Lone Star Santa Read Free

rules. Prided himself on doing so, even.Nothing he’d done recently, or in the past few weeks—or ever—was even remotely suspicious.
    He drew a breath to ask if Jeremy knew what they were supposed to have done, but Jeremy rubbed the place above his eyebrow. The “be quiet” signal.
    So Mitch swallowed his questions and leaned against his office wall. Way back when they were in business school together, heck, even before that when they’d been in high school in Sugar Land, Texas, Mitch had learned that Jeremy was very good at reading people and good things always happened when Mitch stood back and let Jeremy take over. This method had worked for them in the eight years since they’d gone into partnership with each other and Mitch sure hoped it worked now.
    He watched as the men packed up his computer, every pencil, pen and paper clip in his desk and even his office plant. Some palm thing. “They’re taking my plant.” He turned to Jeremy in genuine bewilderment. “Did they take all your stuff?”
    Jeremy looked at his shoes in much the same way everybody in the outer office had found the carpeting so fascinating this morning.
    “You’re kidding,” Mitch said flatly. “Just my stuff?”
    Drawing a deep breath, Jeremy met his eyes. “I don’t care what you’ve done. I’m here for you. And we’ll get you a good lawyer. The best.”
    “I don’t need a lawyer!”
    “I’m thinking you do.” The head-honcho type approached them and handed Mitch a card.
    Mitch blinked, his vision as fuzzy as his brain, barely able to make out “FBI Economic Crimes Unit.” FBI?The FBI was here, too? Crimes? This could not be happening, at least not to him. “There’s got to be some mistake,” he said to the man. He squinted at the card. “Mr. Jenkins.”
    “Then we’ll find it.”
    “I—” He couldn’t think of a thing to say. It was as though someone had filled his head with molasses. Not enough sleep.
    He’d been working such long hours because it was nearing the end of the year and many of their clients made adjustments to their financial portfolios at this time for tax purposes. Nothing unusual. It was always this way. And the truth was, he liked the work. It meant business was good. It meant end-of-the-year profits.
    He waved his hand around his denuded office. “What am I supposed to do? Our clients—”
    “Don’t worry,” Jeremy broke in. “Go home. Take the rest of the day off. In fact take a couple of days. The rest of the week.”
    “You might give us a few hours before you head back home.” Jenkins smiled without mirth. “Do some early Christmas shopping.” He handed Mitch a piece of paper. “You can make one ATM withdrawal.”
    Several beats passed before Mitch understood that Jenkins’ men were in his town house, presumably leaving it in the same condition as his office.
    No.
    He turned, but Jenkins stopped him. “You’ll have to sign the paper.”
    “What is this?”
    “Basically, it says we’ve impounded the contents of your office until such time as we evaluate the evidence.”

    The words swam before his eyes. “What if I don’t sign?”
    Jenkins shrugged. “Stuff tends to get lost.”
    Right. Mitch signed, aware that Jeremy had been remarkably quiet during everything. He was no doubt as shocked as Mitch was.
    Mitch handed Jenkins his precious paper and promptly took his own shocked self back home.
    B AD MOVE . O UTSIDE HIS town house, Mitch leaned against his car, which he’d parked at the curb because, hey, he didn’t want to block the truck into which SEC minions were loading his possessions.
    And, oh, it wasn’t his own personal car. It was a rental because his own personal car had been impounded.
    As soon as he got his breathing under control—getting just the right speed to avoid hyperventilation was tricky at the moment—he’d give Jeremy a call. Just a, “Hey, how’s it goin’? What the hell is going on?” call.
    He gripped the cell phone and held his breath.