PROLOGUE
Frank Haynes spotted the forlorn-looking creature in the trees at the side of the road.
He quickly pulled his Mercedes sedan off the highway and buttoned his cashmere sport coat against the icy fog as he stepped out onto the grassy berm.
He walked gingerly in his slick-bottomed dress shoes as he approached the thin calico lurking in the underbrush.
The wary animal rose up on her front legs, ready to take flight, and eyed him uneasily.
Haynes crooned softly to her. He pulled his collar up against the biting wind and wished he had grabbed his topcoat out of the backseat.
But he dare not move now. The cat gradually relaxed and cautiously picked her way to him over the frost-stiffened grass.
The cat rubbed against his legs in the familiar figure-eight pattern and began to purr—a tiny, tentative whisper that ripened into a deep, throaty rumble.
He reached a cautious hand down to her. She stretched into him, and he knew the bond had been made.
He scooped her up and cradled the filthy creature against his chest, shielding her from the cold and stroking her gently, unconcerned about his expensive coat.
When she was content, he returned to his car and placed her carefully in the blanket-lined crate that lived in his backseat for just such occasions.
“You’re safe now,” he whispered the assurance.
“You won’t have to worry about food or cold anymore. ”
He shut the mesh grate of the cage and was surprised when the cat curled up and went to sleep. Most strays meowed and screamed all the way to the no-kill shelter that Haynes had founded and currently funded.
As he slipped behind the steering wheel, Haynes automatically checked the cell phone left behind in the console and was shocked to see he missed six calls during the short time he had been rescuing the cat.
All from Westbury’s idiot mayor, William Wheeler.
He punched the return call button as he swung back onto the highway. Wheeler picked up on the first ring.
“Frank—where have you been? All hell’s going to break loose around here,” Wheeler shouted into the phone.
“What’s up?” Haynes replied calmly.
“The town treasurer just called and told me the town can’t cover the December payments from the pension fund. We’re in trouble, Frank.”
Damn, Haynes thought. This was coming two months earlier than he predicted. They wouldn’t have time to get any of the condos sold by December. “Have you talked to either of the Delgados?”
“I called Chuck to tell him to move money from the reserve account you guys told me about. He said to talk to Ron about it. Ron thinks the reserve account has been ‘depleted.’ Some accountant and financial advisor he is! How did you guys let this happen? What have you been up to? If the town doesn’t make those payments, we’re sunk. ”
“Don’t worry about it. I’ll call Chuck and we’ll get it straightened out. We always do, don’t we?” Haynes disconnected the call over Wheeler’s sputtering response.
Damn this faltering real estate market and those greedy, careless Delgado brothers.
How had they drained the reserve fund so quickly?
They must be siphoning money for their own use from the tidy sum that the three of them had “borrowed” from the town worker’s pension fund.
Fleecing the faceless public was one thing.
Double-crossing Frank Haynes was quite another.
Wheeler was set up to take the fall, if it came to that.
He could make the trail lead to the Delgados, too.
Haynes vowed to find out where every nickel had gone.
He executed a sharp U-turn and headed back to Town Hall.