In a Heartbeat (12 page)

“Angela, wait.” Darn the man was fast. He managed to block her exit before she could get to the door. He stood close, too close. His familiar scent, mixed with the lingering fresh smell of a recent shave, drifted to her nose. The metal keys dug into her clenched hand.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to embarrass you. I didn’t know.”

The building was beginning to come to life. File doors opened and closed, raised voices called in greeting, shoes shuffled on the carpet.

“I’ve got to go,” she whispered.

“Wait, one minute.” He continued to block the door. She mentally configured the quickest route to the nearest restroom. Somewhere to go where she could splash water on her burning eyes. “I had a long talk with Elizabeth last night. I explained that there was nothing going on between us. She’s leaving this morning for New York.”

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She glanced up at him sharply. “Your dates are none of my business, Mr. Renard.”

He frowned at the use of “mister”. “She was rude to you yesterday. I thought you’d want to know she was gone.”

“For all the apologizing you’ve been doing, I’m not sure which of us should be more relieved.” The words slipped out before her common sense could stop them. “I’m sorry.” Heat infused her face again. “I’m not normally that rude.”

“Must be the effect I have on you.” He smiled but stepped aside, giving her free access to the door.

“If you’ll excuse me, I need to speak with Max before he gets started.”

She almost collided with Tom Wilson as she stepped into the hallway.

“Excuse me,” she mumbled as they passed, hoping he didn’t notice her high color.

From behind, she heard Hank. “Come on in, Tom. I wanted to talk to you about these accounts payable turn ratios.”

Turn ratios? Angie turned quickly, but just caught a glance of the closing office door. Hank wanted to talk about Accounts Payable? Had he noticed the same inconsistencies she had? The little irritation in the back of her skull grew to a suspicious shadow. She walked over to Hank’s secretary’s desk. Max’s flirtatious nature had encouraged frequent visits to the conference room by women delivering documents, coffee, baked goods, etc. Consequently, Angie was on a first name basis with all the female support staff.

“Cathy, can you do me a favor?”

“Sure, Angie, what’s up?”

“Can you call Pete Burroughs in Purchasing and tell him I’m running about five minutes late? I want to ask Max to do a little research project for me while I’m meeting with Pete.”

“I’ll call Pete for you, but Max isn’t in the conference room.”

“He’s not?”

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“He mentioned you guys were wrapping up today, so the girls in Accounts Receivable baked a cake for him, kind of a farewell party.”

“Don’t they know we’ll be back in a couple of months for year end?”

Cathy shrugged. “Well, if you could deliver this message to Max for me.”

Angie scribbled a quick note on her legal pad, ripped it on the perforated edge and folded it up in a tidy square. “I’ll just go ahead and meet Pete as scheduled.”

Pete Burroughs, the Purchasing Manager, fidgeted behind his metal desk. He stood to shake her hand when she entered then stepped behind her to close the office door. Although Pete was one of the few in the department with an office, it was a modular office, little more than a cubicle with a door. Privacy was more imagined than real. She glanced at the collection of framed family photos angled on the credenza behind his desk. A child’s joyful smile stirred a memory.

“How’s your daughter doing?”

“Some days are better than others.” He picked up the photograph.

“The latest round of chemotherapy seems to be doing some good. We’re hoping this will put the leukemia in remission.”

“I’m so sorry for your family. This must be very difficult.”

“It’s always difficult when one of your children is ill. But that’s—” He waved away any further questions. “Thank you for asking.” He took his seat. “I thought we covered everything rather thoroughly last week when you and Mr. Renard came through. Was there something that we missed?”

“Direct ships.”

“Direct ships?” He looked startled. A thin man, with deep-set eyes magnified by the thick black-rimmed glasses perched high on his nose, he looked like a surprised Chihuahua. His agitated condition made Angie uncomfortable. She glanced quickly at her notes.

“I understand you frequently request that goods be shipped to an outside location— “

Pete interrupted, “I wouldn’t say frequently…”

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Donna Richards

“Well, then let’s say, sometimes shipped.” Angie countered.

