Stealing the Moon & Stars Page 11

  About an hour later, Eddie strolled into Jordan’s office looking pleased. He sat in front of her desk, crossed his ankle over his knee and pretended to be occupied by an invisible piece of lint on his sleeve.

  “Tell me what happened. You lose him?”

  “Yeah, right, like that could happen. You forget who you’re talking to? I followed the guy all over town.”

  “Really?”

  “You’ll never guess where this bozo went.”

  “Don’t keep me waiting on pins and needles, you sadist. Just tell me.”

  “He ended up at Cloverton Insurance, downtown off Thomas. Cloverton—sound familiar? When he went inside, I took the opportunity to retrieve the little item I placed earlier.” He tossed the tiny GPS tracker in the air, snatched it back on its descent then pitched it to her. “I also had a look in his glove box. The Dodge Ram is registered to one Ray Tanner.”

  “Tanner’s name keeps popping up,” she said.

  Eddie looked at her, his eyebrows raised in an unspoken question.

  She grinned.

  “Well, then,” he stood, bowed and extended his hand, “after you, boss lady.”

  Eddie held the office door for Jordan. They walked out to his Ford Ranger, his lively step a testimony to the great time he was having. Nothing like a man smack in the center of his zone. “So, muffin, you can be like da brains, and you want I should be like da muscle?” Eddie flexed his bicep, which popped up like a basketball. The already tight sleeve of his black T-shirt tightened even more around it. His voice sounded very New York mob.

  “Why, Mr. Soprano, what a wonderful idea.” Jordan batted her eyes and laid her hand on his arm. “And don’t call me muffin, stud biscuit.”

  Eddie navigated to an area just south and east of eclectic Old Town Scottsdale, where the neighborhoods were a mixed bag of apartments, office buildings and light industrial businesses.

  “We’ll pull over here,” Eddie said. “It’s the white stucco shoebox half a block down on the left.”

  Jordan lifted her field glasses. “I see it.”

  The freestanding sign by the entrance read “Cloverton Insurance.” The Dodge Ram was parked outside. A black Cadillac Escalade pulled up by the curb and stopped. Two men got out and went inside. One of them leaned on a cane.

  “Speak of the devil and up he pops.” Her adrenaline began to churn. “Ray Tanner. Who’s the other guy?”

  Eddie shrugged. “Can’t say I ever saw him before. If he works for Vercelli, he’s a latecomer.”

  Jordan grasped the door handle. “Let’s do this.”

  “You got it, boss lady.” Eddie drove on down the street and pulled into the parking area to the side of the Cloverton building.

  Jordan was revved up, motivated, and her momentum carried her down the sidewalk, into the building and straight up to the wide-eyed young receptionist whose attention was riveted to an office behind the front desk.

  The lettering on the two office doors toward the back said “Owen Shetland” and “Ray Tanner.” Tanner’s office door was ajar, and the two men stood just inside. Ray Tanner of the red monster truck and gold-handled cane was being thoroughly chewed out by the second man, who finally stopped yelling.

  Neither man seemed to notice Jordan and Eddie.

  “Owen,” it was Ray Tanner’s turn to speak, “I mean, Mr. Shetland, I promise it won’t happen again.”

  “It better damn well not happen again, you dumb shit.”

  Owen Shetland—not particularly big but not particularly small—swept one leg at the cane, almost knocking it out from under Tanner, who was slighter and loose-limbed, built like Gumby. Tanner stumbled but didn’t go down.

  Shetland stomped out past Jordan and Eddie without even looking at them, cursing viciously under his breath. The air in his wake was heavy with cologne, a noxious cocktail of sandalwood and spice—as if he’d mixed too many samples at the men’s cosmetics counter.

  After he left, Jordan walked past the reception desk into the back office.

  Ray, who leaned on his cane and stared out the window, looked really pissed off. Tension radiated off him as he crumpled an empty Diet Coke can.

  “Ray, old buddy.” Jordan channeled one of those tough-as-nails PIs, like Mike Hammer or Spenser. How come there weren’t any tough-as-nails female PIs except V.I. Warshawski, who was too tough for even Jordan to aspire to? “How’s it going today?”

