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But before she’d typed so much as the date, Bridget heard a commotion-shouts, coming from the sales floor. Her first thought was that Ted had come back and was making a scene. But there were several voices, all yelling at once.
She grabbed her purse and threw it under her desk, then wondered if she should crawl under after it…this could be a robbery. But when the door to the office flew open and she saw a uniformed police officer, she didn’t.
“Is anyone in here with you?” the officer barked.
“N-no. Just me.”
“You need to come with me, ma’am.”
Dazed, Bridget followed the officer, seeing all the other employees being herded together by other policemen. All of them were gathered just inside the front door, and Marty was shouting loud enough to break the glass in the windows.
Everyone was talking-demanding answers. Everyone but Bridget. She didn’t have to. Because the second she saw Dean Willis-dressed in a perfectly fitted dark blue suit-talking to other dark-suited men right outside the front door, she knew what was going on.
He was no car salesman.
“Sir, you’ll have an opportunity to call your attorney soon,” one of the officers said, trying to calm Marty down.
It worked for a brief second, until Dean walked through the door. When Marty saw him with the rest of the investigators, he started ranting and struggling against the officer trying to handcuff him. Another one jumped in to help and between them they got the livid man into custody.
Dean looked her way once. His nice blue eyes were frigid. His smile absent. His tousled blond hair was slicked down and parted on the side-conservative, professional. And his clothes were immaculate, right down to his shiny black wing-tip shoes.
He could have been a picture from an FBI agent’s handbook come to life.
The rest of the day went by in a whirl. She was questioned endlessly-never by Dean, who stayed away from her-but by his fellow agents. Apparently there had been a reason Marty hadn’t wanted Bridget to do a good job with the books. They were never supposed to balance out. Because, if the agents were to be believed, Honest Marty’s Used Cars had been bringing in and cleaning up a whole lot of dirty money for some pretty bad guys.
And she’d fallen right in the middle of it.
By the end of the day, Bridget was utterly exhausted. Ready to collapse, her throat sore from answering so many questions. She hadn’t asked for a lawyer-had cooperated fully, believing that’s what an innocent person should do. And she’d spent the last four hours in the conference room, going over months’ worth of seized bank statements and ledgers with some FBI accountant, watching step by step as they built a case against her boss.
At first, she felt a little sorry for Marty. But not too sorry. Especially when she caught snips of conversation about where the dirty money had come from. In her opinion, anybody who cleaned cash that had been earned off the sale of filthy drugs to kids deserved what he got. She was just sorry the creep had dragged her into the sordidness.
She’d seen Dean only briefly, when she’d been brought to tears by the relentless questions of the accountant. Dean had appeared out of nowhere, appearing behind the other officer’s back, barking, “She’s not a suspect, she’s a witness. Treat her like one.” Then, with one long, even look at Bridget, he’d left again to go back to work with the other investigators.
Finally, when it was nearly dark out, Bridget was told she could go home. She’d be called in to help again-and, likely, to testify-but for now, she was free.
Free. Great. She was free to go home, look back on this horrible day-on these past few horrible weeks-and think about what a damned fool she’d been.
Dean had used her. He’d feigned an interest in her so he could build his money laundering case against Marty. He’d played her like an instrument, obviously seeing the quiet, sweet-faced bookkeeper as an easy mark.
She hated the son of a bitch with a passion she’d never had toward anyone in her life.
That rage carried her down the block as she strode away from the dealership, heading toward her nearby apartment. Usually when she made the walk home, she kept her purse clutched tightly to her side, and constantly scanned for any possible danger. This wasn’t a bad part of town-but as a young woman walking alone, she didn’t take chances. Tonight, however, she practically dared anyone to mess with her. She felt capable of doing real violence.
“Bridget, wait, please!” a voice called.
Though she kept walking, she peered over her shoulder to see who’d called her. She almost tripped over her own feet when she realized it was Dean. “Stay away from me,” she snapped, picking up her pace.
