Liars' Games (Project Chameleon Book 1) (29 page)

Claire sat down on the sofa
, trying to push those nagging thoughts away as she waited for Angie to arrive. She looked at the clock on her mantle and bit her fingernail. Angie should have been here by now.

The phone rang, sending an alarm through Claire.
Please don’t cancel. Please don’t cancel.
It was Angie calling to let her know she was running a little late.

T
en minutes later, the doorbell rang and Angie and Steve were both standing there, looking at each other and smiling. They looked at Claire, and Steve’s smile widened in approval. He laughed then, and said, “Angie and I bumped into each other on the way here and we introduced ourselves.”

Angie laughed and told her, “He’s a keeper. I know a good one when I see him. ”

Claire laughed too, and then Marcus ran to greet them both. She talked to Angie, giving her some final instructions. When Claire saw Marcus looking up at Steve, she stopped for a minute to listen.

“Do you wanna see my room?”

“Sure,” Steve said.

Marcus took hold of his hand and led him
upstairs to his bedroom. Curious, a few minutes later Claire tiptoed into Marcus’s room to see how they were doing. The two of them sat on the floor together, engrossed in the small display of dinosaurs that Marcus was showing him. Steve was so patient and showed so much interest, she was moved by the scene. Apparently sensing her presence, both males turned their heads towards the door and smiled at her.

She smiled and said, “I’m sorry to interrupt
. Are you ready to go, Steve?”

He laughed and said, “Sure, if I can
manage to get up.” He pushed himself up to a standing position, while Marcus jumped up and down giggling. Claire laughed.

Steve looked at
both of them with mock anger, and asked, “Are you two conspiring against me?”

The restaurant was crowded, and they
were told the wait was almost forty minutes to get seated. Claire thought the wait would give them a chance to talk, but it was actually too noisy for conversation. Finally, the waitress seated them in a booth. The noise didn’t lessen much. They enjoyed their meal, kept their conversation light, and then decided they’d go somewhere else better to talk after dinner, leaving the restaurant more than two hours after they initially arrived.

“Where should we go?” Steve asked,
sitting in his car in the restaurant parking lot.

“I have no idea.”

Steve turned on the engine and started to drive.

“Where are we going?”

He grinned and said, “You’ll see.”

About fifteen minutes later, he pulled into a driveway, turned off the engine, and
opened his car door, but hesitated half-in, half-out of the car. “I hope you don’t mind coming to my house.”

Claire followed him and looked around while he unlocked the house door. It was an older brick home, well maintained and from what she could see in the night lighting it was a pretty house in a nice neighborhood. Inside, the entrance was large, with a beautiful bamboo tree in a large green pot sitting on warm maple flooring that looked
as if it went through the entire house.

While he
hung up their jackets in the entry closet, she walked into a large living room. One wall of the living room was lined with floor to ceiling maple bookshelves filled with books, CDs, a stereo, and a collection of model airplanes. She studied the airplanes, many of which were military.

“Were you in the military?” she asked.

“No. Not me. My dad was.”

“Oh,
that’s right, I forgot. You told me that before.” She moved from the display to a large fish tank full of exotic fish.

“I got my first fish tank when I was twelve,” Steve said. “It was barely bigger than a gold fish bowl. As you can see, my tank
has grown up along with me.”

She laughed
and continued looking around.

In one corner of the room,
a big screen TV sat on a shiny black cabinet. Facing the TV and filling the space was a plush black leather sofa, a gray recliner, a pair of striped black and gray fabric chairs, a maple coffee table, and a matching end table. All were arranged in a comfortable conversational setting. Red, black, and white striped drapes appointed the windows and behind the drapes, which were pulled back to the sides, were ivory colored pleated blinds. Lamps with airplanes on the bases topped in red lampshades completed the look.

“I love your home, Steve. It’s
very warm and inviting.”

He showed her around the rest of the house. The master bedroom had a king-size bed and a dresser and armoire. The guest bedroom had a full-size bed, dresser, and rocking chair. The third bedroom was set-up as an office with a large computer desk and a double bookcase full of books.

He said he wasn’t going to show her the laundry room, as it was currently occupied with mounds of his unwashed clothes, but he told her it was between the garage and kitchen. The spacious eat-in kitchen was lovely, boasting exquisite black granite countertops and center-island, modern dark maple cabinets accenting the warm maple flooring that had indeed run throughout the home.

Steve opened the refrigerator, extracted a bottle of wine, and
poured them each a glass. They carried their glasses into the living room and sat down on the sofa.

“I have to ask you something and I hope you won’t get angry,” Steve said.

Claire nodded, suddenly growing concerned.

“I saw you in the school parking lot Saturday arguing with a man, so I confronted him after you left. He’s a private investigator hired by John Richmond. I confronted Richmond and he confirmed it.”

“Oh my God. The man told me he was working for someone
, but he wouldn’t give me a name. Why would John hire an investigator?”

“He’s upset about being forced by the Mayor and Senator Reynolds into hiring you. He thinks there’s something fishy going on.”

He looked straight at her and she struggled to keep from looking away.

“I’ve tried not to think about that, Claire. I really have. But Richmond told me something I didn’t know. He said they told him you’d been teaching for years, first in Indianapolis and most recently in Cleveland. You told me you
’d taught in Albuquerque, New Mexico. That got me questioning things so I did some checking of my own. I could not find any trace of you living or working in any of those cities. I need to know the truth.”

