I pulled it from my pocket and held it out, doing my best to be strong for Mom. I felt like I needed a good excuse for digging into the garbage, so I said, “Here it is. When I saw what it was, I thought how perfect it would be for my princess costume at Halloween.” I had no intention of spending Halloween in a stupid princess costume, but Mom had been after me for years to give up Darth Vader. Technically, I guess this was a lie, but I think Teddy would agree this was an emergency. We’d have a long talk later to sort this whole thing out.
I knew I was in trouble when she got all teary. Jeez, Mom.
“Oh, Roxy, you’re going to be a princess at Halloween?”
Uh—no. This wasn’t going right. Now what? “I was gonna surprise you.”
She tilted her head to one side and got that big mushy-eyed look she always got when I did something really good. I squirmed in my seat as she crossed the room. Even the safety pin I used to pin the key for my tree house lock onto my jeans dug into my skin. I was trapped and sure that she was going to smother me in kisses—and take the watch away.
She wrapped her arms around me like an octopus. “I’m so happy you want to be a princess. I was a princess when I was your age! Oh, you know what, you keep that watch. It’s a fake—a piece of costume jewelry—you use it for your costume. That seems perfect to me.”
She left the room, that silly smile still on her face. With her out of the way, I started thinking about what I’d done. A princess costume?
I mumbled, “Teddy, we need to talk.”
But I didn’t need to talk. I knew what I needed to do. Ditch the Rolex. Maybe Mom was happy letting me have it, but what if it really was stolen? Even if it was a fake, I had to get rid of the evidence so the cops couldn’t—would they take her away?
Maybe the watch fit Mom’s wrist, but it was huge in my hands. What was I gonna do? No way I could let the cops come after her. I turned the watch over in my hands again. It gleamed in the sunshine streaming through the window. It was so pretty. And hot. The stupid watch could send Mom to jail. But I could stop that.
Two days later, I put on a pair of raggedy jeans and a T-shirt and rode my bike the few blocks to downtown. Using my best woe-is-me attitude, I approached a man in a fancy suit about two blocks from the courthouse…
I straightened up in my chair and wiped a tear from my cheek. That man ruined my life. My hatred for him drove me to where I am today. My mantra became simple. If you’re going to take chances, make the payoff worth the risk. That’s part of the reason I go after clients with lots of money. If I’m going to do jail time, something I’ve never done, or have some goon beat the crap out of me—got saved on that one thanks to a “superhero” who, I guarantee, didn’t regret his efforts—I might as well get paid for it. My payoff today? A quarter of a million bucks.
My “clients” were the greedy people. A shrink would probably tell me they were symbols for the man I wanted to kill. Every time I took them for money, I was getting revenge. They were money-grubbing bastards with no scruples and would eventually get what they deserved—a big fat zero.
I wiped away another tear as it dribbled down my cheek. The money couldn’t make the pain, the terror I’d felt as a child, go away. I could never play Pin the Tail on the Donkey or any of those other childhood games where you get blindfolded—not after that man. I leaned back and put a couple of drops in each eye to clear the red. Whenever the memories came back, this little bottle became my drug of choice. No red eyes—no suspicion that something might be wrong.
I mentally shoved the memories away. In about ten minutes, Sonny Panaman would walk through the door and put me over my goal. He was going to hand over a quarter of a million from his trust fund for me to invest. Maybe it wouldn’t erase the past, but it sure as hell would secure my future.
CHAPTER FOUR
Skip
Skip pulled into the Nordoffs’ driveway just before 9:00 a.m. Wisps of fog hung low in the sky like a fleet of ghostly Chinese junks descending on a waiting harbor. He recognized Wally’s black Lexus in the brick-lined circular drive, which occupied a space adjacent to the front entrance of the house. Skip knew from walking the beach that the homes in this area were as close together as a string of birds on their favorite power line.
Skip parked his Porsche behind the Lexus. He’d barely gotten out of the car when the Nordoff’s front door opened. Wally. Typical. One briefing coming up. The other man glanced over his shoulder before closing the door and shrugged as if trying to shake off a chill. The tension in his voice—though he seemed to be trying to mask it—filled the air about them. “’87 Porsche 911. Mint condition. Full leather. You just keep that looking so pristine.”
“If it wasn’t for my Uncle Fred, I’d be driving some beater.”
Wally raised an eyebrow. “Every time I see it, I get jealous. If you ever want to sell, let me know. How much was your take in your uncle’s estate, anyway?”
“You don’t really care about that, do you, Wally? You’re just fascinated by the idea of owning something so perfect.”
