Do You Believe in Magic

chapter SIX



Monday morning, Francie walked into Herb Greenwood’s office at ten o’clock. Herb, Clay, and two men, one vaguely familiar and an unknown other, were standing by his desk. Consultants must not believe in casual office dressing, she surmised, because Clay looked gorgeous in a navy blue blazer, gray trousers, white shirt, and a red tie with an abstract design.

When her eyes met his silvery gaze, she shivered and pulled her baggy brown sweater tighter around her. She managed a weak smile. Three cups of coffee this morning hadn’t been enough to prepare her for seeing him again. She turned to concentrate on the other men; it was safer.

“Oh, good,” Herb said. “Now you’re here, we can start. Francie, do you know Tom Robbins from the Legal Department?” He indicated the short, rotund, balding man with rimless glasses.

“Oh, yes, Mr. Robbins, I’ve seen you in the elevator.” She and Robbins exchanged nods.

“And this is Lieutenant Bill Childress from the Houston Police Department,” Herb continued. “Legal decided we should call in the police before we go any further.”

Childress was a lean, nondescript man about six feet tall with short brown hair, wearing a rumpled brown suit. Francie thought he was probably just the sort of fellow people ignored or flat out didn’t see, but she liked his penetrating dark hazel eyes and firm handshake.

Herb waved them to the round conference table and pulled up his desk chair for himself. “We’ve brought them up to date, Francie,” he said before turning to Childress. “I understand you’ve worked with the Morgan family before, Lieutenant,” he said as they all sat down.

“A few members of it,” Childress replied. “I was on the case at the Glennell Company with Mr. Benthausen and Ms. Morgan. Clay’s and her father, Alaric Morgan, helped us make the case, and I’ve known Clay for some time.”

“I was on the periphery,” Clay interjected.

“I do wish you had called us earlier on this one,” Childress said in a somewhat exasperated tone. “I don’t like to use civilians for undercover, but I guess we’re stuck with your plan now.”

“Well,” Herb said, “let’s take it from where we stand now. Clay, I think you said earlier you’ve let Brenner know he can get into Francie’s on Thursday night.”

“Francie, why don’t you tell it?” Clay asked her. “It’s your story.”

Francie related her conversation with Tamara as succinctly as possible. She said nothing about her distaste for deception; after all, what good would it do?

“We can hope Tamara tells her boyfriend the coast is clear for Thursday, but we can’t guarantee it,” Clay added when she finished.

“Brenner hasn’t been on Ms. Stevens’s computer or tried to hack in from somewhere else since last Wednesday?” Childress asked.

“That’s correct,” Clay answered. “If he takes the bait on Thursday and dials in from Francie’s, I’m going to play with him from here—let him in, throw him out, let him in, move him around, and generally frustrate the hell out of him. Francie thinks he’s after sales and pricing information, and Herb and I agree with her.”

“So afterward you’re going to arrange to meet him and talk him into letting you into his scheme?” Childress asked.

“Let’s just say I’m going to make myself attractive and available as a computer expert amenable to making a fast buck and not too fastidious about how I do it.” Clay glanced at Francie and smiled before continuing. “I’ll meet him through Tamara. Francie and I have established ourselves in Tamara’s mind as a couple, don’t you think, Francie?”

Francie thought about Tamara’s claiming she and Clay were made for each other. “Yes,” she answered, looking at Childress rather than Clay. “She thinks we are—a couple, I mean.”

“I suggest we invite Tamara and Brenner for dinner Saturday night,” Clay said. “We could go to a restaurant or eat in, your choice. It will give me the chance to put some ideas into his head. What do you think, Francie?”

His direct question drew her eyes to his. She tried to be matter-of-fact in her answer, but she could feel tension coiling in her stomach. “Why don’t I cook something? Being in my apartment should give you more privacy for whatever you want to tell Kevin.” And being in her own home would give her at least the illusion of being in control of the evening.

“Fine with me,” Clay answered with a smile and a wink. “If we can also find out where he goes for a drink after work, all the better. I’d like to meet him on his turf later next week and see if he takes the bait. Could you ask Tamara about dinner Saturday?”

“I’ll ask her tonight,” she replied.

“If you do meet him alone, I want you to wear a wire,” the police lieutenant interjected. “We need some hard evidence, and a recording could provide it.”

