 

But shortly after her first story, she received an anonymous letter advising her to check out certain contracts and internal reports. The letter gave her specific instructions on what to request from the city, and she followed the directions. What she got in return was pages and pages full of fine print, incomprehensible legal jargon in 8-point font.
 

"When was that?" Ben asked.
 

"About seven or eight months ago," Lindsey said. "I told Sam that I didn't have a clue what any of this meant and I needed help on the story. I needed someone with finance experience, maybe someone from the business desk."

"Did you get that?"

Lindsey grimaced at the memory. "No, not exactly."

Sam had assigned Jeff Edwards, a sports writer who was not quite as intelligent as her dog, to help her on the stadium story.
 

"Nice enough guy, and he does have an encyclopedic knowledge of all things sports-related. But he didn't know the first thing about how the city planned to pay for the stadium and he really wasn't interested in learning."
 

She had returned to Sam and told him she needed legal expertise to understand the documents. Sam raged a little, then gave up and told Lindsey to take it to Lara Petrie for help understanding the legal jargon.
 

"How much help was she?" Ben asked.
 

Lindsey rolled her eyes. "She wasn't interested in sifting through paperwork unrelated to her job."
 

Lindsey had gone back to Sam, who at that point had begun dodging her visits. He finally agreed to let her bring in a legal consultant to assist on the project. But that approval meant nothing if she couldn't find anyone who actually worked with public bond financing who was willing to help her.
 

"Then, last week, I tracked down a visiting law professor who had experience with this area of law and he agreed to look at a sample of the paperwork to see if it was something he could help me decipher," Lindsey explained. "By now, the box of paper has grown to two boxes because I keep getting copies of contracts in the mail from an anonymous person, or letters that direct me to request new documents."
 

Ben picked up another of the contracts. "Who is sending them?"

Lindsey shook her head. "I wish I knew."
 

Another letter had shown up a few weeks earlier, telling her to request additional contracts, and she had dutifully fired off a public records request letter to the city.
 

"The city's deadline to give me those copies was today. I was going to pick them up and bring them to the professor during his office hours today.”
 

Instead, she had ended up in a holding cell, dependent on the man she had once pepper-sprayed to get her out of jail.
 

The cell phone in her bag rang, startling her out of her thoughts. She retrieved the phone and she saw Kath’s number on the screen.
 

"Lins, are you okay?" Kath asked when Lindsey answered. "You didn't tell us that things were so bad. You never mentioned a stalker."
 

Ben stood and left the room, giving Lindsey some privacy. She heard the bedroom door shut softly behind him. Lindsey shut her eyes. She should have told Kath about the string of mishaps, but it would have triggered her friend’s protective instincts and she would have insisted that Lindsey move into her house to keep her safe.
 

"I'm sorry, Kath," she said. "I didn't want to worry you guys."
 

Kathleen sighed. "I'm glad you're staying at Ben's tonight. Dave told me you were being chased through the park. Who is this guy? Does the newspaper know you're being harassed like this?"
 

Lindsey assured her friend that the newspaper was aware, and that she was being careful. But it felt like a lie. The newspaper didn't care or didn't believe her. And she didn't know how to guard against harassment from an unknown source. She promised to call Kathleen in the morning and thanked her friend for taking care of Steve. After placing the phone back in her bag, she picked up the last contract Ben had explained and reread it, keeping his explanation in mind.
 

“Still Greek to me,” she muttered.
 

But it wasn’t quite as indecipherable anymore. She could see through some of the densely worded jargon now and she had a vague sense of what the clauses were attempting to accomplish. She breathed a deep sigh of relief. She had been starting to doubt her intellect, but if what Ben said was true, these contracts were designed to keep the truth hidden in plain sight.
 

Ben emerged from the bedroom. He’d changed out of his suit and returned to the living room in jeans and a worn t-shirt with his law school’s name emblazoned in fading letters across his chest. A very nice chest, she noted, trying not to stare.
 

“I’m going to run over to Dave’s and get your overnight bag. I’ll pick up something for dinner on the way back. I won’t be long.” He paused, his brow furrowed as he gave her a long look. “Are you sure you’re comfortable staying alone?”

“I’ll be fine.”
 

She’d been staying alone at home most every night for the last few months, unless she spent the night in Dave and Kathleen’s spare room. She had no idea why he was helping her, but she was grateful that there was someone who saw the things she had started to fear were imaginary.

Chapter Eight

Ben was glad for the mountain of paperwork between he and Lindsey. It was a buffer, a demilitarized zone, where they didn't have to relive their past mistakes. Well, mostly his past mistakes. He had never felt more like a heel for not returning a phone call. Christ, why hadn't he just called and said he accepted her apology, that he knew she hadn't Maced him on purpose. Maybe things would have been different.
 

