Run For The Money. Stephanie Feagan

      With much love and affection, this book is dedicated to

       Aunt Glenda, who enthusiastically showed me the other side of the world and shared her endless curiosity.

      Acknowledgments

      My sincere thanks go to the following: Leslea, for not abandoning me to marry a Chinese man; Callie, for sharing her personal phobias of big fish and murky water; and Jo George, aka Mom, for taking me to China as your “paid companion.” To Mike, for your love and support and for understanding your wife’s wanderlust. Uncle Andy, for giving me a glimpse of what it’s like to work in China. As always, my agent, Karen Solem, who may well be the smartest woman on the planet, and Natashya Wilson, who’s definitely an editor prodigy. To the Wet Noodle Posse, may the publishing gods smile on each of you that you may sell bountiful books. And many thanks to my older brother, Dan George, who turned me on to great music at a very young age. Rock on, bro!

      Contents

      Acknowledgments

      Chapter 1

      Chapter 2

      Chapter 3

      Chapter 4

      Chapter 5

      Chapter 6

      Chapter 7

      Chapter 8

      Chapter 9

      Chapter 10

      Chapter 11

      Chapter 12

      Chapter 13

      Chapter 14

      Chapter 15

      Coming Next Month

      Chapter 1

      With the phone clutched in one hand and a mechanical pencil in the other, I stared at the sequence of numbers I’d just scribbled on an already crowded notepad. “This all looks to be in order, except for one thing. You say I have another checking account, at a bank in Kansas, with a balance of over two hundred thousand bucks.”

      The nice lady at the mortgage company was getting less nice by the second. “It’s right here, on your report. Whitney Pearl, home address in Midland, Texas. You opened the account two weeks ago.”

      “I’ve been in Washington, D.C., the past two weeks. How could I open an account in Kansas?” Why would I open an account in Kansas? I don’t even know anybody in Kansas.

      “You can open an account on the Internet, or by mail.”

      “There must be a mistake. They got the wrong social security number.”

      “Could be, but I doubt it. I suggest you get this resolved. Anything not nailed down can be cause for the application to be rejected.”

      Wondering why I’d been stupid enough to buy a house while I was on a consulting job over two thousand miles away from home, I told her I’d let her know, then hung up and dialed the Kansas bank. I got Shirley, in new accounts. Not sure, but based on the sound of her voice, I think Shirley started smoking at age twelve. I explained the situation, then listened while she pecked at the computer.

      “Got it right here. Whitney Ann Pearl. Midland, Texas.” She asked for my social security number, verified it, then rattled off some other bona fides.

      “How was the account opened?”

      “Through the Internet.” She pecked some more. “Hang on and let me pull the signature card.”

      I stared out my sixth-floor window of the Mills Building and watched the guards atop the White House, one block away. It had become a favorite pastime, ever since I started the engagement with CERF, the Chinese Earthquake Relief Fund. Thus far, I’d resisted buying a set of binoculars. Still, the tall one who worked the seven-to-three shift looked mighty fine, even from a block away.

      “Here we are,” Shirley said. “Whitney A. Pearl.”

      “And the balance is over two hundred thousand dollars?”

      She pecked some more and I wondered what I was gonna have to do to get this straightened out.

      “It’s $200,396.l4. There have been twelve deposits since opening, and four withdrawals.”

      I’m a CPA. I know how these things work. Shirley was at a computer in a Kansas bank lobby, and there was no way she could give me any more information. “Thank you for your help,” I said as graciously as possible, in spite of being seriously annoyed. After all, it wasn’t Shirley’s fault. “I wonder if I could speak to someone in bookkeeping?”

      “Hold, please.”

      I watched the guards while listening to an elevator music version of Aerosmith’s “Dream On.” That was painful. Eventually, a woman named Courtney picked up. I asked for copies of the deposits, along with information about the withdrawals, and was pleasantly surprised when she said she’d fax me the information. Hmm. Maybe I really would open a bank account in Kansas. My bank in Midland would laugh me off the planet before they’d send me diddly squat.

      Within thirty minutes, I had the copies.

      And nearly had a heart attack.

      Almost five hundred thousand dollars, and every single check came from CERF, the organization that had contracted me to act as accounting watchdog to ensure nobody stuck their fingers in the enormous amount of money the good people of the world donated to help the victims of the recent earthquake in China. I stared at the deposits in shock and total confusion. How had all that money ended up in a bank account with my name on it? Me, the CPA in charge of keeping an eye on the dough.

      The checks were written to China Pearl, a Chinese company that manufactures generators and fuel pumps and other large equipment. I knew China Pearl was legitimate because I’d checked it out myself. Part of my job was to verify that invoices weren’t paid to phony companies.

      The checks to China Pearl that were deposited into the Kansas bank account were endorsed “for deposit only” to the account number. China Pearl. Not so far from Whitney Pearl. My nickname is Pink and I occasionally get a check made out to Pink Pearl, which I deposit into my account named Whitney Pearl without any questions asked. Get that last name right and the tellers never blink.

      I stared at those deposits and wanted to hurl. Somebody had opened an account in my name, then deposited the China Pearl checks into it.

      Reaching for the withdrawal copies, I saw that all four of them were transfers into the account of Valikov Interiors. Bells started ringing and, honest to God, my skin crawled so bad it’s a wonder I didn’t become an instant skeleton. I grabbed the phone and called my mother’s cell, praying she was still in the airport, that she hadn’t boarded the plane yet. She had a one o’clock flight to Washington, on her way to accompany me to a birthday dinner for Steve Santorelli, a senator from California who’s a good friend of mine.

      She answered on the fourth ring, breathless. “It doesn’t matter what else you forgot, Pink. I don’t have time to get it. They’re boarding the plane.”

      “Just answer me a question. Yesterday, when you went over to my apartment to get my wool coat, remember the package you found on the doorstep that had an antique Chinese spider cage inside?”

      “If you want me to go get it—”

      “No. I just wondered if you remember where it came from.”

      “I thought you decided it was a gift from Santorelli.”

      “He told me this morning that it wasn’t, so I assumed it was just a mistake. Now I’m pretty sure it’s not a mistake. But I have to know