“You have been passed to me,” Bray said.
A rustle called my attention to the files he had spread on the table. I had drifted off thinking about my phone call. I watched his long fingers separate sheets of paper with an elegance that made me wonder if he played an instrument. Probably something classy like the piano or violin. Try as I might, I could not picture Calvin Bray holding a guitar or drumsticks.
“I’ve beenpassedto you? I’ve been with Wallace for ten years; I don’t get passed to anyone, especially not some rookie.”
Bray bristled, then flipped through his papers like he was searching for patience. “I got word yesterday you would be arriving here, and I was to meet you. Please, if you have a seat, I’ll fill you in on this case.”
I arched a brow at him and pointedly did not sit.
“Fine,” he said with a matching arched brow. He spread the files to show a smattering of DMV records photocopied above bullet point lists: occupation, income, known medical conditions. I had seen it all before; theCliffsNotessummary of people’s lives. The DSA could get its hands on pretty much anything.
“This is one of the most exclusive neighborhoods in this area. The families are like local royalty,” Bray continued. “They sit on boards, work for the major tech companies, lead community groups.” He placed the photo of a gorgeous woman below a photo of an equally attractive man and pointed at them. “Melanie and Scott Browning. He’s a lead software engineer; she’s a stay-at-home mom.”
The couple glorified suburban chic, even in their driver’s license photos. Melanie smiled like a beauty queen, her hair rolling in golden waves. Scott looked like a prom king.
“Jana and Paolo Russo.” He placed another set of photos beside them, again with the husband on top and the wife below. These ones showed a couple with matching dark hair. Paolo had thick brows and olive skin, Jana had delicate facial bones and sharp eyes. “He’s a venture capitalist, and she’s a stay-at-home mom.”
He produced two more photos and laid them out in the same order.
“And Sandra Whitley and Michael Vassar. He’s a web designer, and she’s a—”
“Stay-at-home mom?” I finished for him, sensing a trend.
He smiled sideways at me, a hint of smugness shading his eyes. “Actually, no. She’s a freelance writer.”
I picked up Sandra’s photo with a curious frown. The woman coyly smiled back like she guarded a secret. Something in her eyes put an uneasy prickle in my belly. I set the photo down. “So, what are they up to?”
Bray straightened Sandra Whitley’s photo so it lined upperfectly with Melanie’s beside it. I wondered if it was a nervous habit. Or maybe he was just a control freak. “We have reason to believe Melanie, Sandra, and Jana are key players in a smuggling operation.”
I balked and managed to keep a quietwhoafrom slipping out. I had seen many things over my years aiding the DSA, but I never would have guessed the Stepford Wives would be up to no good. I fully expected Bray to point to the husbands, or perhaps suggest the whole set was involved in some underground sex cult.
I traced a fingertip over Sandra’s photo again since it was closest, my mind running wild with potential. “What’s their operation?”
Bray reached out and straightened the photo again. “Baby products,” he said with such sincerity, I thought it had to be a joke.
“Are you serious?”
His face said he was completely serious. “The baby goods market is a nearly seventy-billion-dollar-a-year industry. Do you know how much a quality stroller costs? The BuggyBaby X3 is the hottest status symbol on the market right now and retails for almost nine hundred dollars. These women are running some backdoor scheme getting goods imported illegally and reselling them to turn a profit. The problem is, I can’t find their supplier or where they keep their merchandise. They have to have a warehouse somewhere with the numbers they’re turning over.”
The sudden image of Sandra Whitley hawking a stroller in an alley almost made me laugh. I bit my lips because Bray was not laughing. “What evidence do you have?”
He slipped a new photo from his file, this one of a shiny black SUV. “Well, for one thing, Ms. Whitley recently got a new Porsche, and the financials don’t add up.”
A spark of irritation sizzled at the back of my throat, and Icouldn’t stop it coming out my mouth. “Because a woman couldn’t afford that car? You said she’s a freelance writer.”
Bray frowned. “That’s a ninety-thousand-dollar car. Unless she’s ghostwriting for the president, she’s not making that kind of money.”
I silently and reluctantly agreed with him.
“But the real red flag is her husband. Michael Vassar recently got laid off, and she somehow pulls this beauty into the driveway a few weeks later?”
He made a good point, but I felt the need to play devil’s advocate. It was something I did with Wallace all the time. Poke holes in the story, find the weak spots. It only served my benefit to know all the vulnerabilities.
“Maybe they are saving face. Husband gets fired, they don’t want anyone to know, so they buy a status car.”
He pursed his lips like he was considering it, and I watched the line of his jaw lift. The tiny scar stretched. “Maybe so, but even then, where did the money come from? I checked with the dealer: paid for in full on purchase. Cash.”
I involuntarily scoffed. The rules for who could and couldn’t run around with bags of money were drawn nearly parallel with those marking social class divisions. With the right skin color, outfit, and name, I could walk into a car dealership with ninety grand in my purse and drive off the lot, no problem. But someone else would be questioned as to how they came into the money in the first place. In some cases, they would probably be accused of stealing it. Sandra Whitley, blonde, brown eyes, five foot five, one-hundred-twenty pounds according to her driver’s license, fell into the former camp, and the thought made me realize, with the right clothes on, so did I.
