Player & the Game Read online

  When he climbed out of his Mustang and tried to plead with Stephanie as she opened her front door, his wife came leaping out of her Camry and charging across the parking lot screaming at the top of her lungs. That’s when it all came out that Ted was a lowly patrol cop, not a DEA agent. He was married with three little ones at home, and if he had a trust fund, he certainly didn’t spend it on his family. The poor woman’s clothes were so threadbare, they seemed almost transparent.

  Stephanie shut the door on them both as they argued. She could take drama over a man (she had her share of run-ins with crazy, jealous girlfriends and wives in the past), but she would not take drama for a man whose idea of fine dining was a platter of chicken quesadillas and sliders. Ted also proved her theory that married men were nothing but trouble.

  She thought that night would be the last time she would ever see Ted again. Unfortunately, it looked like she had been wrong.

  “So I hear you want to file charges,” Ted said minutes later as he and his partner guided Stephanie down a long hall and past a series of doorways. He sipped again from his coffee cup. A few Sheriff’s Office deputies passed them as they walked.

  “Yes,” she said, raising her chin. “Money was stolen from my bank accounts. I want the guy who did it arrested.”

  “Uh-huh,” Ted murmured dispassionately as he waved her inside a room.

  It was a stark white twelve-by-twelve foot space with four metal chairs with plastic bottoms. A wooden table sat in the center. There were no windows.

  Stephanie assumed it was their “questioning” room. At least, that’s what she believed they called it on those police television shows. She lowered herself into one of the chairs and crossed her legs.

  “I guess you know who stole it then?” the other detective drawled as he plopped in the chair across from her.

  This detective was as thin as Ted but a redhead with an aquiline nose. He cocked his eyebrow at Stephanie.

  “I know exactly who stole it,” Stephanie said vehemently, pointing her French manicured nail at the table in front of her. “My ex. His name’s Isaac Beardan. That’s B-E-A—”

  “He sounds like a keeper,” Ted muttered with a chuckle, leaning back in one of the chairs.

  Stephanie glared at him. “Pardon me?”

  Ted continued laughing. “Nothin’.”

  The redhead began to chuckle too.

  She glared at them both. Shouldn’t they be taking notes? Shouldn’t they be recording this? How were they possibly documenting everything to press charges against Isaac with no notepad, pen, or digital recorder? She was about to ask that before they started asking her questions again.

  “So why do you think he did it?” the redhead asked, sounding incredulous.

  “He’s the only one who could have done it! He’s the only one who had access to my accounts! Then he just skipped down! It’s so obvious!”

  The redhead frowned. “How’d he get access to your accounts?”

  “Well, I gave it to him . . .” She shrugged. “ . . . Kind of.”

  The detective nodded. “I see. So these were accounts he was authorized to have access to.”

  “No! I gave him the password to my investment account and he used that to get access to the others.”

  “I see,” the redhead said, nodding again. “But you can’t prove for sure that he had access to those other accounts too, can you? You don’t know for sure that he did it?”

  “Well, no. Not for sure, but I told you that soon after the money disappeared, he skipped town! I could only assume that—”

  “Did you have access to his?” Ted asked suddenly, finally putting down his coffee cup.

  “His what?”

  “To . . . his . . . accounts,” Ted said loudly and slowly as if she were the world’s biggest simpleton. “Did you have access to any of his bank accounts?”

  Stephanie paused. What does that have to do with anything? How did the questioning turn around so that she was now the focus?

  She slowly shook her head. “No, he never gave me access to his accounts. I don’t even know what bank he uses.”

  Ted raised his bushy eyebrows in comical astonishment. “Oh, come on, Steph! I don’t believe that shit for one second! Are you honestly telling me you didn’t have access to his bank accounts, his credit cards? Not even when you went shopping?” He laughed. “That doesn’t sound like you, babe! Damn near every man in town knows how you operate! If a man won’t hand over his Visa to you, you won’t give him the time of day!”

  Bitter much, Ted? She glowered at him and crossed her arms over her chest.

