Hidden Riches

have a look-see.” His fat, sausage fingers moved with a quick, uncanny grace as he booted up his computer. “Let’s see now.” He rattled a few more keys. “That was to ship out on December seventeenth. . . . Yep, yep, there sheis. She went out just fine. Should have arrived yesterday, today at the latest.”
    DiCarlo ran a hand through his wavy black hair. Idiots, he thought. He was surrounded by idiots. “The shipment did arrive. It was incorrect.”
    “You’re saying the package that plopped down in LA was addressed to another location?”
    “No. I’m saying what was in the package was incorrect.”
    “That’s an odd one.” Tarkington sipped some coffee. “Was the package packed here? Oh, wait, wait, I remember.” He waved DiCarlo’s answer away. “We provided the crate and the packing, and you supervised. So how in the wide, wide world did the merchandise get switched?”
    “That is my question,” DiCarlo hissed, his hand slamming the desk.
    “Now, now, let’s stay calm.” Determinedly affable, Tarkington hit a few more keys. “That shipment went out of section three. Let’s see who was on the belt that day. Ah, here we go. Looks like Opal.” He swiveled around to beam at DiCarlo. “Good worker, Opal. Nice lady, too. Had a rough time of it lately.”
    “I’m not interested in her personal life. I want to speak to her.”
    Tarkington leaned forward and flicked a switch on his desk. “Opal Johnson, please report to Mr. Tarkington’s office.” He flicked the switch off, then patted his toupee to make sure it was still in place. “Sure I can’t get you some coffee? A doughnut, maybe?” He tossed open the lid on a cardboard box. “Got us some nice raspberry-jelly-filled today. Some tractor wheels, too.”
    DiCarlo let out a sound like steam escaping a kettle and turned away. With a shrug, Tarkington helped himself to a doughnut.
    DiCarlo clenched his fists as a tall, striking black woman strode across the warehouse. She was wearing snug jeans and a bright green sweater with a Nike hip pouch. Her hairwas pulled back in a curly ponytail. The yellowing smudges of old bruises puffed around her left eye.
    She opened the door and poked her head in. The room was immediately filled with the noise of conveyor belts and the scent of nerves. “You call for me, Mr. Tarkington?”
    “Yeah, Opal. Come on in a minute. Have some coffee?”
    “Sure, okay.” As she closed the door, Opal took a quick scan of DiCarlo as possibilities raced through her mind.
    They were laying her off. They were firing her outright because she’d fallen behind her quota last week after Curtis had knocked her around. The stranger was one of the owners come to tell her. She took a cigarette out of her pouch and lit it with shaky hands.
    “We got ourselves a little problem here, Opal.”
    Her throat seemed to fill with sand. “Yes, sir?”
    “This is Mr. DiCarlo. He had a shipment go out last week, on your line.”
    The quick surge of fear had Opal choking on smoke. “We had a lot of shipments going out last week, Mr. Tarkington.”
    “Yes, but when the shipment arrived, the merchandise was incorrect.” Tarkington sighed.
    With her heart hammering in her throat, Opal stared at the floor. “It got sent to the wrong place?”
    “No, it got to the right place, but what was inside it was wrong, and since Mr. DiCarlo oversaw the packing himself, we’re baffled. I thought you might remember something.”
    There was a burning in her gut, around her heart, behind her eyes. The nightmare that had plagued her for nearly a week was coming true. “I’m sorry, Mr. Tarkington,” she forced herself to say. “It’s hard to recall any one shipment. All I remember about last week is working three double shifts and going home to soak my feet every night.”
    She was lying, DiCarlo decided. He could see it in her eyes, in her body stance—and bided his time.
    “Well, it was worth a shot.” Tarkington gesturedexpansively. “Anything pops into your mind, you let me know. Okee-doke?”
    “Yes, sir, I will.” She crushed the cigarette out in the dented metal ashtray on Tarkington’s desk and hurried back to her belt.
    “We’ll start a trace on this, Mr. DiCarlo. With a red flag. Premium prides itself on customer satisfaction. From our hands to your hands, with a smile,” he said, quoting the company motto.
    “Right.” He was no longer interested in Tarkington, though he would have found some satisfaction in