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  STALKING MIDAS

  A Novel of Suspense

  Debbie Burke

  Tawny Lindholm Thriller Book 2

  STALKING MIDAS

  Copyright 2018 by Debbie Burke

  Media Management LLC

  P.O. Box 8502

  Kalispell, MT 59904

  All rights reserved

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Advance praise for Stalking Midas

  "Debbie Burke touches all the right bases in her new novel, STALKING MIDAS, set in northwestern Montana in a biting winter you can feel in every scene. The novel is a study in human frailty redeemed by the open heart and immense courage of her wounded hero protagonist, Tawny Lindholm. Murder, torture, racism, ageism, misogyny, heinous fraud, and the darkest seeds of human cruelty - all of it woven tightly within a plot that builds and then roars with finality. It's rare to find narrative terrain this emotionally resonant, making STALKING MIDAS a special treat for thriller readers indeed." - LARRY BROOKS, bestselling author of STORY ENGINEERING, DARKNESS BOUND, SERPENT'S DANCE

  "STALKING MIDAS is strong on characterization and witty banter with a chilling villain in a ripped-from-the-headlines compelling plot. A real page turner." - JORDAN DANE, critically acclaimed bestselling author of THE SWEET JUSTICE SERIES

  Acknowledgements

  Many friends and colleagues offered invaluable assistance with this story. Sincere thanks to critiquers and beta readers: Betty, Val, Holly, Marie, Ann, Karen C., Debbie E., Dawn, Sue, Leslie, Sarah, and Phyllis. You are the best!

  My special gratitude to Tom Kuffel, Rabbi Allen Secher, Jordan Dane, and Larry Brooks.

  Most of all, to Tom, who makes it possible for me to follow my dreams.

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Advance praise for Stalking Midas

  Chapter 1 – Whiteout

  Chapter 2 – Hazardous Conditions Ahead

  Chapter 3 - Stalked

  Chapter 4 - Alpenglow

  Chapter 5 - Lost

  Chapter 6 – Wounded in Action

  Chapter 7 – Hit and Run

  Chapter 8 – Get Rich Quick

  Chapter 9 – There Is No Free Lunch

  Chapter 10 – Birds Gotta Make a Living Too

  Chapter 11 – When In Doubt, Shut Up

  Chapter 12 – Keys to the Kingdom

  Chapter 13 – Carlo Ponzi Is Alive and Well

  Chapter 14 – King Midas

  Chapter 15 – Deja Vu All Over Again

  Chapter 16 – Rambo 2, Humans 0

  Chapter 17 – He Might Hurt You

  Chapter 18 – Cruel Fraud

  Chapter 19 – White Cross

  Chapter 20 – Up in Smoke

  Chapter 21 – Arson Confirmed

  Chapter 22 – Break-In

  Chapter 23 – Choke Hold

  Chapter 24 - SWAT

  Chapter 25 – A Roll of Dimes

  Chapter 26 – Felony Stupid

  A NOTE FROM DEBBIE

  SNEAK PREVIEW OF EYES IN THE SKY

  Chapter 1 – Whiteout

  Cassandra Maza targeted cranky old folks, ones so ornery that only ankle-biting Chihuahuas or feral cats could tolerate them. Their bitter isolation from family and friends made her work easier. Case in point: her eighty-two-year-old neighbor, Lydia, in whose bedroom Cassandra now sat.

  A January blizzard rattled the windows of Lydia’s condominium at Golden Eagle Golf Resort. The elderly woman slumped in her recliner, feet propped up, eyes half-closed. An empty tea cup dangled from a finger. She'd finished the brew Cassandra had prepared for her and it was working nicely, giving blessed relief from Lydia’s incessant complaining about her arthritis.

  Cassandra rubbed lotion into Lydia’s bare foot, toes warped and twisted. “Doesn’t this feel nice, dear?”

  “Muggins,” Lydia whispered. Her Shih Tzu’s name. The rag-mop dog yapped from inside the coat closet where Cassandra had secured him.