“If I didn’t like you so much, Skip, I’d hate you. You’re going to maintain the single-owner tradition and keep that baby, aren’t you? No matter how many times I ask.”
“I’m keeping it until one of us dies.”
“You or the car?”
“Me or the car.” Skip watched Wally’s eyes defocus as though he were pondering a dark secret. Skip always wondered how far the lawyer would go for a client.
Finally, the lawyer spoke. “We need to talk.”
Skip had never seen Wally so distracted. “Big, huh?”
“Powder keg. The guy wants you to hypnotize the wife and ask her what happened to the kid. The wife says she doesn’t want anything to do with that. You gotta break the logjam, buddy.”
Skip leaned his head forward, then from side to side to loosen his neck muscles. Whether he trusted Wally or not, the two had become friends. And Wally knew the delicate balance Skip had to maintain to get results. “I can’t do anything if she doesn’t want to be hypnotized.”
Wally waved his hands in front of his chest. “I know, I know. But maybe you could talk her into it. Full-on sales job.”
“I don’t know.”
“Bullshit. You can be the most persuasive son of a bitch I’ve ever met—when you want to be. We need to see if she really wants to find the kid. This whole situation’s bizarre. Let’s go.”
Skip grabbed Wally’s arm. “What’s the deal with the kid?”
“Paul Nordoff. Eleven years old, diagnosed with one of those designer disorders the docs like so much. Whatever happened to kids just being kids?” Wally turned and strode toward the house.
Skip caught up to Wally just inside the front door. “Holy shit, this entry’s almost as big as my living room.”
His friend glanced around the room, then shrugged. “Yeah. Place is huge.”
“What happened here?” Skip pointed to a hole in the drywall just a few feet inside the doorway.
“Herman tells me they had a couch delivered yesterday and the delivery guys lost control. You know how those guys are. They don’t give a crap about anything.”
Skip nodded as if he knew about movers or delivery guys. The last time he’d bought furniture, it hadn’t been new and he’d borrowed a friend and a pickup to schlep the furniture. The rich could afford delivery charges. People like Skip schlepped.
They made their way through the living room. The floors, a dark hardwood, gleamed. The lowest part of the ceiling, a corner where a ficus tree filled the space with greenery, was about ten feet high; the rest was probably thirteen. The back wall of the house faced the beach and was lined with windows that stretched from the floor to about a foot below the ceiling.
As he passed an overstuffed black leather couch, Skip pointed at it. “That the couch?”
Wally’s eyebrows knitted together.
“The one that got delivered yesterday. Is that the couch?”
“Didn’t ask,
man. Don’t know.” Wally turned away and continued out onto the back deck.
Skip nodded and muttered under his breath. “Of course.” How far would Wally go? Envy encroached on Skip’s thoughts as the panoramic ocean view unfolded before him. The fleet of ghostly fog ships was dissipating as the sun took control of the day. Before long, only a handful of the largest would remain to ride air currents back out to sea. At dusk, the fleet would return in full force.
Skip had seen these homes from the beach. He’d never been in one and didn’t know much about multimillion-dollar beach houses on the coast, other than they seemed to have decks on every floor. Visitors entered the Nordoffs’ house as he had, on the street level. He guessed that all of the bedrooms were on lower floors with equally impressive ocean views. His entire condo would probably fit into one of those rooms.
A man in a blue polo shirt with a small insignia on the left breast and freshly pressed khaki slacks stood on the deck. He was short and stocky and his hairline had retreated halfway back on his scalp. A shock of graying chest hair peeked through the open slit of the polo shirt. He wore leather deck shoes. No socks.
Wally made the introductions. “Herman Nordoff, this is Skip Cosgrove. Skip, Herman.”
Nordoff glared at him. The man had an intensity he had seldom seen. Skip extended his hand, which Nordoff gripped with equal ferocity. He held Nordoff’s gaze as he returned the pressure of the man’s grip—a grip that telegraphed a wealth of information in two heartbeats—vice-like hold, no up-and-down movement, just solid pressure.
Skip knew immediately that Nordoff was a controller, the kind of man who bent everyone to his will. In a dog pack, he’d be the alpha dog or would die trying. He probably worked out, was disciplined, and didn’t take crap from anyone. Skip glanced at Wally for a split second and got a nod in return. It was the reason he and Wally had become friends. Instant understanding. He held Nordoff’s gaze until the other man relaxed his grip.
“Can tell a lot about a man from his handshake,” Nordoff said.
“Indeed.” Skip’s hand throbbed, but he wasn’t about to let Nordoff see even temporary discomfort. “Nice to meet you, Herman.”
Nordoff’s cheek twitched and his jaw tightened almost imperceptibly.