The dinner tonight—take-out Chinese eaten among stacks of contracts—was more fun than their night out at the fancy Italian restaurant. Lindsey was smart and fun, though a little rattled by the day's events. But who wouldn't be rattled by a crazed stalker who had tracked her down twice in the same day?
 

She grabbed her overnight bag after dinner and went to take a shower. Ben tried to put the contracts in some sort of order. The chronology didn't make sense. The city was promising to refinance in five years, but the more recent revision of the contract would have the city refinance in three years—and at a higher commission. The first contract was the better deal for the city, but the city had revised the terms in the latest version—yet the city didn't gain any advantage with the new conditions.
 

The shower turned off, leaving the apartment silent. Why was he putting himself out for her? They’d certainly gotten off to a bad start on their date, but at the Hogans’ party he’d enjoyed her company. She was smart and fun and, man, he really blew it with her. There wasn't much he could do about that now. All he had to offer was his ability to decipher a long string of legalese.
 

He looked up from the stack of contracts and found Lindsey, freshly showered and wearing a t-shirt and pair of shorts. His gaze was drawn to her legs. They were long and tan, and he tried in vain to seem unaffected by the sight, struggling to draw his eyes north to safer territory. Lindsey was watching him, her head tilted and an inquisitive look on her face.

"I'm sorry, what did you say?" he asked, realizing that he hadn't heard the question she'd asked him.
 

"Is this what you do? Do you write these types of contracts?" She sat next to him and picked up the contract he'd just put down. He could smell the clean scent of soap and a hint of vanilla from her lotion.
 

"No, not really. When I started at Stanton & Lowe, I was in the transactional department, which meant I drafted or reviewed contracts for corporate clients. We've done some work on municipal projects involving bonds, so I sort of speak the language."
 

"So what do you do now? If you're not in the transactional department."

"I moved to litigation a year ago so I could get more time in court," he said.
 

It had been a move born out of desperation. He so hated the work he did at Stanton & Lowe, he would have taken any lateral move just to get out of his department. The partners he worked with were assholes, and because that was considered a prized personality trait in the firm, they were richly rewarded for their antisocial behavior. But they weren't just assholes to the opposing counsel, they also yelled at their staff, their co-workers, and pretty much anyone who wasn't on the receiving end of a monthly billing statement. It was a toxic environment, but Ben was close to making partner. Once he did, he'd be able to pay off the rest of his student loans in a few years and then reassess his career options.
 

"Do you still hate your job?" Lindsey asked, her voice sweet and sincere.
 

"What?" Ben asked, startled by the question. "I mean, yes. But how did you know I hate my job?"

"You mentioned it on our date," she said.
 

"I did?" He didn't have any recollection of complaining about Stanton & Lowe at dinner with her, but remembered that the date had come during a particularly stressful time at the firm. He’d also been distracted by Lindsey’s looks and disturbed by the fact that she was paying more attention to the two men at the table behind her than to him.
 

"Yes, you mentioned it a few times."
 

From the way she said it, he gathered that he hadn't only "mentioned" how he felt about work, but had probably gone on at length about it.
 

"Christ, that must have been terrible," Ben said. "No wonder you were eavesdropping on other tables."

"It was the mayor..." Lindsey said, defensive.

"I know, I know," he said, holding up a hand. He didn't want to fight over this again. "Well, in the last six months, I haven't learned to like my job any better."
 

"But you spend so much time at work, so much of your life, you should be doing something you like."
 

"Thanks, Pollyanna, but I have crushing student loans that I cannot discharge in bankruptcy. Basically, the only way to get out of paying off my law school debt is to die."
 

Unlike most of the jerks at Stanton & Lowe, Ben's parents hadn't footed the bill for his college degree or the three years of law school. A baseball scholarship had paid for most of his undergraduate degree, but law school was all on him. He’d worked as much as he could while he’d been in school, but still had to take out over a hundred grand in loans.
 

"So, what exactly do you do? I mean, you clearly know your way around a public bond contract."
 

It was true. He knew his way around a sneaky, high-priced deal designed to benefit a mega-bank while bankrupting a mid-sized city. That was not exactly something to be proud of.
 

"Yeah, I’ve done enough corporate work that I can cut through the bullshit in these documents," Ben said.

"You didn't represent EFB, did you?"
 

"No, not that bank. The firm has represented a couple financial institutions, but nothing this large. Banks like EFB would pick a bigger and more prestigious law firm to do their legal work."
 

She nodded and leaned back on the couch, a contract in her hand. She was so intent on understanding the bond deal that he smiled.
 

“You know, you’re going to be the only person to have actually read these, other than the few people who drafted them.”
 

“That’s my job,” she said with a sigh.
 

For how long? If Dave was correct, the newspaper was about to fire her. He felt a pang of guilt about withholding that information from her.

“Why did you become a reporter?” he asked.
 

She picked up a pen and underlined a clause, then answered him without looking up from the paperwork. “My parents are journalists. My dad’s an editor. My mom was a correspondent. She teaches at USC now.”