  “Look, I’m not the one who . . . who committed a crime here! Even if I did use his credit card once or twice, I never would have—”

  “Here’s what I think happened,” Ted said, cutting her off. “I think that boyfriend of yours spent a pretty penny on you. Knowing you,” he murmured with an exaggerated roll of the eyes, “he probably dropped at least five figures between shopping trips, gifts, and such. I even bet he lent you some too. When you finally decided to dump him and move on to the next guy, he simply took back the money he was owed.” He shrugged. “You said yourself you gave him access to your accounts.”

  “No, I didn’t! I said I gave him access to my—”

  “So he was just taking back what you owed him, that’s all,” Ted repeated, leaning back triumphantly in his chair, acting like Inspector Clouseau who had just explained how he had solved a murder mystery. “At least that’s how he saw it. He was smarter than most of us.”

  Stephanie clenched her jaw, now furious all over again. “He stole my money! Whatever he gave me, he gave it to me freely! I didn’t take anything from him! I didn’t owe him a damn thing!”

  “Steph, all you do is take, hon,” Ted uttered with a slow shake of the head. “That’s the type of girl you are.”

  At that, she balled her fists.

  This is ridiculous! She had come to the cops to file charges against Isaac and instead she was getting a morality lecture from a married man who had tried to have an affair with her.

  I may be a gold digger, but I am still a citizen, damn it, she thought indignantly. She still had rights!

  She suddenly turned to Ted’s redheaded partner, hoping that he was more level-headed, that he could see the error in all of this. But when she looked at him, all she saw in his green eyes wasn’t sympathy, but cold contempt.

  “All right,” he drawled, giving a loud sigh, “enough with the theories, Monroe. As far as I’m concerned—based on what you’ve told us, ma’am—there isn’t enough evidence to file charges against this guy. We’ll take your complaint, Miss . . . uh . . .”

  “Gibbons,” she said, feeling her heart pound fiercely in her chest. “My name is Stephanie Gibbons, and I won’t be dismissed like—”

  “Uh-huh, yes, Miss Gibbons,” he responded blandly. “We’ll take a formal complaint and include the stuff about your boyfriend in it. We’ll see what we can do.”

  He then gave a condescending grin before raising his coffee cup back to his lips.

  Stephanie seethed silently. She had as much confidence that he would “see what he could do” as she had that she would finally get her forty acres and a mule or that Sarah Palin would suddenly declare herself a Democrat. She had no confidence in him or Ted, whatsoever.

  When Stephanie walked out of the Sheriff’s Office fifteen minutes later, she was almost trembling with anger. The sun had disappeared and was now obscured by a heavy overcast, matching her dark mood. It started to drizzle as she walked to her car, wetting her hair, causing tendrils to cling to her forehead. Normally, she would rush to cover her locks but all vanity was pushed aside today.

  Her vision blurred. Suddenly, she felt warm tears spill onto her cheeks as she opened her car door and climbed inside.

  Isaac had taken almost all her savings. He had humiliated her and made her look like a fool, and now it looked like he was going to get away with it.

  Chapter 7
/>   “Damn,” Keith muttered as he turned away from Isaac’s front door. He hunched down and pulled the collar of his jacket around his ears as the rain fell overhead.

  This was his second time checking Isaac’s house today, confirming his suspicions. The worst-case scenario had indeed happened. The con artist he had been staking out for weeks was on the run again. Isaac had picked up stakes and moved on with the efficiency of Ringling Bros. Circus.

  When had Isaac had the time to pack, let alone get his stuff into a moving van? Keith had been watching him almost sixteen hours a day. The only time he hadn’t been watching Isaac was when he was asleep.

  Keith wondered if, like Stephanie Gibbons, Isaac had suspected he had been following him this whole time. Maybe he had gotten wind of his impending arrest and had decided to skip town quietly.

  “Or maybe she told him about you,” the familiar voice in his head argued as he walked toward his SUV. “Maybe they were in cahoots this whole time.”

