Chapter Six
Testifying as an expert witness had to be the most lucrative way to make money in her field.
One of Luna’s college professors had pushed her to take extra classes in how to appear in court proceedings, write depositions and quick case studies to determine if the clients had a chance of winning in front of a judge.
At first, Luna didn’t see the payoff. After all, expert witnesses were often measured by the years they’d put into the profession.
No attorney wanted to call someone who graduated two years ago an expert in their field. Most would think she was completely wet behind the ears, as Luna’s grandmother once said.
But Luna’s professor kept pointing out that Luna’s knack for the job, and the speed with which numbers came to her, would give her the title of expert faster than most. “Keep your fees low in the beginning. Even lawyers like to save money now and then.” Truth was, if there was money to be made, lawyers wanted to keep most of that for themselves. Luna couldn’t blame them for that.
That’s what Luna did. She undercut the going rate for expert forensic accountants and overdelivered on the stand. When she was working for an accounting firm, she’d take her PTO days when she was needed to testify.
Taking a vacation in those first five years after she graduated wasn’t a thing. Weekends and holidays were the extent of time for herself.
This did two fantastic things for her.
She was able to pay off her student loan debt, which wasn’t exactly cheap. And it prompted her to break away from working for someone else and go out alone.
That had been a hard leap.
Stability in her life was the number one need she had after being jostled around so much as a kid.
Now she managed a hearty retainer for any case she took on. Her hourly rate rivaled that of the lawyers’, and all travel expenses were paid for by the client.
Writing her own schedule made trial testimony much easier. And in times when she needed to stay available to be brought back on the stand, Luna could do her day job while waiting around in a courthouse or hotel room until she was free to go.
Luna didn’t feel that the Denver trial would take any more than one day, and she’d been right.
She’d gone into Denver thinking the income from her testimony was going right into the roof of the house.
That was until Harper sent her a text message filled with good news.
The insurance guy is filing a claim. They’re going to pay for a new roof.
Luna did a happy dance all the way to the airport as she made her way home.
Even though the flight from Denver to Seattle was relatively short, Luna used the time to work on the Mercier case.
Joel Mercier was what the wealthy called a silent billionaire.
His name didn’t come out in the headlines, nor was it flashed around as the “owner of this, or the owner of that.” That didn’t mean he didn’t own anything.
The man had acquired a lot in his sixty-five years.
He owned several private domestic companies that in turn owned international businesses.
He’d actively invested in start-ups in Silicon Valley, a couple of which paid off to the tune of hundreds of millions.
When those companies went public, Mercier bounced.
From what Luna could see by way of the numbers, the man spent money to make money like the average family shark does playing Monopoly.
But like many men with as much diversity in the portfolio as Mercier, there were so many spinning wheels that things were missed.
Luna opened up the file on one of Mercier’s shell companies.
One of which looked like it had been set up to help facilitate the acquisition of a business that made and sold shoes, of all things.
Only after the acquisition was complete, the shell company wasn’t dissolved.
There was a continued influx and outflux of money.
Some of that money going out was to a charity.
Something in Africa that clothed children . . . and put shoes on their feet.
Shell companies were a hotbed for fraud and abuse. Add a charity, where money was given with nothing more than a tax break expected on the other end . . .
Luna grabbed her phone and shot Nate a text.
Have you spent any time looking at BOHO INC.?
She set her phone down, not really expecting a fast reply.
The pilot came on over the intercom. Or more accurately, the chimes overhead suggested an announcement was coming, but in reality, the mumbling of the pilot was completely unrecognizable.
The woman sitting in the middle seat beside Luna chuckled. “Why do they even bother,” she asked.
Luna closed her laptop and prepared to store it for landing. “It’s probably on the pilot checklist.”
Luna had been on enough airplanes to know the routine. She flipped up her tray table and returned her computer to her bag that lived under the seat in front of her. After glancing at her phone and not seeing a reply from Nate, she tucked that in her bag as well.
Twenty minutes later Luna was off the plane and making her way out of the airport.
Her watch notified her of a text message.
It was Nate.
Hello to you, too.
Instead of trying to respond on her watch, Luna pulled out her phone.
I did it again, didn’t I?
You did, and not really. Did you find something?