  “I’ll take very good care of Muggins, darling,” she murmured as she lifted Lydia’s robe to expose gaunt thighs and cotton underwear. She slipped a syringe from her pocket and removed the plastic cap with her teeth, then slid the needle into the deep crease in the groin where a puncture would never show. Her aim was good.

  Lydia jerked but Cassandra held firm until the potassium emptied in the femoral vein. She used her elbow to compress the flesh for thirty seconds to prevent bleeding.

  The fragile teacup crashed to the floor.

  By the time Lydia’s heart stopped, Cassandra had recapped the syringe, returned it to her pocket, and was rummaging in the dresser drawer.

  The dog’s barking rose to a high-pitched staccato.

  Cassandra plucked a ruby and diamond choker from a jewelry box and admired the light dancing in the facets. Had Lydia’s late husband once cherished her? More likely, the foul-tempered old woman caught him cheating and had extorted the necklace as penance.

  She tucked it in her cleavage, then closed the drawer and released the frantic dog from the closet. Muggins raced to Lydia and catapulted into her lap. No response.

  At the front door, Cassandra paused to don her coat. “Don’t worry, Lydia darling. Muggins will soon be playing with doggie friends.”

  Crouching against the blast of windswept snow, she hurried to her own condo at the opposite end of the four-unit building. The whiteout masked her movement if anyone happened to be looking out a window. By the time she reached home, the blizzard had already filled in her footprints, wiping away any trace of her final visit with Lydia.

  * * * *

  If a lawyer saves you from prison and gives you a job, you’ll do anything he asks. At least that’s how Tawny Lindholm felt. Otherwise, she wouldn’t be driving at a crawl in the middle of a Montana blizzard in January.

  Two hundred cookie-cutter condominiums lined the maze of looping lanes in Golden Eagle Golf Resort, ten miles outside Glacier National Park. She needed to find the unit where her boss Tillman Rosenbaum’s father lived. The father he refused to talk to.

  A good six inches of fresh snow already layered the street, more heaped on the curbs. Tawny parked her Jeep Wrangler in front of what she hoped was the right building and crunched through white banks, shuffle-scuffing on the buried walkway. Icy bullets stung her cheeks and nose.

  She pounded on the door with her gloved hand. Waited. Her teeth chattered.

  At last, the door swung open. Moshe Baruch Rosenbaum filled the entrance, a startling preview of what her boss would look like in thirty years. Long lanky limbs, tight iron-gray curls, and a jutting lower jaw that dared the world to take a swing at him. He could have been Tillman’s older identical twin, except this man was black. That explained her boss’s bronze skin tone, which, until now, she’d assumed came from a tanning booth.

  “What?” Moshe Rosenbaum snarled.

  Tawny smiled with as much warmth as she could manage in a wind chill of twenty below zero. “Mr. Rosenbaum, my name is Tawny Lindholm. I wonder if I could have a few minutes of your time.”

  “You’re too old to be selling Girl Scout cookies.” The door started to close.

  “I’m not selling anything, sir. I work for your son and he asked me to—”

  “I have no son!” His baritone roar sounded like God in a cave.

  Even though she’d anticipated the rebuff, Rosenbaum’s fury unnerved her. She forced her smile wider, despite chattering teeth. “Sir, I need to talk to you. It’s important.”

  The elderly man glared down at her.

  Ta
wny often felt the same rage from Tillman and had learned to stand up to him. Would that work with his father? She met his angry, dark eyes with a steady gaze and took a chance. “Mr. Rosenbaum, you know as well as I do that your son is a big pain in the ass. If I don’t do what he says, he’ll fire me and, sir, I really need this job.”

  Moshe Rosenbaum’s stormy expression didn’t change, but after a few seconds, he turned on his heel, leaving the door open to allow blowing snowflakes—and her—to enter. In the welcome warmth of the vestibule, she forced the door closed against the blustering wind.

  The ammonia stink of a neglected litter box immediately assaulted her nose. She glanced around for the cat as she stepped out of snow-caked boots and shrugged off her hooded parka. A low, menacing growl drew her attention. A Siamese, as big as a bobcat, sprawled on the back of a massive leather sectional, its tail swishing. Blue eyes narrowed with a threat.

