At His Fingertips

Craig picked up on the first ring. “Craig Baker.”

“I have you live?” They often traded voice mail for days just booking a racquetball game.

“Trying to catch up.” Craig sighed. His friend was hopelessly overworked, which would be Mitch’s fate if he came on board. Sounded good to him. He needed…something.

“I hate to bug you, but did you get a chance to look into that foundation?” Mitch dropped into his chair and rolled close to the desk, laying the purple brochure beside his keyboard.

“Not yet.” Craig sighed. “I’m up to my ears. On top of everything else, there’s media interest in the roofing company fraud case out in Sun City West. I’m prepping the press secretary.”

An assistant A.G., Craig was part of a cross-agency task force to stem the tide of scam artists preying on Arizona’s retirees. “I’ll squeeze it in when I can.”

“If it helps, I went there and met the director. I got a brochure if you want the names of board members and staff.”

“Good idea. Give ’em to me.” There was a rustle as he prepared to take notes.

Mitch read off the list. Craig stopped him halfway through. “Sylvestri? That name’s familiar.”

“Yep. There are two Sylvestris on the board. Enzo and Louis.”

“Interesting. I’ll get a secretary to run a Lexis Nexis search and get back to you.” That would provide any news mentions or lawsuits, at least. A place to start. “How did it seem when you were there?”

“Hard to tell. Quirky.” Talk about understatement. “They have the grantees match funds and get investors.”

“Ah…possible prepayment scam. That’s how that MedQuest real estate investment group operated.”

“Made me wonder, too.” The phony music deal had been that kind of rip-off. A common music industry con, he’d learned afterward and was grateful they’d only lost a grand in “advance costs.” He’d been young, of course, and con artists were clever. One of his clients, a savvy guy, recently lost his shirt to a group that funded invention prototypes. They left the country with his and a hundred other dreamers’ “patent-filing fee.”

“Also, the director is new. She replaced a woman who left supposedly because of a family illness.”

“Major changes in top staff—especially early on—is a sign of trouble,” Craig said, confirming his suspicion.

“Yeah.” What would Craig say if he knew that Esmeralda got the job because she read palms? Lord.

“Got the name of the previous director?”

“I’ll ask when I see the new one tomorrow night.”

“You’re seeing her again?” Craig perked up.

“She’s holding a workshop for people looking at grants. I’m bringing Dale.” He paused. “Funny thing is that I know her. I met her back when I had a band.”

“So she was, what, a groupie?”

“Hardly.” She’d liked when he’d played for her, though. Of course she’d had those incredible eyes and that great mouth….

“But you slept with her.”

“Nah. She was jailbait.” She’d seemed younger than she was—eighteen—and probably a virgin, and he’d been leaving for L.A. anyway….

“You were a gentleman? No wonder your band never made it.”

“Yeah. That was the problem.” You will succeed beyond your wildest dreams, she’d said, looking up from his palm. And he’d believed her. He couldn’t imagine he’d ever been that naive. If he’d used the brains God gave him he’d have checked out the “scout” before leaving town.

“See what you can find out at the workshop,” Craig said. “If it’s bogus, you’re doing a public service. You’ll look good around here, too, if you’re still interested in a job.”

“I am.” The idea got his blood pumping like when he’d first opened his practice. Something new. Something important.

They finished the call with a date for racquetball, which lately had been his main social outlet, along with tossing back some brews watching sports on TV with a few friends.

He liked long hours in the office, despite Maggie’s nagging at him. It got too quiet at his house when Dale was out. Besides, he loved what he did. No regrets. Esmeralda had acted as if quitting music had been some kind of crime against humanity.

She’d looked at him so strangely, as though he was the ghost of Christmas past or a relative she’d thought lost at sea.

To be honest, he’d felt an odd vibration, too. Probably just sexual chemistry. Or maybe inhaling all that incense.

What had she told him? Scientific studies on palmar derma-whatever? Please. Psychics and palm readers were such common scammers, they’d practically earned their own fraud division.

Mitch didn’t believe anyone’s future rested in the lines of a palm. Now, fingerprints, on the other hand, those definitely said something about your future. For Dale’s sake, he hoped Craig didn’t find Esmeralda’s anywhere.

3

AT HOME, MITCH FOUND HIS BROTHER on the couch, clutching a bowl of Cap’n Crunch with a big glop of peanut butter on top. Stoned again. Dale mainlined junk food whenever he fired up a bowl.

Dale looked up from the MTV reality show he was watching. “You’re early.” He shoved magazines and a Xbox controller to the floor and patted the cushion for Mitch. His gaze returned to the plasma screen.

Mitch grabbed the remote and thumbed down the sound. He would be casual. Start real easy, no pressure. “So, I stopped by that foundation office—the one you cut out from the paper?”

Slowly, Dale turned away from the screen. “What?”

“The place that gives grants? You wrote down that after-school music program idea? Wholesale instruments, remember?”

“Oh, yeah.” He shrugged. No big deal. That was how he’d acted when the music store had failed. Dale treated job ideas like catch-and-release fishing. There would always be another one. Not so, Mitch knew. Some chances didn’t come twice.

“So I found out more information for you.”

“You didn’t need to, but thanks.” Dale was an easy going guy, popular, with lots of women around. Always out and about, distracted from any doubts he had about the way he lived.

Maybe Mitch should have done the tough-love thing and booted him out, but he couldn’t stand the idea of his brother dragging his cookbooks and guitar from friend’s sofa to friend’s sofa. Mitch had the room and the money to help, so he did.

“The grant sounds possible. We need a proposal, though, and here’s the deal—there’s a grant-writing workshop tomorrow we need to go to. They’ll give tips.” And maybe hold a séance? God.

“Tomorrow night? We’ve got a gig.”

“This is at seven. And it’s a foot in the door on the grant.”

Dale chewed thoughtfully. “How about if you just cover it for me?” He turned to the TV. “I’ve got a couple of lessons in the late afternoon.”

“So skip your nap. Come on. This could be great.” He kept himself from saying anything harsh or pushy. Easy does it.