“Certainly,” Clay stated. “Wouldn’t it be even more conclusive if I actually hack into Brazos with Brenner with me, telling me what to look for? Then, Bill, you could arrest him with his hand in the till.”

“Let’s see what we’re dealing with first,” Childress replied. “We don’t want to put you in any danger.”

Tom Robbins leaned forward. “We still don’t know if Brenner is invading our computers on his own or if he’s in collusion with anyone at NatChem, do we?”

“No,” Herb answered. “That’s what we want Clay to find out. How we’ll proceed depends on that information.”

“Right,” Childress agreed. “And it will determine who we prosecute.”

“So,” Herb said, “Francie, you’ll set up the date for Saturday. Clay, you’ll be here on Thursday night to handle Brenner.”

“I’ll be here,” Childress said.

“Me, too,” Francie said. “I’m working late then, remember?” she added when Clay raised his eyebrows at her. He didn’t think she would miss the event, did he?

“Come about five on Thursday,” Herb said. “I’ll have some sandwiches sent in. I don’t trust this guy. I’ll bet he’ll try to get in early. After all, he doesn’t know what time Francie will be home. I want to nail this bastard to the wall.”

The meeting broke up, and Francie slipped out of Herb’s office while Clay and Childress were talking about recording devices. She breathed a sigh of relief as she went immediately to a meeting on another floor. If Clay came looking for her, he’d never find her there.

That evening Francie called Tamara after she returned home and invited her and Kevin for Saturday dinner. Tamara was ecstatic her friend was finally coming out of her “cocoon” and immediately accepted the invitation.

Francie waited until Tuesday morning, however, to call Clay, and she called him at home, not on his cell phone. It would be easier to keep her equilibrium if she didn’t speak to him directly, or so she told herself. As she had hoped, she got his answering machine. The sound of his voice sent a shiver through her, despite her resolve.

“Hi, it’s Francie,” she told the recorder in as perky a tone as she could manage. “I asked Tamara and Kevin over for Saturday night. Come about six. I’ll see you Thursday at the office.” There, she thought as she hung up. That should hold him. She’d screen her calls at home tonight to continue her avoidance plans.





Tuesday evening Clay entered the gym at the Downtown Y and headed for the court where his team would be playing. He noticed a women’s team on a far sideline waving at someone, and when he looked around to find their target, who should be walking toward him but Francie? She was waving at the women and not looking where she was going, so he deliberately stood in her way and had the satisfaction of having her run right into him.

“Clay!”

“Hi, Francie,” Clay said as he held her upper arms to steady her for a moment. “I didn’t know you played in the leagues here.” He grinned as he looked her up and down. Mercy, he pleaded to any higher being who happened to be listening. She looked gorgeous in a thin T-shirt and shorts. Long, long legs, a stunning body, and a face to match, with no eyeglasses to obscure the view. Man, would he like to get her alone, but here they stood in front of God and everybody.

Then he remembered how she seemed to be avoiding him. “I heard the message you left on my home machine. Why didn’t you call my cell?”

“Oh, uh, I couldn’t find your cell number,” she stammered. “Is six o’clock all right for Saturday?”

“Fine. I’ll bring some wine and dessert, how about it? Red or white?” She was not meeting his eyes, and she was fidgeting with her towel, and he definitely did not like it. What was the matter with her?

“I don’t know what I’m going to fix, probably something easy with pasta, so bring what you like to drink. Look . . .”

“Hey, Francie! Let’s go!” Whatever she had been about to say was interrupted by a woman on the court.

“I have to go.” She waved back at her teammate.

“I’ll see you later,” Clay said. “How about after the game?”

“Uh, no, I’m sorry. I’m going out with my team. It’s a regular thing.” She gave him what he thought was a nervous smile and started for the court.

“I’ll call you,” he said to her back and received a nod of her ponytail in return. Damn. His hands on his hips, he stood for a minute looking at her until he realized her entire team was staring at him. Not only that, but he was late for his own game. Afterward, he searched for her, first on the court, later in the lobby, but her game was long over and he couldn’t find her.

Francie didn’t answer her phone that night or the next; all he reached was her answering machine. Clay considered calling her at two in the morning, but decided it would only make her mad. He could bide his time. Thursday night would probably be filled with people, but Saturday . . . he’d be in her apartment, and they’d be by themselves at some point. He’d see to it. Then he’d get some answers about why she was avoiding him.

And maybe this damn itching imperative would leave him alone.