Pulled Under. Kelli Ireland
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in early.”
“I’ll pack as soon as I get home.” He tipped his head toward the lobby and spoke so low Harper had to lean in to hear him. “Don’t go out there with the idea you’ve got something to prove to these desk jockeys, Harper. That’s how people end up getting in over their heads.”
“I’m almost six feet tall without heels, so the odds of me getting in over my head are slim to none. Tell the director I’m out and I’ll be in touch after I wrap the first day.”
She started for the lobby, her stride long and sure. The anomalous snap of her stiletto heels on the thin industrial carpet was muted but still set her apart from the muffled shuffle of men’s dress shoes. She couldn’t care less. She’d been given her first solo assignment, and she was going to work—and close—this case with her notorious efficiency.
For a brief second, she felt sorry for the strippers at Beaux Hommes. She hated to see people lose their jobs. But corruption couldn’t be stopped otherwise. They could dance at other clubs.
The owners, on the other hand, the men she suspected were using the club as a front to move large amounts of cash? Harper intended to make those men pay the highest possible price for their lies and corruption.
And to her, the price to be paid for deception was never high enough.
* * *
LEVI WALSH PROPPED his elbows on the small desk and tunneled his fingers through his hair. A monstrous headache had settled on his temples. If it kept evolving at this rate, it would become a full-blown migraine before the club opened its doors later tonight. Considering he was the marquee dancer this evening, he couldn’t afford the complication. Because Levi was in deep shit.
He’d bought into the club as a 25-percent owner six weeks ago. After the three other owners discovered Levi was an investment whiz, they’d encouraged him to check out the books. They didn’t realize he’d been the kid who’d gone to the University of Washington at age sixteen and then the Foster School of Business for his postgraduate degree at age twenty. They only knew him as the shy boy who’d been thrust onto the stage during open-call night on a fraternity dare. The other dancers had bet against him surviving the experience. He’d taken their money right down to the last dime. He’d enjoyed working at the club and believed in its earnings potential. Even so, prior to the purchase, Levi had taken a couple of days and done an in-depth review of the profit-and-loss statements and both the digital and manual-entry ledgers. The club turned out to be a bigger moneymaker than he’d estimated, so he’d bought in. It had nearly wiped out his and his parents’ investment funds, but the returns should have been immediate.
But then, just days after he’d signed the contracts, he’d learned via a passing comment from the general manager about a third ledger, one the guy used to track “daily stuff” before entering firm numbers into the formal ledgers. That had made Levi very uneasy. Since then, he’d had been bugging the general manager, Kevin Metcalf, to hand over that third ledger.
It had taken almost a month to corner him, but Levi had caught Kevin in the main office this morning and demanded the ledger, no excuses. Kevin had handed it over and retreated to his private office without a word.
Now that the manual-entry book was in his hands, though, Levi was sorry he’d pressed. Something was seriously wrong. Granted, he was busted-ass tired after having been up all night entertaining Sarah—or was it Tara? Whatever. He wasn’t nearly so tired he couldn’t decipher simple double-entry bookkeeping ledgers.
Leaning forward again, he parked his head in his hands and tried to view the ledger entries from a different perspective. It didn’t help. They didn’t add up. “What a freakin’ mess.”
The club’s general manager ought to be whipped with the electrical cord from an adding machine for the mess he’d made of this thing. There should be checks and cross-checks to ensure nothing was omitted, skipped or forgotten. Not in this case. How the company managed to function blew his mind. That he depended on it for roughly half of his monthly income? His gut cramped.
The digital files he’d reviewed had led him to believe the club was raking in the cash. If he’d seen this third ledger, he would have abandoned the deal before he reached the end of the book’s first page. Levi had made a very bad and very costly mistake.
Picking up his cell, he hit speed dial for the direct number to Jeff Wheaton, the owner Levi was most familiar with. The alcohol distributor was also the owner who’d originally approached Levi about buying in.
The man answered on the second ring. “Wheaton.”
“Jeff, it’s Levi.”
“What’s up, man?”
“Have you seen the manual ledger—the third ledger—Kevin keeps for the club?” The pause on the other end stretched out so long Levi checked his phone’s screen to ensure the call hadn’t dropped. “Did I lose you, Jeff?”
The guy cleared his throat. “Apologies. I was trying to remember whether I’d ever seen his working ledger.”
Levi blew out a hard breath. “This isn’t a working ledger, Jeff. This is a mess of epic proportions. There’s no way the P&L sheets and the digital ledger can be right if Kevin’s entering figures from this thing.”
“I’m sure it’s fine, Levi.”
“And I’m sure it’s proof the books aren’t right,” he bit out.
“How can you be sure?” It sounded as though Jeff was speaking through a clenched jaw.
“I’m looking at his ledger right now. The guy has alcohol purchases categorized as income, payroll written in and then written over multiple times in ink so there’s no telling what the right numbers are, and quarterly tax payments have been deducted more than once. I’m on page one.” Levi closed his eyes and scrubbed a hand over his forehead. “It’s royally screwed up.”
“If it will give you peace of mind, I’ll make a couple of calls, get in touch with Mike and Neil, and find out what the accountants have been apprised of,” Jeff said, his words strung tight and close together. “In the meantime, why don’t you get together with Kevin and ask him about his methods?”
The headache tightened its invisible metal band, crushing Levi’s skull. “Just keep me posted.”
“Of course.”
The distinct click of the call disconnecting sounded louder than it likely was. Levi swiped a thumb across the screen to make sure his phone was off before tossing it onto the paper-littered desk. Slowly rising, he kept his hands braced on the desk and let his head hang loose as he took a few slow breaths.
There’s an easy answer to this mess. The club’s never missed payroll, never had vendor issues. No way is it as bad as it seems. Just my paranoia. I would’ve noticed if something had been wrong, really wrong, when I reviewed the books.
He hoped.
Lifting his face, Levi slid his glasses down and, rubbing the bridge of his nose, shouted as loud as he could manage without cracking his head wide-open. “Hey, Kevin!”
Nothing but silence.
He’d find the guy and drag him in here, get him to explain the convoluted system Levi hoped and prayed was being used. “Kevin!”
Still no answer.
Shoving his glasses on, he stalked out of the tiny closet–cum–side office and glanced around.
Empty.
What the hell? Where did everyone go? And when?
A sharp knock startled him. He strode to the door and opened it a few inches, bracing his foot and shoulder on the back side to prevent being rushed. “Yeah?”
“Open the door, please.”
The woman’s voice was as smooth as fine whiskey and hot as smoke-fueled