  He turned. Instant recognition dawned on his face and something else—utter surprise. Ray collapsed into the chair behind him and just stared at her, dumbfounded. When he finally spoke, his voice shook. “Well, well, well. What do you want?”

  The ploy didn’t work. His composure was obviously an act—a poor one. Whether it was the tongue-lashing he’d just suffered or their sudden appearance, or both, he was upset and it showed. He ran his hand through his dark, slicked-back hair and along his acne-scarred jaw.

  “Is everything all right, Mr. Tanner?” The anxious receptionist hovered outside the door.

  “Yeah, it’s okay, Buffy.”

  “Anything you want me to do? Anyone you want me to call?” She was obviously nervous.

  Eddie’s smile didn’t make him any less intimidating. “No, Buffy,” Eddie said, “don’t do anything. Don’t call anyone. We’re cool. We won’t be here very long. We’re just going to talk to your boss for a few minutes.”

  “Mr. Tanner?” The girl still sounded skeptical.

  Ray nodded tersely.

  “Okay, but if you want me to ….”

  He flicked his hand. “Go.”

  Jordan leaned across the desk and looked Ray square in the eye. “Is someone paying you to follow me, Ray, or do you just have a crush on me?”

  Ray smirked but didn’t utter a word. His eyes cut over to Eddie.

  Jordan straightened away from the desk and crossed her arms. “Tell me, Ray, which is it? Love or money?”

  “Follow you?” He shrugged, stalling, probably trying to fabricate a believable lie. “You’re hot and all, sugar, but I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Oh, give it up. I saw you. It’s pretty hard to miss a humongous tomato-red truck behind you making every move you do. Did you really think I took the most efficient route back to my office? To top it off, Ray old boy, my associate tailed you here, and you obviously didn’t see him once. Embarrassing, isn’t it?”

  “Piss off, bitch.”

  Eddie growled. It was feral.

  Okay, so maybe Ray wasn’t the brightest bulb in the marquee.

  Eddie moved in on Ray like a storm front, so in his face, he could have reported on Tanner’s dental hygiene. “Didn’t your mother ever tell you it isn’t polite to talk to a lady that way?”

  Ray raised his hands to protect his face from Eddie’s fists.

  “Ray, tell the lady what she wants to know.”

  Eddie grabbed Ray by the shirt and twisted it tight.

  Ray choked out his words, his face red. “You don’t know who you’re dealing with.”

  “Really? Enlighten us. Why were you following her?”

  Ray grabbed his cane and swung wide but missed Eddie. The heavy dragon’s head almost clipped Jordan in the chin.

  Eddie pushed in fast, right behind the swing of the cane. He twisted it from Ray’s grip then used it to pin him in the chair.

  Eddie shook his head. “What a pitiful display, Ray. I expected more from you.”

  “Okay. Okay.” Ray sagged in his chair. “I was following orders.”

  Eddie bore down on the cane, crushing it against Ray’s chest.

  “All right, ease up, will you? Shetland. Orders came from my boss, Owen Shetland. Your girl’s been sticking her nose where it doesn’t belong. He doesn’t like it.”

  Your girl? What the hell! “Too bad if he doesn’t like it, Ray,” she said, “because we’re not backing down. You tell that to your Mr. Shetland. He can give me a call if he wants to talk.” She threw her card at him. “Don’t let me see you in
my rearview mirror again.”

  Outside, in the bright sunshine, Jordan let out a long breath. “Paula at Absolute Management said Tanner handled the lease agreement for Lenncore Systems. So his boss Owen Shetland must be involved.” She climbed into the Ford Ranger.

  Eddie stood by the open truck door. He seemed troubled. “Tanner as much as said it. I don’t know Shetland, but as far as I’m concerned, he’s small potatoes. Cloverton is a piece of Anthony Vercelli’s empire, which means Vercelli’s behind it somehow. He’s the one we’ll have to deal with sooner or later. May as well suck it up and make it sooner.” The words seemed hard for him to say. “I’ll set up a meeting.” The resignation in his voice told her that meeting would be both inevitable and distasteful.

  She glanced at him. “You can set up a meeting with Anthony Vercelli?”

  “Yes. I can.”

  “You never cease to amaze me. That would be great.”

  “No, sweetheart, not so great. Not so great at all.”