Luna stepped off the tram and headed toward the exit.
She attempted to text while rolling her suitcase and gave up after being bumped into twice.
Gone were the days of staying six feet apart.
Nate answered the phone before Luna even heard it ring.
“Texting wasn’t working,” she said instead of “Hello.”
“Phones work, too.”
She crossed the bridge leading to the parking lot and waited by the elevator to take her to the right level.
“I’m multi-tasking, so . . .”
“Where are you?”
“Airport. I’m on my way home. This place is a mess with all the construction.” And it was. Main corridors were sectioned off, construction workers were hauling supplies among all the travelers, congesting the already squeezed space.
“I wouldn’t know. I drove here from DC.”
“Then take my word for it.”
Luna stepped into the elevator. She was thankful no one was trying to get in with her. The last thing she wanted to be was “that woman” talking on her cell phone in a small space.
“In answer to your question, no. I haven’t spent any time on BOHO. It’s a shell company, right?” Nate asked.
“Yeah. A shell company that donates to a charity in Africa.”
“Ewh.”
The sound of Nate’s voice suggested he understood where she was going. “My thoughts exactly.”
Luna stepped off the elevator and headed toward the very back of the garage where she’d left her car.
“What else did you find?”
“The company was used to facilitate the acquisition of something in textile. Those numbers don’t look off, but why . . .” Luna stopped short of where she thought she’d parked her car.
“Why what?” Nate asked.
Maybe it was the next aisle over. She knew for sure she was on the fourth level.
“Why would they keep BOHO, or more importantly why . . .” She didn’t see her car.
Luna turned full circle and headed back to where she remembered parking. Did she walk by it?
“Why?” Nate asked.
“I’m sorry. I’m looking for my car. I thought for sure I . . .” Nope, it wasn’t there. A small flutter of panic started to take root in her gut.
“Those parking garages all look the same. Are you on the correct floor?”
Luna stopped moving and reached into her purse for her key fob. “Considering what I do for a living, remembering the number four isn’t that tough.”
“You have a point,” Nate said with a soft laugh.
With her key fob in hand, she pressed the horn button.
Nothing.
A chill ran up her back and the hair on the nape of her neck stood up.
She pressed it again.
Nothing.
Okay, now every nerve in her body was on alert.
“I’m sure it’s there some—”
She started clicking the fob and waving it above her head. “The car isn’t responding to my key fob.”
Luna ran a hand through her hair. “Fuck.”
“Okay, take a breath.”
She did so, even though she felt the command was condescending. “It’s not here, Nate. My car is not where I left it.”
“What do you drive?”
Luna started to scramble . . . moving through the parking lot waving and pressing the key fob as she went. “It’s a Hyundai and it’s old.”
“And you’re positive you’re on the fourth floor?”
The pillar with the number four was right in front of her. “Someone stole my car.” Saying it out loud made it real. “Son of a . . . fuck, damn, hell. Why would someone want my eleven-year-old car?”
“Look around, are there cameras?” Nate asked.
She saw one at the end of the aisle. “Yeah. How am I going to get home?” And why had that thought even crossed her mind? Miley would be off work in a couple of hours and there was always Uber or a taxi. “I have to find the airport police.”
“Can you call your boyfriend . . . husband?” Nate asked.
That question would have made her laugh on any other day. “I don’t have one of those. I can’t believe my car is gone.” Luna walked twice as fast back to the elevator than when she’d left it. “How does someone rip off a car from an airport parking garage?”
“I’ll come get you,” Nate said.
“That’s not . . . I can Uber.”
“I’m an investigator, maybe I can help?”
“This isn’t fraud, it’s flat-out theft.” Luna pressed the button on the elevator repeatedly as if that would make the lift come faster.
“I’ve investigated more than fraud. I can be there in forty minutes. It will take longer than that for the police to search the garage and take your statement. I’m sure they have a lot of false reporting because people forget where they parked.”
“I did not forget—”
“Not you. Other people,” he interrupted. “I’m headed out the door, I’ll be there in forty.”
The elevator finally arrived. “Okay, fine . . . thank you.”
“Okay,” he said and then hung up.
Luna watched the doors slowly close.
“Son of a bitch!”