I ignored him and asked, “Did you work with them on the Hardshaw takedown?”
He shot me a dark glare.
“I’m gonna take that as a yes,” I said in a smug tone.
His glare turned icy.
I considered everything he’d told me about what he was doing for them. Things weren’t adding up. “I can’t imagine HSI would let you decide whether to eliminate the organization or turn over the evidence to them.”
He was silent for several seconds before he said, “Does it matter what we do with it? All that matters is the end result.”
Funny, half a year ago, I would have completely disagreed with that. Now, I wasn’t so sure. I still didn’t buy his explanation, not totally, but I wasn’t sure how to handle it. I decided to let it go for now.
He drove in silence, his body rigid with tension. About ten minutes later, he pulled into the parking lot next to a brick house that had been converted into an office space. The sign over the entrance read Morrow and Crowe, Public CPA.
I turned to James as he put the car in park. “Who are we meeting?”
“Natalie Crowe. She used to do J.R. Simmons’s books.”
I stared at him in surprise. “And she didn’t get caught up in the mess when he was arrested?”
“She wasn’t his only CPA. She mostly handled his illegal stuff, and Simmons took a lot of secrets to his grave. Still, the Feds seized most of his bank accounts and his properties, so it makes sense they’d know about Natalie. She was never arrested, though, so I wonder if she worked out some kind of deal.”
“Will she recognize you?”
He made a face. “Most likely. We’ve met before.”
“So I should expect some hostility?”
“Animosity is more likely, but I guess we’ll find out soon enough.” He opened the door and got out of the car.
I did the same and then followed him to the entrance.
He walked up to the receptionist’s desk, and a woman who looked to be in her thirties glanced up at him with a bright smile. “Can I help you?”
“I need to speak to Ms. Crowe.”
She frowned and glanced at her computer screen. “I’m sorry. I don’t see that she has any appointments right now.”
“We’re a drop-in,” James said good-naturedly. “I suspect she’ll want to see me.”
The receptionist didn’t look as certain. “And your name is?”
“Jonathan Wiseman.”
She picked up her phone and punched in several numbers. “Natalie, I have a Jonathan Wiseman here to see you.” She was silent for a long moment before she hung up. “She says to go on back. It’s the third door on the right.”
“Thanks,” James said, then glanced back at me before heading down the hall, leaving me to follow.
Where had that name come from? His tenure with Simmons? He must have known it would work.
He stopped outside the room and knocked. To my surprise, he waited for a faint “come in,” before he opened the door.
I followed him into a bright office with multiple plants in front of two windows on the far wall. A woman who looked to be in her late forties sat behind a dark wood desk. A desktop computer was arranged on one side of the L-shaped desk, while a stack of folders waited on the other.
The woman’s gaze narrowed on James as he entered the room and sat in the far guest chair in front of the desk. She stared at him as though he was a specter from her past.
He probably was.