He shrugged. “Sometimes our customers don’t want to pick up their merchandise at the warehouse, so we ship it to where they tell us.”

“Why not ship it directly to the customer?” She asked. “Why an outside warehouse?”

“I guess you’d have to ask the customer. I just do what I’m told.” His lips thinned to a tight straight line. Obviously, this line of questioning wasn’t going to get her anywhere.

“Okay.” She changed tactics. “What can you tell me about Timone Industries?”

He shifted a bit in his chair, scratched his chin a few times. “They’re a local company, I believe. We’ve done business with them for a couple of years now. What else do you want to know?”

“What do you buy from them?”

“I’d have to check that out.” He wrote out TIMONE on a piece of paper. “With three hundred vendors, I can’t remember them all. I’ll get back to you with that information. Anything else?”

“Do you have a report that shows all the purchase orders issued with direct ship instructions?”

“Nope. That sounds like something you’d have to take up with Data Processing. Tom Wilson would have to ask for it.”

Based on her earlier meetings with Tom, she doubted he’d request anything special for her. “Do you have a report that shows how much money you’ve spent with Timone?”

“I have a report like that for rebate vendors, those vendors that refund some of our money based on purchasing volumes, but Timone doesn’t give rebates. You’d have to ask Data Processing, that’s another—”

“Yes, I know. Tom would have to ask for it.” She sighed, maybe a bit too audibly. This meeting was rapidly becoming a waste of time. “How about a phone number for Timone. Do you at least have that?”

“Now, Angie. I don’t want you to be calling our vendors. They might panic and think we’re in some sort of financial difficulty. I’ll call and ask 90

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In a Heartbeat

whatever you want, but I don’t want any auditors calling them.

Understand?”

Angie paused, disappointed at Pete’s refusal to surrender any information, even a telephone number. “All right, Pete.” She stood and walked out of the cubicle, but turned once she stepped outside his office.

“We’re planning to finish up today, so if you could get me that information today, I’d really appre—”

“I’ll see what I can do.” He closed the flimsy door and the whole partition that made up his office wall shook.

She walked back to the conference room in a quandary. She had nothing tangible to base any suspicions on, and if she was to bring this job in on budget, she couldn’t afford to spend another day investigating a mere suspicion.

She found Max hunched over his laptop computer. “Hi, Angie. Got your note.”

“Did you find anything?”

Max frowned. “You’d think nowadays, everyone would have a web presence, but I can’t find anything on Timone Industries.”

“Well, maybe they have a phone number.” She checked the inside of a wooden cabinet and recovered the metropolitan phone book. Flipping through the business pages, she ran her finger down the newsprint. “It’s not here.”

“What?”

“Timone Industries. You’d expect any legitimate business to have a phone number in their local phone directory.”

“So you think Timone isn’t legitimate?”

“I’m not sure, but this whole direct ship thing just doesn’t feel right. I don’t want to accuse anyone of wrongdoing without some solid evidence, though.”

“Wrongdoing?” He perked up in his seat. “That sounds serious. What are we going to do?”

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Donna Richards

Angie looked at Max, and noticed a little bit of chocolate frosting clinging to the corner of his mouth. “You’ve got a little bit of something…”

She fingered the corner of her mouth.

“Oh, thanks.” He wiped the sugar away. “Someone made a cake in our honor. I brought you back a piece.” He pointed to a plump square of chocolate cake on a colorful napkin.

“
Our
honor?” she teased. “I guess it’s just coincidence that it’s your favorite, chocolate on chocolate.” She used the plastic fork next to the napkin to cut out a piece. The rich taste seemed sweeter after the morning’s disappointments. “Umm, this is good.”

Max just grinned. “There’s plenty more. I’m sure if you swung by Accounts Receivable, the girls would cut you another piece.”

Inspiration struck. She pushed the paper napkin with the unfinished cake aside.

“Max, I have a mission for you. I want to know how much has been spent with Timone Industries for this year and last, if possible, but I don’t want you to talk to Tom Wilson or Pete Burroughs.”

“And how—?”

“Accounts Payable must keep track of how much money they pay to each of their vendors so they can issue tax forms at the end of the year.

