Show Her The Money

“Fire!” somebody yelled, and as one, we all turned and fled.

My heart raced, and my palms broke out in a sweat. I took off for Mom’s office. She must have heard the commotion, because she met me at the doorway. “What the hell’s going on?”

“Mom, we’ve gotta get out of here! It’s—”

“A smoke bomb!” Tiffany yelled. I turned to see her emerge from the fog now creeping down the hall. Her eyes were watering, and she had a hand over her mouth while she coughed and gagged. “This is your fault!”

“My fault?” I asked, astonished anyone would think I’d stoop to something so juvenile and mean.

Thrusting a sheet of crinkled paper at me, she coughed and spluttered but managed to say, “Whoever opened the door and…threw the smoke bomb tossed this in first. Says right there, ‘Back off…Pink…or next time it’ll be a helluva lot worse than…smoke!’”

So much for my plan of keeping my stalker on the Q.T.

didn’t grow up dreaming of becoming a CPA. She planned to be a park ranger so that she could live in the mountains of Yellowstone National Park, marry a good-looking guy who liked bears and spend her evenings by a cozy fire, writing novels. But a funny thing happened on the way to college. Instead of a forestry degree, she graduated with a BBA in accounting and became a CPA. Instead of marrying a mountain man, she married an oilman. And instead of living amongst mountains and pines and bears, she lives in the flatlands of West Texas, amongst mesquites and jackrabbits. That’s okay for Stephanie—she happens to love the mesquites and the jackrabbits. She especially loves her oilman. And she does spend her evenings writing novels, although instead of a cozy fire, she opts for an air conditioner. Stephanie would love for you to visit her Web site at www.stephaniefeagan.com.

This book is dedicated to the memory of

Edward Cotner. We miss you, Eddie.

My undying gratitude belongs to the following people: Jo George, CPA extraordinaire, aka Mom, for answers and inspiration. Callie and Leslea, for the gift of time. Kay Sirgo and Cheryl Cotner, for the first reads. Dan Fogelberg, for keeping me company in the wee hours, via headphones. Pam Payne, Nancy Kleinkopf and the Wet Noodle Posse, without whom this book never would have happened. Karen Solem, for believing in Pink. Natashya Wilson, every writer’s dream editor, for your patience, help and friendship. And most of all, my thanks to Mike, for the oil-field expertise, your love and support, and your unwavering faith in me.

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Sitting in front of the senate finance committee was like sprinting down Dallas Central Expressway, naked. If I didn’t get run over and killed, I was bound to become the butt of everyone’s joke first thing in the morning when the newspapers came out.

Either way, I’d rather get a root canal, have lunch with Aunt Dru, who could bore God into a premature Armageddon or remarry my lying, cheating mongrel of an ex-husband than face a row of senators bent on ferreting out the truth behind one of the worst accounting hoodwink jobs in history. Never mind that they got the first scent of blood from me. Less than a month ago, I thought I could set things straight, Marvel Energy would get their hand slapped and all would be well. How was I to know that what I discovered was only the tip of the iceberg?

I’d finished giving my prepared statement, and now it was time to run through the rack line with all those fun and happy senators who vaguely reminded me of a movie I once saw about the Salem witch trials.

“Ms. Pearl, I’d like some clarification on a few points.”

Eyeing Senator Santorelli, a romantic-looking Italian with perfect hair, I nodded.

“What was your position within the accounting firm before you were dismissed?”

“I was promoted to senior manager last December, with the understanding I was being groomed to make partner within three years. This was my first year to head the Marvel Energy audit. I reported directly to Lowell Jaworski, the partner in charge of the firm’s Dallas-based energy and petroleum clients.”

“When you initially discovered the irregularities in Marvel’s accounting methods, were you aware how deeply your own firm was involved?”

“I had no idea.” That all came later. It broke my heart to discover the firm where I’d worked for over eight years was rotten at the core. But I didn’t say that. I was pretty sure the finance committee could care less about my heart.

“What sort of discrepancies, in particular, did you find while working on the Marvel audit?”

Oh boy. This was the fun part. “Based on the dollar amount of oil reserves Marvel claims to hold, they own close to a sixteenth of the world’s supply of petroleum. Marvel is a large company, sir, but not that large. My staff was only able to track down a fraction of their claim. Marvel has less than sixty million dollars of debt on the balance sheet, but I believe they owe various banks upwards of four hundred million. All of this debt was carried off the books, within a maze of partnerships and offshore trusts. As I dug deeper, I found out the company overstated their quarterly income for the past five quarters by almost twenty million.”