  Keith stood with his hand on the car’s door handle. He paused.

  In addition to finding out more about Isaac, he also had done a thorough investigation of his girlfriend. He knew from his research that she and her family had a bit of a reputation around town. But he hadn’t been sure if he should take that little tidbit with a grain of salt and just dismiss it as town gossip—or whether he should take it more seriously. Now he was starting to wonder about a conversation he had almost a week ago with one of the townsfolk. Maybe he had let important information slip through the cracks.

  Two days ago, Keith had been stealthily watching Isaac as he left Stephanie’s real estate office when the rain swept in. It was one of those spring showers that came out of nowhere, much like it would in the tropics, except Keith was on a busy street in Virginia, not on a tourist beach in the Caribbean.

  Keith’s car was parked two blocks down. If he tried to make a run for it, the monsoon would drench him within seconds. To avoid the downpour, he turned and opened the door behind him, darting inside a flower shop. As he wiped his wet-sneakered feet on the doormat, he was instantly hit with the pungent mix of hyacinth, lavender, lilies, and lilac. He gazed around him.

  The room was a splash of color in every hue imaginable with an array of bouquets in glass and ceramic vases of all shapes and sizes. A thin black woman stood on the opposite side of the shop behind a wide wooden desk and in front of a wall of glass-front refrigerators. She wore her salt and pepper hair in a sensible bun, a green apron, and reading glasses on the tip of her nose. She held garden shears in her gloved hand. It looked like he had caught her in the middle of her work. She was cutting off the stems and leaves from a pile of yellow roses splayed in front of her.

  “Well, good morning,” she said merrily, grinning. “Can I help you? You lookin’ to buy some flowers?” she asked, raising her eyebrows expectantly. “Anything in particular?”

  He shook his head. “No, sorry. I’m not here to buy any flowers. Just got stuck in the storm without an umbrella.” He brushed the drops off his jacket shoulders and smiled. “I wanted to get out of the rain.”

  “Oh,” she said, looking slightly crestfallen. “Well . . . stay as long as you like. It’s not like I’m busy today.”

  “Thanks.” He slowly walked toward a bouquet of red tulips and blue irises. He considered them before moving on to another bouquet as he waited for the storm to abate.

  “You new in town?” she asked, lowering her shears to her wooden desk. “I haven’t seen you around here before.”

  “I guess you could say I’m new. I came in a few days ago.”

  “You visiting someone in Chesterton? Maybe I know them.”

  “No, I . . . I was thinking about buying property around here,” he lied.

  “Well,” she said, pushing her glasses to the crown of her head, “Chesterton is a lovely place to live. If you buy property here, it’ll be a good investment. What real estate agent are you working with?” She stepped from behind the counter. “I sure hope it’s Mr. Lucas. He has an office on Cedar Brook Lane. He helped my daughter buy her first condo. He’s a lovely, lovely man. I bet he could get you a good deal too.”

  Keith gazed at her slyly. He was stuck here for awhile; may as well do some detective work while he was at it.

  “I don’t have a real estate agent yet,” Keith confessed. He glanced through the storefront window to Stephanie’s office across the street. “I see you have a real estate agent over there though. Would you recommend her? Is she any good?”

  The woman’s cheery demeanor instantly disappeared. “No, I would not,” she answered snippily.

  Her response piqued his interest.

  “Why?” He took a step toward the shopkeeper, tilting his head. “What’s wrong with her?”

  “Honey, you don’t ever, ever want to get involved with one of those Gibbons girls. Not for business . . . and certainly not for pleasure!”

  Keith noticed how her mouth screwed up when she said the name “Gibbons” and how her nose wrinkled with disgust. It intrigued him.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Those girls are nothin’ but trouble! Everybody around here knows they’re a bunch of gold-digging, thieving hussies! Every man they get their hooks in, they rob him blind and leave him with nothin’ but his socks and his underwear!”

  Normally Keith would have found a line like that amusing, but he was too shocked to laugh.