Can you talk to the girls there and see if you can get a copy of the report?

If you can’t get the information from Accounts Payable, try Purchasing.

Pete Burroughs says they track the total dollars spent on rebate vendors, but I bet they do it on all their vendors, maybe they just don’t print it on a report. Anyway, see what you can find out from the girls.”

Max gave her a mock salute. “No problem.”

“Just don’t let Wilson or Burroughs catch you snooping around.”

That caught him up short. His irrepressible smile lifted at one corner and his eyes narrowed slightly.

“Are you on to something?”

“I don’t know, but steer clear of them for now.”

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“The name is Bond…Maxwell Bond,” he said in his best Welsh imitation. He glanced at his watch. “I’ll be back in about an hour, Miss Moneypenny.”

“Max.” He hesitated at the door. She wasn’t sure why she felt the need to caution him but the words just slipped out. “Be careful.”

* * *

Max still hadn’t returned by eleven-thirty, and Angie’s rumbling stomach reminded her of the consequences of skipping breakfast in favor of keeping Stephen’s kitchen clean. As much as she wanted to move out of her mother’s house, it would feel good to be back on home turf and not feel obligated to follow someone else’s house rules. Besides, with her mother still in Florida, it was almost like having her own place.

The payable clerks probably hijacked Max for lunch, she thought with a smile, knowing Max wouldn’t discourage their attention. Just as well. She needed to retrieve her car, preferably without an audience. She grabbed her handbag with its valuable stash of medications and attempted to negotiate the maze of hallways to the shipping dock.

She found the door that separated the office from the unheated warehouse. A blast of fresh air chilled her the moment she opened it.

Darn. She grimaced. Her coat was still probably draped over the back of a chair in the conference room. She rubbed the outside of her arms briskly. A respiratory infection that might be merely a discomfort to most people could be a potential death sentence to her. Before she drove to lunch, she’d better retrieve her coat.

She spotted her car parked along a back fence in the general area described by Renard. Unlocking the car door, she even welcomed the tiny wisps of dog hair clinging to the upholstered seats. This car represented home as much as any place on earth, and she took a moment to savor it before starting the engine and driving it around to the front of the building.

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She’d just parked and was walking to the front entrance when a scowling Tom Wilson headed directly toward her.

“I heard you’ve been pestering Pete Burroughs about that direct ship nonsense.”

“Excuse me?”

Wilson sneered down at her. “I told you before you’re making a big stink over nothing and I won’t have it. Do you hear me?”

“I just asked Pete for—”

“I know what you asked for, and if you don’t keep your nose out of things that don’t concern you, you’re going to get it.”

A chill tripped down her back, whether from the October wind or Wilson’s threat, she wasn’t sure. She shivered and hugged her arms to her chest.

“Is there a problem here?” Renard’s voice called from the parking lot.

Both of them turned in his direction.
Great, just what I need
, Angela thought. Why did he always show up when her lack of negotiation skills were on full display?

“No, no problem,” she said. “Just a slight disagreement.”
Drive on
, she mentally urged,
just drive on
. Wilson continued to glare, all semblance of a congenial Southern gentleman gone.

“Tom?” Renard asked through his lowered window. “Everything okay?”

“Everything’s fine. We were…talking.” Wilson frowned. Angie struggled to keep her smile glued in place. Obviously, her rendition wasn’t good enough. He had to ask Wilson as well.

“In that case, why don’t the both of you join me for lunch? I’m just going down the street to Timothy’s. Some company would be nice.”

“I can’t.” Tom turned away. “Maybe some other time. I’ve made plans.” Tom stormed away toward his car. Angela watched, wondering why her meeting with Pete Burroughs had generated such a response.

“Angie?”

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She watched Tom for a few moments until he had closed his car door and started the ignition. Half of her wanted to accept Hank’s invitation, the half that remembered the feel of his arms and the sweet warmth of his breath; but the other half, the wise and sane half that knew about Elizabeth and her connection to his position, urged her to turn him down. She took a few steps toward Hank’s car, looking both ways in the parking lot before she lowered her voice. “I don’t think it’s wise.”