She covered her mouth with her hand. What could she say?

“Claire, I know you’re hiding something. I should have said something in the beginning when you lied about your age, but I let it ago. I’m not trying to get you in trouble or cause trouble between us. Please trust me and let me help you with whatever is going on. I’m in love with you, and I want to be a part of your life. I can’t do that unless you’re open and honest with me.”

Tears
welled up in her eyes and she couldn’t stop them flowing. “I’ve wanted to tell you the truth. But I couldn’t. I was sworn to secrecy, and it’s such a long story.”

“I’m listening.
You can trust me. I hope you know that about me.”

She nodded.
“About a year-and-a-half ago I was living in the Boston area with my boyfriend, Callum. He’s Marcus’s father. We both worked at Weymouth University. I was a professor, he was the Assistant Manager of the Finance Department.”

Steve raised his eyebrows, and Claire forced herself to continue.

“One morning, I’d opened my computer and went to my documents folder to work on a file for my latest project. It wasn’t there. Instead, I saw oddly named folders. Further investigation revealed that I’d taken Callum’s computer by mistake. They were university issued so they looked identical. Normally I would have closed it up, but something about the file names nagged at me. At least that’s what I told myself.” She paused, and Steve squeezed her hand.

“Deep down,
maybe I was looking for something to explain why Callum spent so much time away from home. He’d get phone calls at odd hours and then rush out the door. Sometimes he’d be out all night.”

“An affair?”

“That’s what I thought at first. But once I found my way into one of the files, I knew something else was wrong.”

“What was it?”

“Callum handled donations that the university received. He invested that money, and he also advised clients about academic investments. That’s what he did at Oxford and that’s how we first met.”

“Oxford University, as in Oxford, England?”

“Yes.”

Steve nodded.

“I was a math professor. Numbers and equations are second nature to me. In his files I saw columns of figures and blocks of equations. Almost without consciously thinking, I saw patterns emerge. Then I saw amounts I recognized, sums I’d heard discussed because they were given to the University as grants. I saw other sums which had been reported in newspapers. All were vast amounts of money being manipulated and transferred, column after column. There were dates, too, some of which I recognized from the news, newspapers, and from my own life experience. I have that kind of memory, that kind of ability to see links and relationships between numbers.”

“He was embezzling?”

“He was. I began to recall overheard conversations, too. There were other people involved. I confronted Callum that evening. He told me I was naive, that I didn’t know anything about business. I tried to let it go, but the next day on my way home from work, someone followed me and shot at my window and caused me to crash.”

“W
ere you hurt?”

“No, but I saw the shooter in the passenger seat. He had a professional rifle with a sight, and he
had clearly singled me out. He either was trying to kill me, or send a message.”

“What did you do?”

“After the police came and my car was towed away, I took a taxi home and picked up my son. I took us straight to the airport and flew to Minneapolis, thinking no one would find us there. I was wrong. The police were waiting for me when I got off the plane. I was taken into custody and told that I would be prosecuted as an accomplice—unless I gave them information and became a Federal witness.”

“Wow, that’s scary. But why would you be prosecuted?”

“It turns out Callum was working with a crime syndicate. They lured financial wizards like Callum into their group and then sent them out to universities and large corporations to steal either directly from the company or to embezzle the way Callum was doing—skimming money from the large donations to the university and from investor clients.”

“You’re sure about this?”

“Since the investigation began, the FBI has compiled data from banks—Suspicious Activity Reports and Currency Transaction Reports (for cash transaction exceeding $10,000). They found many of these reports filed on Callum and others believed to be in the syndicate. Some of the criminals have been caught and a few have given investigators some important information confirming what I told them.”

“What were they doing with the money? Do you know?”

“I was told some of it was lining the pockets of the syndicate members, but the rest was being used for activities like bribery of officials and politicians.”

“Was Senator Reynolds on the take?”

“I don’t think so. Not that I’ve heard, anyway.”

“Why would Callum leave all those files on his computer?”

“We think it was his personal records and that he was keeping them for his own protection.”

“Where is he now?”

“Still on the run as far as I know.”

“Why did the police think you were an accomplice?”

“Six months earlier Callum had told me he was working on a presentation for his department—a presentation on accounting fraud—and he asked me to create an algorithm which would transfer funds from accounts and deposit them into other accounts in such a way as it would be hard for anyone to notice. Like an idiot I did as he asked and turned it over to him without question.”

“Oh, my God. You wrote the program that helped him embezzle?”

“Yes. I didn’t know that’s what I was doing, but I’m still responsible.”

“Why did Reynolds force our school board to hire you?”

“Over a year ago, I went into the Federal Witness Protection Program, or WITSEC as it’s sometimes called. Since then, they’ve moved me around, given me new identities and new jobs. Those haven’t worked out so well. It was my fault, I should add. For my latest identity, my handler talked to his superiors. Someone knew Reynolds and asked the senator for a favor. I didn’t even know that until after John Richmond told me.”

“
So Claire is not your real name. What is your real name?”

“Juliet Powell. It’s ironic, but I was able to figure out Callum’s password on his computer because he used ‘Romeo’.” Tears welled up again.

Steve pulled Claire into his arms and stroked her hair. “I’m so glad you finally trusted me enough to tell me. I knew something was wrong. I thought it was me, that you didn’t trust me, or something, because you were always holding back.”