  CHAPTER 21

  It was the second Saturday morning in October, the perfect time and place to recuperate, revitalize, and recharge in the high Sonoran Desert. Calm. Quiet. Solitude. Jordan sighed in contentment and squinted into the bright morning sun as a gray hawk glided under a sky so clear and blue it was near heartbreaking.

  Still wearing her sleep shirt, she carried a tray with an iced latte, one of Hannah’s chocolate chip scones, and a bowl of fruit to the back patio. Easing into a lounge chair, she was struck once again by the awesome beauty of the McDowell Mountains and the rise and fall of their rocky slopes, dusty green from the lush sagebrush, creosote, and saguaro. Her property backed up to the McDowell Sonoran Preserve. The view—unobstructed and breathtaking—was the reason she’d purchased the home.

  Sadie, the resident Olympian, padded back and forth at the edge of the pool, contemplating a little dip.

  “No, Sadie. No swimming. Come.”

  She trotted to Jordan’s side and put her sweet head on Jordan’s thigh. A good ear rub later, she curled up on the ground beside the chaise.

  Jordan fed Sadie a morsel of melon while she sipped her latte and finished her scone.

  Hannah slid open the arcadia door. “Jordan?”

  “Yes?”

  “Kate just called. She’s on her way.”

  It was the day of Father Morgan Catholic Crisis Center’s Annual Fall Festival. Kate, Jordan’s older sister by two years, worked as a guidance counselor at the crisis center. This year Kate’s boss, Sister Mary Catherine, had roped her into running the fundraiser.

  In turn, Kate had nominated Jordan not only to donate a half dozen of her original southwest landscapes, but also work a booth to sell them.

  So much for calm, quiet, and solitude. The rest of the day was sure to be chaotic, loud, and filled with teeming masses.

  “So it begins.” Jordan mentally geared up for a full day. “How do I let her talk me into these things?” She stretched, rose to her feet, and went inside.

  Hannah was at the sink washing greens. She took Wednesday morning off during the week and insisted on coming Saturday to make it up. Jordan didn’t care when Hannah worked. Everything that needed to be done always was. Hannah took care of it all. If she missed a day for a personal matter, she always made it up. Wednesday off meant Saturday on.

  “What are you making?” Jordan asked.

  “Spinach salad, raspberry vinaigrette dressing. It’s Kate’s favorite—lots of berries, diced chicken, just the way she likes it.”

  “You better be careful, woman,” Jordan teased. “You keep this up, she’ll sneak in here some day, kidnap you and take you to her place.”

  Kate didn’t have a “Hannah” but pretended to covet her in the worst way. It was a running joke between the three of them, because they all knew Kate would never want or need anyone to keep her organized and functional. Kate Welsh was a cloned hybrid of Martha Stewart and Mother Teresa.

  Jordan managed to slip on a pair of black skinny jeans, a silvery tunic-length belted T-shirt and her outrageous silver and black Ed Hardy sneakers just before Sadie’s excited barking announced her sister’s arrival.

  After the Welsh women sat down with Hannah to catch up on all the latest news, drink a few glasses of iced tea, and devour the salad and almost an entire loaf of warm sourdough bread, Jordan and Kate loaded the six chosen paintings into Jordan’s Cherokee to make the long drive down to central Phoenix and the outdoor event.

  Kate gave Jordan a peck on the cheek. “You’re such a doll for doing this, but then you always come through when the crisis center needs you.”

  Jordan shrugged. “I’m a sucker for a good cause.”

  “Yes, you are,” Kate climbed in and shut the truck door, “and I appreciate it.

  “There are still good seats left for Phantom of the Opera next month at Gammage. Do you want to go?”

  “Let’s get tickets. If you hadn’t moved out here, I wouldn’t have anyone to go to the theater with. I’m so glad you did.”

  Jordan nodded. “I’m glad too.”

  Kate changed the Sirius channel from smooth jazz to country western.

  Jordan changed it back, an ongoing ritual with the Welsh sisters.

  Kate punched her sister in the shoulder. “Hey! Did you bring sunscreen, freckles?”

  “Yes. I brought sunscreen, pygmy. You know, your job is to be my sister, not my mother. I already have one of those.”

  “One like ours is plenty,” they said at the same time then laughed together.

