Copyright
“I am not a criminal,” Kira Kincaid announced to the female FBI agent who watched her every move. On the contrary, Kira was an upstanding example of citizenship. “I never even drive over the speed limit.” The fact that she didn’t own a car was inconsequential.
“Save it for the judge,” her keeper barked.
Kira pressed the cup to her lips and finished the last drop of water. She wished she had more. The third-floor interrogation room faced west and the late-August sun was outpacing the air-conditioning.
Rocking back and forth in the seat, she focused on trying to calm her nerves while preparing for what would happen next. Every police drama she’d ever seen replayed in her head. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be appointed for you. The only attorney she knew was Marissa Reynolds, a neighbor in her apartment complex.
Sitting there in shock, Kira didn’t know how much time passed. She also didn’t know how she remained so calm. Shock could do that to a person, she guessed. Even so, she had enough sense to refuse answering any questions until her attorney arrived. She sat quietly in the interrogation room, handcuffs removed, but with one agent left to supervise her actions. Where would she go?
She’d gone out of her way to avoid direct contact with Marissa, but Kira could deal with the interaction if it meant the difference between going home and spending the night in jail. After having messy fingerprints and a horrible mug shot taken, she had used her one allotted phone call.
The door swung open and Marissa Reynolds hurried in, giving Kira a quick once-over before a glance to the agent sent the woman from the room.
“I’m sorry you had to wait. I was right in the middle of an adoption.”
Kira pressed a fingernail into her palm to keep the tears at bay. Adoptions meant babies were getting new families. Marissa dealt with children every day, which was part of the reason they could never move beyond the boundaries of exchanging pleasantries in the hallway of their apartment complex.
Kira had stopped at Marissa’s once to borrow Scotch tape and nearly had a meltdown in her kitchen. Marissa’s refrigerator was covered in pictures. Snapshots of babies and toddlers offered an unwelcome reminder of what Kira had lost.
“I didn’t know who else to call.”
Marissa pulled out a chair, sat and dropped the notepad she’d been holding on the table. “I’m not a criminal attorney, but I can refer you to someone who is.”
“I’ve been set up,” Kira insisted. “I know who’s responsible.”
“Then you need to cooperate with the FBI.” Marissa was all business as she paused to straighten her lapel and brush away invisible lint.
Cooperate with the FBI? Kira had come too far for that option to sound feasible. And if they had any proof against her, dollars to doughnuts it was Griffin who’d once again left her a hair’s breadth away from learning his true identity. He’d also promised a fate worse than being arrested.
Two men entered the room after a quick tap on the door. Their FBI badges were flipped open on their jacket pockets. Marissa stood to greet them. Introductions and handshakes were exchanged, and Marissa asked to see the warrant for Kira’s arrest. Kira already knew what it said—the United States Government, Judicial District 47, was charging her with twenty-two counts of insurance fraud and fifteen counts of identity theft. And to add insult to injury, there were three counts of embezzlement. All Kira could do was sit and stare in dumbfounded silence.
“Mrs. Kincaid, you seem to have gotten in quite a pickle,” Agent Nissen said, sitting at the table with them. “Fortunately, it’s not you we’re after.”
He dropped a file in front of Marissa. She opened it and scanned the page.
“Eleven million dollars?” Marissa snapped the file shut and looked at Kira, not questioning the agent.
The second agent leaned against the wall. “We’re after the bigger fish and the money.”
“Meaning Justice is ready to make a deal to recover the cash,” Agent Nissen said.
Three pairs of eyes turned to Kira.
“You seriously think I embezzled eleven million dollars? I’m an insurance investigator. I only have three hundred dollars in my checking account. I didn’t steal anything.”
“Tell us what you know,” Agent Nissen insisted. “Start with the account under your maiden name holding eight hundred thousand dollars.”
“You’re married?” Marissa tipped her head to the side, her eyes reflecting betrayal. No one in their apartment building knew Kira was married. It was a lot easier not to discuss how she’d been abandoned.
“It’s been a while. Things didn’t work out.” Understatement of the year. “If an account still exists, then it’s news to me.”
“Here’s a listing of wire transfers into that account spanning the last four years, including one just two weeks ago.” Agent Nissen slid a sheet of paper across the table.
Kira would never in a million years waste fifty dollars on a single wire transfer, let alone continue doing it for several years. Her thrifty nature was common knowledge. She always packed a lunch and rode the bus rather than wasting money on a car, insurance and gas.
The numbers staring back at her contained too many commas and zeroes. But the paper also listed her full name, with the last four digits of her social security number. “Anyone can rent a PO box under my name and pay cash to hide their identity.”
“Is that how you did it?” Agent Nissen asked.
Kira ignored the jab. “What about this account in the Cayman Islands? Whose name is listed on it?”
Another sheet of paper sailed across the table. “Recognize that signature?”
“I recognize the name,” she conceded. “But that isn’t my signature.” She grabbed Marissa’s pen and signed her name on the first sheet of paper, shoving both across the table to Agent Nissen.
After studying the page for a moment, he shrugged. “We have plenty of other evidence linking you to these crimes.” He pulled a few more sheets from the folder. “Video of you from the bank in Denver, airline manifests showing frequent trips to Colorado, the Cayman Islands and your condo in Florida.”
“Stop.” She squeezed the bridge of her nose and took a cleansing breath. “This is absurd. Beyond absurd, it’s ludicrous. I’ve never been to Florida, let alone the Caymans.”
“The evidence tells a different story.” The second agent had a note of superiority in his voice, almost as if he was taking too much pleasure in tightening the invisible noose around her neck.
Whatever fear existed in her before was gone, along with her initial shock. This was wrong, plain and simple. “What is it you want from me?”
“We want evidence against your
