“What makes you think they are?”
“Elena donated $1.4 million last September. It’s only March, so too early for this year’s 990 to be submitted, which would show where that money went. But it went somewhere, if one news article is to be believed saying the charity’s about to fold. I need you to find out if they’ve been up to any funny business. Go back over all the 990s and anything else publicly available. You accountants know where all the figures are buried.”
“Yes, of course.”
“I need it COB Tuesday at the latest. Call me as soon as you know something.”
“There may be nothing to know. Peter’s preliminary investigation before Ms. Bartell donated found nothing irregular.”
“And Peter’s been in accounting for how long?”
Silence fell.
“Exactly. No wonder Elena is disappointed in you. So can I count on you, Thomas,” Felicity asked, voice silky, “to help Elena?”
“Of course.” Worry filled his voice at the reminder. “Always.”
“Good.” Felicity hung up without further ado.
* * *
“We’re here, ma’am,” Bartell Corp’s senior driver announced.
Felicity’s gaze flicked from her phone to the uninspiring washed-out two-story redbrick building in front of them. Graffiti tags littered the bottom of it. She sighed. Classy joint.
She glanced back at Amir as she gathered her things. It wouldn’t be long now and he’d be taking up Elena’s offer to relocate to Sydney to drive for her there. Quite the adjustment for him. Was it loyalty, Felicity wondered, or simply an opportunity for better weather that made him accept such an enormous lifestyle change?
Loyalty, probably. Elena had that effect on people.
Felicity found it hard to imagine anyone loyally dedicating themselves to her in the same way they did Elena. But honestly, as long as her staff did their jobs, she didn’t care whether they loved or hated her. She didn’t much think about them at all. It always shocked her that more people didn’t share her supremely logical view of the world.
It was still early, and the gleam of metal caught her eye. A grubby man with unwashed hair was shuffling past, pushing a shopping cart loaded with his possessions. He was the third homeless person she’d seen in as many minutes on the drive over. She pursed her lips. Would it kill someone to fix this situation? It was a failure of the system to have the South Bronx’s streets strewn with tired and miserable unfulfilled people pushing their worldly goods around. Honestly, how hard could it be to solve?
Next to the redbrick building was a vacant park, which seemed an ironic use of the word, since it had no trees or nature of any kind. Only concrete seating areas and a few square tables. What was its function? She frowned. Surely no one would willingly eat their lunch here to admire the view of—she squinted—three pawn shops, a donut establishment, and an eyewear office with a cracked window.
Illegally parked amidst all that concrete sat a white van half facing the street, marked Living Ruff. Well, it made sense they’d have their own vehicle, since outreach to the homeless was part of the charity’s mission statement.
She glanced back at the charity’s headquarters. A line of windows on the top level yielded no sign of life. The large shuttered window at the front below a worn sign that said Living Ruff NY also screamed “shut.”
“It’s supposed to be open by now,” Felicity murmured to Amir, and flicked to her phone. “The website says ‘7:30 a.m. to late. Our doors are open to all.’ Got a funny idea of open.”
“Yes, Ms. Simmons,” Amir said amiably. “Do you wish to wait for them to open?”
The man deserved a gold medal for sedateness. His unruffled personality was as genial as the way he drove. On that note, he’d probably never had a speeding ticket in his life.
Felicity had always thought life should be accomplished at full speed—God only knew if you’d get everything done otherwise. She never walked anywhere. No, she paced and strode and stalked. Far more efficient, if you asked her, than those who sidled about, stopping to smell the roses.
A movement caught her eye, and she swiveled to see a homeless man who had buried most of his body inside the Living Ruff van on the driver’s side. The hell? Some passing hobo had just broken in and decided to rummage about looking for something to steal.
With the door blocking Felicity’s view, she could only see grubby jeans-clad calves sticking out and boots that looked like they’d worn through every layer of polish and were back to raw leather.
Oh, hell no.
Amir gave her a startled look. “Ms. Simmons?”
Had she said that aloud? Whatever. Her eyes hardened on the thief. What if he were about to make off with goods purchased with Elena’s donation? That made it personal, didn’t it? She had an obligation here. “I’m going in,” she told Amir. “Call the police if things get dicey.”
Amir’s eyebrows shot up in astonishment. “Ma’am?”
Felicity flung open the car door, leaped out, and headed over to the vagrant at a fast clip. He was still busy rummaging, so she tapped him hard on the back—well, poked, more like—and said, “Excuse me! Just what do you think you’re doing?”
The man straightened, bumping his head on the van ceiling as he did and emitting a sharp, high-pitched yelp. He spun to face Felicity, unfurling to full impressive height.
Felicity took a startled step back. Okay, who in the ever-loving Brienne of Tarth was this?
To begin with, he was a she. And not just any she. The woman was block-out-the-sun tall and solid as a brick wall. She had powerful thighs and broad muscled shoulders that looked like she could probably toss a Shetland pony with ease.
Felicity’s breath caught when her gaze slid down. Generous breasts and an unexpectedly rounded stomach softened her imposing form so that she looked a bit like a teddy bear—well, if teddy bears came in Amazon-at-the-roller-derby editions.
Felicity blinked. She’d never encountered anyone like this before. Never, ever, ever.
With few exceptions, the professional women in Felicity’s circle of media, law, and fashion tended to fit a certain type: delicate and fine-boned TV-ready perfection draped in expensive corporate attire. They were sleek ribbons of femininity who seamlessly melted into spaces and backgrounds. They observed, played clever games from the shadows, and manipulated their worlds one high fake laugh at a time.
This woman took up the space of three such women. Her whole attitude seemed to shout, Yeah, just try and budge me. And good luck not noticing me! Probably followed by an amused wink.
Amused wink? Felicity’s fried brain was clearly just making up nonsense now.
The woman cleared her throat.
Felicity shifted her gaze higher, skidding briefly over her rumpled shirt that bore the Living Ruff logo.
Oh.
Underneath the logo was an embroidered slogan: Think Paw-sitive. Felicity’s eye twitched at the awful pun. At least it wasn’t about helping the less fur-tunate.
Right. So she might have made a few faulty assumptions about whether the van was being broken into. But seriously, the woman’s jeans and boots were in appalling condition. Did the staff of the charity have no professionalism in their appearance whatsoever? Felicity was about to ask just that when she met startlingly intelligent eyes. Suddenly her usual indifference as to what anyone other than Elena thought of her died abruptly, along with the question.
“Who are you?” The woman asked in a throaty, irritated voice, rubbing her head where she’d hit it on the van. Her eyebrow hiked up. “And why were you jamming your finger into me like that? I’m not your voodoo doll.”
“I thought you were a vagrant hunting for drug money from a charity’s van.” She trusted that would earn her some favor, Good Samaritan Felicity and all.
Instead, the woman frowned. “Ex-cuse me?”
Or not. “I didn’t see your logo.” Felicity scrambled. She tapped her own blouse to indicate the spot where the woman’s Living Ruff badge was. “So I thought—”
“Yes, I heard you. A vagrant. After drug money. Because all homeless are addicts, right?” Her lips pinched.
Oh. Well, Felicity had said that, hadn’t she? She resisted the urge to take another step back to get some distance. Wait, why does she look familiar? A memory clicked into place. Okay, they’d styled her up for the photo shoot and attempted to morph her into something safe for mainstream consumption, not to mention cropped the pic at chest level, but Felicity was pretty sure this was the vet from the article declaring the charity was closing. Dr. Sandy Cooper.
