And how strong was his Seattle alibi, really? Brewster shrank deeper into his seat. Nobody out there could confirm for certain they’d met him, presuming they remembered anything at all a year after the fact. The clerks at the airline, hotel, and rental car counters, the attendees at the writers’ conference, and even the agent had never seen him before. An accomplice could have gotten away with posing as a writer and flashing forged identification whenever necessary.
Would the literary agent recognize Brewster if called to a witness stand? At least two dozen writers had pitched their novels to her during the conference, and the woman might have attended a dozen other conferences since then. No wonder that fat cop had been talking up forensics! Jonesy had probably figured out that an accomplice could have filled in for Brewster in Seattle—some unknown person of interest number two.
Brewster almost drove over a curb. He tried harder to keep his tingling hands steady, stay on the road, and avoid sidewalks whose stray pedestrians—a group waiting for a bus here, a homeless person holding up a cardboard sign there—managed to go through life in blissful ignorance about the hazards of being in two places at one time. After a few miles of strip malls and grocery stores, he completed his nerve-racking drive by turning down the street spilling into Crestview Finance’s parking lot. The cop gave up the chase at that point and pulled over, clearly banking on the certainty Brewster would eventually need to head out the same way he came in.
A sawhorse blocked the driveway, and a security guard post had been stationed beside it. Brewster parked, stepped out of his car into the brisk autumn air, and tried to enjoy maybe his last breaths of freedom.
Enjoy. What a laugh. Carla was dead. He had only the sketchiest of ridiculous plans to rescue her. And on top of that, he’d become the target of a perfect frame with no way to explain the situation without coming across as a guy practicing his insanity plea.
CHAPTER 25
A few minutes later
Brewster stepped away from the lobby window. He wouldn’t bring Igor Tesfaye and his girlfriend to the office any quicker by waiting with his nose pressed against the glass. Meanwhile, Crestview’s workforce, his employees, stood every chance of losing their jobs if he didn’t do something quick. That meant putting time travel on hold and dealing with the present.
He took a deep breath and headed into the conference room, settling into a seat across the table from Steve Franklin. The uninspiring, gray-haired banker had arrived in the standard power outfit—dark suit, white shirt, red tie—befitting his position as senior vice president of First Collateral Bank. His army of similarly clad minions had conquered the place in a blitzkrieg of intimidation, using steely eyes and intimidating, handheld computer gadgetry to win the battle without firing a single shot.
Word had it Steve would oversee Crestview Finance until the bank figured out whether keeping the company afloat or letting it sink represented the least loss. How fitting! The man had a reputation for being a least-loss kind of guy, a fence straddler who’d somehow scurried up the bank’s corporate ladder without possessing any real talent. Recessions came and went, retirements, layoffs. Whether by luck or nimbleness, Steve had never had his name connected with a big loss, and whenever the music stopped playing, he’d always managed to grab a bigger chair.
Such a man would probably lean in a bad direction. Any move other than the liquidation of Crestview presented downside career risk for a guy who loved working the safest angles. Steve knew all about the company’s struggles with trucker loan defaults—he’d been Crestview’s banker for years—and he certainly hadn’t been given any reason to believe these problems would go away.
Only the dog and pony show of a lifetime might change the man’s mind. Tall order, but Brewster was ready to step up and give it his best shot. Anyone planning to battle the cosmos by turning back the clock and changing history couldn’t settle for half measures. If he wanted to be a hero, he had to play the part.
Someone had ordered donuts. The pastries waited on a platter in the middle of the table, serving as a centerpiece for the opponents to talk across. A blonde underling in an unflattering business suit came in, sat beside the banker, and readied herself with a ballpoint pen poised in hand and a blank legal pad waiting to be scribbled upon.
Steve spoke from his notes, droning on about this and that until Brewster caught the end of something important. “…keeping you in your present position until we sort everything out. You’ll report to me.”
Brewster swallowed. “Actually, no, I’m not staying on.”
The banker set his reading glasses aside and glanced up at him. “Abandoning the sinking ship?”
“It isn’t sinking.” Brewster pulled some spreadsheets from his folder and walked the man through as patient an overview as possible, given the constraints of a racing heart and a wall clock ticking a steady reminder that his remaining hours of freedom might be best spent elsewhere. Igor and Kara were due any minute.
The presentation had plenty of detail—bankers loved that—but the plan was simple. A tough recession had knocked most of Crestview’s competition out of business. Therefore, conservative lending practices in an easier market—two other concepts bankers adored—could now transform the company from a loser to a big winner.
He shoved the folder across the table and looked the guy square in the eye. “You can turn this mess into a home run.”
Steve pored through the spreadsheets, sliding page after page over to his blonde assistant, who scribbled notes on her pad. Finally, he set the last document aside. “If you believe in this, why are you leaving?”
Because Brewster had dreams to follow, a woman to save, and a fledgling writing career to pursue. If he