  Things were still in the setup stages when the Wicked Welsh Girls, as they were dubbed in high school, arrived at the Father Morgan gaming field, which was in the process of being transformed into the scene of the fall festival.

  There were food stands and game-of-skill booths for the adults, inflatable bounce houses and face painting for the kids. Artisans and crafty folk set up stalls to display their jewelry, weavings, paintings, and sculpture.

  The festival was always well attended and raised a good amount of money for a myriad of worthy causes.

  “Jordie, you’re over there. Right in the middle.” Kate pointed toward a booth. “Why don’t you set it up the way you want? I’ll roust somebody with muscles to get the paintings out of the car.”

  “Will I do, ladies?” A pleasant male voice came from behind them.

  There stood Kate’s climbing buddy, Dave Clark, just as open, friendly, and smiling as Jordan remembered him from the interview at the bank in Mesa.

  “Hello, Dave,” Jordan said.

  “Hello, Jordan.” He took her hand in both his as he turned to Kate. “Katie.”

  Kate said nothing as she tucked a few flyaway strands of golden-brown hair behind her ear.

  “Close your mouth, Katie, and say hello to this nice man.”

  “Well, Dave. Hello, hello,” Kate stammered and blushed. “I didn’t expect … know you were …. What are you doing here?”

  “Jordan asked me to come and help out today. It’s for such a good cause, how could I say anything but yes?”

  “Jordan, eh? My sister’s just full of surprises. Isn’t she?” Kate gave Jordan an incredulous glance. “I wasn’t aware you two even knew each other.”

  “Sure. Dave’s been helping me with a case.”

  “Really?” Kate seemed impressed.

  The interaction between them was charming. Not sparks or ramparts bursting in air, more like the delicious pleasure of a warm chocolate chip cookie and a glass of ice-cold milk. It was definitely the stuff long-term relationships were built on.

  Jordan sauntered off to her booth, humming, while Kate and Dave headed for the Jeep to unload the paintings. She was feeling good. Awesome in fact. Very Hello, Dolly.

  “It’s Pinnacle Peak,” Jordan explained to the little man admiring her painting. “East view, early morning, sweet light.”

  “It’s very nice.” He nodded his balding head. “You have a good eye for color, young lady, and a nice, light touch with the
brush.”

  He handed her seven fifties and carried off the twenty-four by thirty-six acrylic she’d painted last spring. It was likely he’d give her art a good home. After all, they said the act of creation was similar to giving birth. So wouldn’t her paintings be like her children?

  It was just after two; his purchase was her third sale and brought her take for the day to more than a thousand dollars.

  Kate had been running her legs off all morning and was still going. At the beck and call of anyone who needed her. Dave Clark stayed right on her heels.

  Jordan looked around just as they walked up together. Kate handed Jordan a tall paper cup.

  “I remembered. Double ice.”

  Jordan took a good, long swig of the cold soda.

  “I certainly hope it’s diet,” came an all-too-familiar voice.

  Jordan and Kate exchanged a pained look, pasted on smiles, and turned around.

  “Mother,” sighed Jordan.

  “Mama,” said Kate, adding her own sigh.

  Mary wasn’t likely to notice. Neither Jordan nor Kate wanted their mother to think they didn’t love her or weren’t glad to see her, even if the glad part was occasionally borderline.

  “Hello, sweet darlings.” Mary Welsh swept in with all the calculating magnificence of the Borg Queen. Hugs and air kisses followed, then the mildly disapproving looks the sisters fully expected, followed by the poke between the shoulder blades. “Stand up straight, Jordan.”

  Jordan figured she was looking at an older version of herself. Mary was a zealous proselytizer for plastic surgery, and all the work she’d had done was primo. She looked more like Jordan’s older sister than Kate did. Same heart-shaped face, gold-flecked hazel eyes and copper hair. The difference between Jordan’s auburn hair and her mother’s was, Mary’s hair was perfectly color-matched and the gray eradicated by an ace cosmetologist in a top salon in either Chicago or Scottsdale on a monthly basis.

  Katie’s physique was similar to Mary’s. Shorter than Jordan at five-six and boyishly slim, she looked like her dad—pleasant, even features, eyes like blue ice, and a brilliant smile.