Her husband had died six years ago. Maybe she wore the ring as yet more protection. Practically everything about her screamed that she was unavailable, not an object to be desired or lusted after by men.
Her strategy had the opposite effect on him. He had always been intrigued by the librarian types. Uptight clothes, glasses, frosty demeanor—those were traits that gave his libido a wake-up call. He was curious to learn more about what was beneath the shapeless clothes, and he fantasized about pulling off the glasses, mussing the neat hair….
Hell, what was he doing? Raleigh Shinn wasn’t a potential lover. She was a sanctimonious lawyer who might or might not be guilty of accepting a bribe to use her influence unfairly.
Many convicts pleaded their cases to Project Justice. From what Griffin had heard, the foundation considered all of them, but took on only a very few.
Had Anthony Simonetti—or his wealthy, criminal father—leapfrogged over other, more worthy cases with the help of some green incentive?
The jury was still out. Griffin had received only an anonymous tip about Raleigh, plus the copy of her bank statement left under the windshield wiper of his car. He did not yet have enough solid information to go to print, nor even enough to form his own opinion. The current facts as he knew them would not impress the network that was considering him for an anchor position on a national TV news magazine.
But the potential for an exciting story was there. Project Justice was hot news right now, and Raleigh’s possible criminal actions could explode in the foundation’s face, making for a splashy, TV-worthy, journalistic tour de force.
But first, he had to learn more. He wanted to know everything there was to know about Raleigh Shinn. Mostly, he wanted to know why she hid a hot body and a beautiful face behind that dumpy facade.
CHAPTER TWO
“BUT IT HAS to be a mistake.” Raleigh had been on the phone for twenty-two minutes, first on hold, then working her way up the corporate ladder of Houston Federal Bank. She was now talking to a vice president.
“If it was a mistake,” the condescending man said, “it wasn’t on our end. Now, it’s possible whoever made the deposit mistyped a number.”
“Exactly! So can’t you just contact them and ask?”
“I’m afraid not. Numbered bank accounts are numbered for a reason. We’ve sent a query to the transmitting institution, but we haven’t yet received a reply.”
“So maybe you could just—send the money back.”
“That’s impossible. Where would we send it?”
“Then put it wherever you put unclaimed funds.”
“I’m not sure why you’re so upset, Ms. Shinn. If there was an error, it will be corrected in a day or two.”
She considered telling him that the twenty thousand dollars sitting in her account was causing her all kinds of trouble. Then she decided on a different strategy. If she couldn’t solve the mystery of the strange deposit, maybe she could find out how Griffin got a copy of her statement.
“Mr. Temple,” she said, referring to the name she had jotted down. She kept detailed notes of every phone conversation. If her mother called to tell her she had a cold, Raleigh made a note and filed it.
“Yes, Ms. Shinn? Is there something else I can do for you?”
“How secure is your online banking? I mean, how hard would it be for someone to hack into your system?”
“I assure you, ma’am, our computers are hack-proof. Every transaction uses the latest in encryption technology.”
“So there is absolutely no way someone could get access to my statement without my permission? What about bank personnel?”
“In most cases of illicit access to bank accounts, the security loophole lies with the client. Mail can be intercepted. A password can be stolen or, more often, divulged to someone who shouldn’t have it.”
She started to vehemently deny the problem could be on her end. She memorized her passwords, never wrote them down anywhere. But she did receive paper statements.
“Very well, thank you, Mr. Temple.”
“My pleasure, Ms. Shinn.”
She hung up, knowing little more than she’d known half an hour ago.
Given what Griffin Benedict had told her, she had to view that strange deposit with new eyes. Rather than a mistake, could it be part of a plot to ruin her? If someone really had provided Griffin with that bogus tip along with the stolen bank statement, it meant she had an enemy. A powerful one who had gone to some expense to wreck her reputation.
Plenty of people did not like her. The nature of her job was confrontational. She was constantly challenging unlawful judicial proceedings, inept lawyers, negligent police investigators. When a conviction was overturned, it meant someone, somewhere, had made a mistake or worse, and she had brought it to light.
Some of her own clients didn’t even like her. Few of them were shining examples of virtue.
Then there was the general public. Project Justice received hate mail all the time from people who thought the foundation’s mission was to let killers out on the street.
The press alternated between loving her and hating her. She’d been in the news a lot lately with the Eldon Jasperson thing.
Even her own in-laws despised her. She’d never shared a warm relationship with them: they hadn’t considered her a good match for their only son. Once they’d realized they couldn’t talk Jason out of the wedding, they had tolerated her. But after Jason’s death, the claws had come out again.
Jason’s parents had blamed her for the fatal car accident. As if she hadn’t heaped enough guilt onto herself.
After his funeral, she had quickly learned of her perilous financial situation. Everything Jason had owned was in trust, controlled by his parents, and they weren’t inclined to give her a dime. Without him and his family’s financial support, she could not continue running the law practice she and her husband had poured all of their passion into.
Their small firm of Shinn & Shinn had specialized in providing solid legal representation to those who couldn’t afford to pay exorbitant legal fees—and they’d never made a profit. All of their living expenses had been drawn from Jason’s trust. If Project Justice hadn’t come along at the right time, Raleigh would have had to accept her only other job offer, as a drone at a corporate law firm.
Raleigh’s stomach growled, reminding her she hadn’t had lunch. Daniel kept the office kitchen stocked with all kinds of healthy goodies, but Raleigh needed fresh air. A walk around the corner to her favorite deli was in order.
As she passed through the lobby she walked on tiptoe, hoping to avoid the receptionist’s attention. Celeste Boggs was one of the most terrifying people Raleigh knew. She was a vigilant watchdog, could purportedly shoot the wings off a gnat at fifty yards, and was fiercely loyal to Daniel Logan. Raleigh didn’t doubt the seventy-something woman would lay down her life to protect the foundation.
But Celeste