  A second cat rubbed hard against her legs and purred like an idling jet. Tawny stooped to stroke its calico head.

  In the great room, staghorn chandeliers hung from the cathedral ceiling that was constructed of peeled log beams. Two-story-tall windows faced the golf course, invisible at the moment because of the whiteout. Cats three and four flanked a river-rock fireplace that was the size of the entrance to a gold mine.

  A wide curving stairway led to the upper level. Cats five, six, and seven lolled on the steps, grooming themselves or clawing the carpeting. No wonder the place reeked. A litter box would need to be the size of a pool table to accommodate all the felines.

  Tawny breathed through her mouth. No relief.

  Tumbleweeds of cat hair floated across the slate floor with every step she took. Pizza boxes, tall stacks of books and newspapers, and rumpled clothes littered the great room. If Moshe Rosenbaum aspired to hoarding, he’d made a solid start.

  Tawny mentally reviewed the information Tillman had related when he’d called early that morning from his office in Billings. Moshe Baruch Rosenbaum was seventy-five, divorced four times, a semi-retired financier. Private pilot until suspension of his medical permit after a heart attack three years before. Golfed six days a week in season. His net worth should be a healthy seven figures.

  Yet his condo was in foreclosure and Tillman wanted to know why. He suspected fraud.

  She’d argued, “Your dad’s not going to open up to a complete stranger.”

  “He’ll open up to you,” Tillman retorted. “You’re pretty, not threatening, someone he’s likely to trust.”

  Yeah, trust was her specialty. Because she’d trusted the wrong man, Tillman had to rescue her from criminal prosecution. Now she was stuck working for a lawyer she didn’t like but felt indebted to.

  And here she stood in the senior Rosenbaum’s home without a clue how to tackle her assignment.

  She needed a conversational opener. Well, Mr. Rosenbaum, your son thinks you’re being scammed. How’s the rest of your day going?

  Tawny longed to join the man in front of the glowing fireplace but hesitated. Instead, she picked up the calico for warmth. She wondered if her shivers felt like purring to the cat. “Sir?”

  He snapped, “Call me Moe.”

  “Moe.” She shifted the cat to her other arm and offered her hand.

  “Bah!” He ignored her gesture and moved to the kitchen, long legs scissoring just like his son’s, and picked up a mug with a teabag label hanging over the rim. “Why’s a nice girl like you working for a prick like him?”

  Plenty of family animosity to go around. “He helped me out of a bad situation.”

  In sock feet, Tawny crossed cushy carpet that once might have been the color of ivory, now a mottled gray-brown. In the kitchen, wadded fast food sacks and take-out containers cluttered the granite counters. She noticed a commercial six-burner range partly buried under golf shoes, sneakers, and sandals. She’d always wanted a stove like that but could never afford it, while Moe treated his like a shoe rack.

  A kettle steamed on the only exposed burner. She set the calico down and asked, “Do you mind if I have some tea?”

  He jerked his head toward the stove. “Help yourself.”

  Grit and crumbs on the cold slate floor poked through her socks. She tentatively opened cupboards, looking for a mug. Jumbles of papers stuffed the shelves but no dishes or tea. “Uh, where do you keep cups?”

  He frowned. “Dishwasher.”

  Duh, of course. She opened it to find glasses and mugs full of slimy water, mingled among apparently clean. Despite her chill, disgust made her give up the quest.

  Moe wandered back to the fireplace, slopping tea on the carpet. A raggedy green golf cardigan hung on wide bony shoulders. He wore leather house shoes like her grandpa used to wear, broken down from years of sliding into them, the backs permanently flattened under his heels. He paused to stroke the growling Siamese. The cat continued to watch Tawny with suspicion.

  Tawny wondered if Moe was simply a slob. Or was he losing control? She remembered Grandpa, no longer able to cope as once-familiar surroundings slipped away, leaving him to drown in the bottomless well of dementia.

  She moved to the tall windows. Snow still blew sideways across the fairways but seemed to be winding down. “Great location for a golfer. How long have you lived here?”

  He scowled at the fire, not looking at her. “Get to the point.” No wasted small talk, just like his son.

