Stacy motioned for us to sit in the two folding chairs while she maneuvered her way behind the desk, gingerly shifting stacks of folders so they wouldn’t fall on her.
“Can I see your identification, Mr. Hanover?” She wasn’t a fool.
Bran handed over his driver’s license without comment. She studied it for a minute before handing it back.
“Thank you. I don’t mean to be impolite but Hanover isn’t such an uncommon a name.”
“And my father’s assistant told you I’d be coming,” Bran added.
The thin smile didn’t falter. “She did. We tend to be cautious where the media’s involved even if it is, ah, family.”
It didn’t take a genius to see between the lines. She was worried about bad press, be it justified or not. I’d see too many good causes curl up and die like slugs on salt licks when the press got it wrong and the fallout killed a good group. A retraction on page 87 didn’t undo the damage when it came to asking for public support and money.
“I understand.” Bran beamed. “I’m working on a freelance article regarding the rehabilitation and reintegration of criminals back into society and thought, well—” He spread his hands. “Where better to start than at one of my family’s good works?”
Her nose twitched. She wasn’t buying it.
I hid a smile. That would keep Bran humble.
Bran’s lips pressed together in a thin line as he realized Stacy Brunel wasn’t going to be as easily hustled as his other pseudo-journalistic targets.
“We’re here about Keith Shaw.” His tone shifted from friendly to hard-core steel. “We know he worked here on the loading dock.”
Stacy studied him for a second before responding. “Who told you that?”
“Frank Yupp.” I leaped in, unwilling to sit back and let Bran do all the heavy lifting. “He told us Keith was flashing some cash, more than he should have been holding.” I pulled out my private investigator’s license and tossed it on the table. “We’re investigating a theft and think he might be involved.”
It was a half lie. I didn’t want to say the word “kidnapping.”
Stacy’s eyes went wide as she saw the official identification. “I didn’t think we had private investigators in Canada.”
I sighed. “Yes, we do. And we’re wondering how Keith Shaw goes from unloading veggies on your dock to waving around hundred-dollar bills.”
“I didn’t know about that.” She gestured at the sparsely decorated office. “I can tell you he didn’t get it from here. We never keep more than a hundred dollars on hand including personal wallets. We believe it’s best to avoid temptation.”
“Understandable.” Bran leaned forward. “Keith Shaw only came into this cash after some sort of photo shoot, some publicity stunt. Tell us about it.”
Stacy frowned. “It was a meeting with some of our sponsors. Hanover Investments is at the top when it comes to donations, as you know. Some of the board members showed up to take pictures with the workers for newsletters, the usual fluff they send out to let their people know where the money’s going.” She shook her head. “No one got paid for it.”
She dug for a folder at the bottom of a stack to her left. “I have the photographs here. We were discussing how to use them at the last meeting.”
She flipped the plain brown folder open to reveal a series of black-and-white images of the men from the loading dock, the three we’d passed on the way in. They perched on the lone forklift, Keith Shaw among them. He glared at the camera and I imagined he wasn’t the top choice for a poster boy.
Behind the forklift stood a line of dignitaries, local government flunkies making time with the press. Bernadette beamed at the camera while Michael scowled, obviously eager to get out of the spotlight and back to work.
“Keith hasn’t been in for two days. He called in sick yesterday and hasn’t shown up today so far.” She cleared her throat. “As long as he reports to his probation officer there’s no problem but if there’s more—” She let the sentence hang. “Should we be calling the police?”
I resisted the urge to wave my hands frantically in the air. The last thing we needed was to have the police on our trail or worse, doubling back on our tracks. If they found Shaw’s body they’d be searching for his killer and not necessarily connecting it to Liam’s kidnapping. If we told them it was connected Hank would have my ass back in jail faster than I could blink for withholding evidence and I’d be trying to explain why I hadn’t handed Liam over to the authorities.
I still hadn’t figured out how I was going to dodge that bullet.
“No.” Bran waved her off. “My father, he thinks someone picked his pocket. We always carry spare cash, you see.” He displayed his own thick bundle of cash, ignoring my eye roll.
Stacy let out something akin to a peep.
He gave her another killer smile. “You’ll understand we want to handle this as quietly as possible.”
“Oh yes,” Stacy agreed.
“My apologies for the deception,” Bran said. “I didn’t want to cast aspersions on Mr. Shaw until we verified he was the actual criminal.” He gave a noncommittal shrug. “For all we know he won a lottery.”
“But you can’t find him.” Stacy looked from one of us to the other. “Doesn’t it confirm he’s the thief?”
“Not really.” I leaped in to try to save the conversation. “He could be on a bender drinking away his winnings. You understand we don’t want to make any accusations until we have more than just vague theories to go on. Not to mention the embarrassment to the center here if we wrongly accused him and it got leaked to the press.”
A flash of panic in her eyes told me I’d said the right thing.
“We’ve got to get going.” I slipped my business card across the top of the photographs. “Please call us if you hear anything about Mr. Shaw.”
Like, say, his death.
She added the card to the folder before closing it up and placing it back atop the precariously teetering stack. “I can’t believe Keith would steal someone’s wallet.”
“Why?” Bran asked as we stood up.
“Because he’s a paroled murderer. This would put him back in jail for the rest of his term.” Stacy covered her mouth. “I’m sorry, I’m not sure I should have said that.”
“I think it’s okay,” I said.
Bran looked over at the shippers as we made our way to the front of the kitchen. They were busy emptying a truck that had arrived while we were in Hampton’s office. The forklift spun around, neatly depositing a half-full skid of plastic boxes in a corner. The other men stripped the shrink-wrap away and sorted through the canned vegetables.
“Think they know anything?” Bran asked.
I hesitated. “I don’t think Shaw was into sharing—if he brought one of these guys in they’d demand a share and wouldn’t be here.” I winced as the forklift tines screeched for oil.
Bran led me through the front eating area. I could almost hear his teeth grinding.
It wasn’t proof either way but it was a link between Shaw and the Hanovers. Brayton was nothing but a sheep being led to slaughter on the Hanover altar.
“Now where to?” Bran put his hands on his hips. A homeless man started to approach us, hand out, but spotted Bran’s annoyed expression and paused, unsure what to do.
“I don’t know,” I admitted. “The important thing is that Liam’s safe.” I dug in my pocket for some spare change, finding a few gold-colored dollar coins. I flipped them toward the man with a wan grin. He scooped them up and scampered into a nearby alley.
“For how long?” Bran kicked at a stone. It bounced into the street and off a moving car, causing a dent or at the least, a scratch. “Jess can’t keep him forever.”