  “They’ve been doing it for years and years!” the shopkeeper continued. “Their grandmama had three husbands. She probably would have had three more if the good Lord didn’t decide to give the world a break and put her in a grave! Their mama kept having babies by rich men until it made her rich.” She pointed toward the shop window. “That one that runs the restaurant on Main Street, almost a year ago she married an ex-football player. He owns the biggest mansion in Chesterton. He’s worth I don’t know how many millions. I don’t think it’s just a coincidence that she hooked up with him too,” the shopkeeper sniffed. “I’m tellin’ you, honey, they’re all alike; sewn from the same cloth. All money hungry! All evil!”

  Stephanie Gibbons might very well be a gold digger, but that didn’t necessarily mean that, like Isaac, she was a con artist too. But still, the suspicion nagged Keith. As he drove away from Isaac’s townhouse, he muddled over it.

  He had been too distracted by her good looks, allowing it to blur his judgment.

  “Fine, you’re attracted to her,” the voice in his head argued. “But you can’t let that cause you to make mistakes like this.”

  He had let Isaac slip through his fingers and he was on the chase again with no leads so far. But Stephanie was still here in town probably. He had to see whether she had any idea where Isaac had gone next. He could continue to follow her around, but he had a feeling that would only waste more precious time. Another day wasted trailing Stephanie would mean even more distance put between him and Isaac.

  No choice now, he thought as he drove away. I’ve just got to talk to her.

  Fifteen minutes later, Keith hesitated as he stood in the light rain, took a deep breath, then pounded on Stephanie Gibbons’s front door with his open palm.

  This was against normal detective procedure, but he figured he had nothing to lose at this point. He couldn’t make her talk, but he had to try.

  He paused and waited, then pounded again. Within seconds, he could see a light turn on in the foyer window. The porch light came on next. A shadowy figure walked past the linen window curtains. He knew it had to be her from the curvy silhouette. The door swung open and Stephanie stood in front of him with a wineglass in her hand and a shocked expression on her face. The foyer light created a halo around her, giving her almost an ethereal glow.

  “You!” Stephanie shouted with a hand on her hip. “You’re that . . . that stalker guy! What the hell are you doing here?”

  Standing here alone with her, Keith felt again the budding attraction he had felt since the first day he saw her. He quickly pushed tho
se carnal thoughts aside and focused on the task at hand.

  “Where is he?” Keith asked through clenched teeth.

  “What?”

  “Where the hell is he?” Keith asked again. He forced his way inside, making her sputter. He looked around her foyer, searching for any signs of Isaac. “I know you know where he is, so don’t give me any bullshit!”

  She lowered her glass to the mirrored foyer table and followed him into her living room.

  “Look, I don’t know who you are or what the hell you’re talking about, but you better get out of my house now and I mean right goddamn now!” she yelled. “Get out before I call the cops!”

  He looked around her living room. It was filled with feminine furniture: a small sofa with off-white silk cushions, two intricately embroidered armchairs with off-white pillows, and two delicate mirrored side tables. Several vases of fresh roses were throughout the room. But Isaac was nowhere to be found.

  Which isn’t a surprise, Keith thought morosely. He didn’t really expect to find him hiding here. Isaac was long gone by now.

  “Where’s Isaac?” He turned around to face her. “Tell me now and make it easy on yourself!”

  “Isaac?” She blinked, gazing at him dumbfounded. “You mean Isaac . . . my . . . my ex?”

  “What other Isaac would I be talking about?” he snapped. “Look, one day you spot me and the next day he sprints out of town like his feet are on fire. That’s not just a coincidence! He’s facing some serious allegations, baby. You don’t want to get yourself mixed up in this shit! Tell me where he is now and—”

  “If I knew where Isaac was, I would be chasing him down myself,” she said, crossing her arms over her chest.

  The gesture tugged the cowl neck of her emerald green dress several inches lower, revealing more of her cleavage, drawing Keith’s gaze. Realizing what he was doing, he snapped his eyes back to her face. He didn’t need that distraction right now.