  “Tillman saw a legal notice about your home, sir. He’s concerned.”

  “I’m deeply touched.” Sarcasm must be genetic. “What kind of trouble were you in?”

  His unexpected question jerked Tawny back. She gulped. “I killed a man in self-defense.”

  At last, Moe turned to her, a slight lift of one bushy eyebrow. “Well, aren’t you the hotshot?”

  She perched on the arm of the sectional, noticing rips in the leather, no doubt caused by cats. “It’s not something I’m proud of. But your son helped me and I owe him. Besides, he pays better than any other job I could get. I’m fifty, never went to college, and I’ve been out of the work force for eight years. I’m grateful for the job and want to do my best.”

  He pulled on his long chin. “So he’s taking advantage of your undying gratitude. Over and above the outrageous fees he undoubtedly charged you.”

  She poked stuffing back into the torn leather. “He took my case pro bono.”

  Moe’s eyes were so dark they almost appeared black. They narrowed as he scanned her figure up and down, his insinuation clear.

  She’d filled out a little since the modeling career of her youth, but still fitted into her daughter’s skinny jeans. She tugged on her auburn french braid and held her gaze steady. “No, sir, I am not working it off in trade.”

  An unexpected grin lit the old man’s face. “You’re all right. Straight shooter. No beating around the bush.” He moved away from the fire and folded onto the couch, knees high. The Siamese stalked along the back, hopped down, and curled on his lap. “So what about my affairs are you supposed to meddle in?”

  Tawny swallowed. She’d started out with honesty-is-the-best-policy and it had worked so far. At least he hadn’t thrown her out yet. “Your condo is in foreclosure.”

  He flipped a long-fingered, veined hand. “Nonsense.”

  “There’s a notice in the newspaper. I have a copy in my car.” Which she’d purposely left outside in case she needed to make a hasty retreat. “I’ll get it if you’d like to read it.”

  “And send you out into the storm?” He slid the cat to the side, rose, and strode toward a closed door off the great room. “Look it up online. Come on.”

  Tawny followed him to a dim room, where wood shutters blocked the windows. Through the murk, she made out a built-in desk with a computer.

  Somehow Moe found the on switch and the monitor lit up, casting a bluish glow through the cluttered office. He stubbed his slipper on a stack of file folders, sending them cascading across the floor. When he pulled the chair out, the casters ran up on the
disturbed pile, making the chair slant sideways. He didn’t notice and sat down, even though he was tilting to the right.

  The walls appeared to be closing in until Tawny’s eyes adjusted. Then she realized they weren’t walls, but instead floor-to-ceiling rows of bankers boxes, perched precariously, overlapping in a jigsaw like an OSHA inspector’s nightmare. An earthquake, or even a semi-truck passing by, could spell disaster.

  Claustrophobia made shivers creep up her neck. “Moe, I can’t see a thing. I’m turning on a light.” She felt along the door frame and flipped a switch. A single bulb lit up, the last working one in the ceiling fixture.

  The cat box stink coupled with the creepy dark office overwhelmed her. Backing into the living room, she said, “I need to go to my car.”

  Moe ignored her, bent over the computer.

  In the entry, she slipped into her boots and coat and went out, quickly closing the door to keep the friendly calico cat from following her.

  After the gagging stench, the blizzard felt refreshing, cleansing. She climbed into the Jeep and longed to drive twenty-five miles straight home to Kalispell. Let Tillman take care of his own father instead of foisting the job off on her.

  But the elderly man clearly needed help. And if Tawny knew anything, it was how to take care of the aging and ill—her grandparents and parents, then eight years dealing with her husband Dwight’s cancer. Besides, Tillman paid twenty-five dollars an hour, three times what she could hope to earn as a home aide without certification or license.

  She took a deep breath and started the Jeep to fetch cleaning supplies.

  * * * *

  Forty minutes later, Tawny returned to Moe’s condo, the reports from Tillman tucked under her arm. She toted a large sack of kitty litter, light bulbs, and bleach, all packed into a new plastic litter box. Having left the front door unlocked, she knocked but entered without waiting for Moe to answer. “Hello?”