Skip read the body language. He catalogued the response. He analyzed Nordoff’s reaction with the detached demeanor of the seasoned investigator—a question forming in his mind. He kept the question to himself, but it hung in the air between them. What are you hiding, Herman Nordoff?
CHAPTER FIVE
Roxy
Sonny Panaman. He’d been on my hit list for months. My intent was to convince him that his “investment” would get a guaranteed return of ten percent with likely returns in the neighborhood of fifty. I had two things going for me. One, Sonny had never earned a dollar in his life—he was filthy rich thanks to daddy’s good fortune. Second, my investment advice was exactly what he wanted to hear.
A movement to my right caught my attention. My secretary, who detests the term and prefers to be called “Office Manager,” leaned against the doorjamb. Stella Robbins has been with me since nearly the beginning of this operation. She has the sweet exterior of a southern belle, the work ethic of the chronically unemployed, and the business acumen of the doorjamb she was using as a back support.
“Hey, Stella, is he here?”
“You look deep in thought.”
I shook my head. I’d go back to sharing secrets with my teddy bear before I’d trust Stella with anything other than my lunch order. Stella had been unemployed when I found her and would likely have stayed that way for the rest of her natural life—which, by the way, may be the only thing about Stella that was still natural. I’ve paid her well enough that she’s had a boob job and a tummy tuck and she’s got plans for liposuction in places that, even if you paid me, I’d refuse. She’s also had her hair dyed, her brows lasered and God knows what else. I’d have been saving the cash for a rainy day. In Stella’s case, she saw these expenses as an investment in her quest for the perfect husband. Rich.
I set my jaw. “What’s up?”
“Your mom’s on hold.”
Stella was wearing a navy twisted-mini-dress and matching platforms. I must confess that I have a huge weakness when it comes to expensive evening wear, but for work I try to keep my clothing expenses in the “practical” arena.
Stella must have caught me eying the dress. She glanced down. “Think Sonny will like it?”
A catty little calculator began running in my head and told me that the skin-to-material ratio was somewhere in the 60-40 range. Damn, she looked good. Standing, the hemline was just below her ass. Sitting, she’d just better not sneeze. “If that doesn’t get Sonny worked up, he’s gay.” I picked up the phone. “Hey, what’s up?”
“It’s your father, Roxy. He’s been out drinking again.”
I checked the time. It was nine freaking thirty in the morning. The news helped confirm my worst fears. If anyone was smart enough to figure out my business plan, it was my dad. He ran a title company until about a year ago. That’s when he retired and started asking me questions. I’d been able to deflect his Q&A for a while, but eventually he’d grown suspicious despite my continual recitation of the mantra, “No, Dad, I wouldn’t do anything illegal. It’s a complicated business plan.” Lately, I’d become concerned that he’d figured things out.
I asked, “Where is he now?”
There was a long pause. “I don’t know. He spent two hours on the computer this morning and got into a hideous mood. When I asked him what was bothering him, he got all pissy. Then he pulled out his flask—”
“He what? I thought you got rid of that. I thought—”
“He told me he’d thrown it away! Men and their stupid little props.”
“When did this start?”
“He’s been doing it a lot lately.”
“Mom, how long? How long has this been going on?”
“Maybe two months.”
I closed my eyes to block out the world. Shit. That was the last time he’d asked me about the business. The fact that my parents would be disgraced when I disappeared with five million in other people’s money weighed heavily on me, but some things just couldn’t be helped.
Stella was back at the door flanked by Sonny Panaman. Sonny stood within breathing distance of Stella, who leaned slightly in his direction. She might be dumb, but the girl had her Masters in Flirtation.
Stella turned on the charm. “Sonny’s here.” She turned and put her hand on his chest. “Lunch, then?”
He smiled sheepishly and nodded. His eyes popped as he watched Stella sway away. I wondered how much she’d “invested” in the dress.
“Mom, I’ve got to go. I’ve got a client right now, but I’ll call you back once we’re done. Sit tight.” I cradled the phone and gestured toward one of the chairs in front of my solid oak desk, which, like everything else in this office except me, of course, was rented. Even the artwork on the walls fit that category. Good replicas, but fakes, nonetheless. And easy to forget when I walked out the door that last time. I stood to greet Sonny.
The beauty of being a woman in this business is that men expect to be swindled by other men, not a blonde in a short skirt and high heels. The plan, simple as it was, involved a real-life venture capital offering from the East Coast. Working in the shadows of a real offering gave my company credibility.
In the past few months we’d taken in just under five million bucks. A substantial retirement fund, true, but my goal was a minimum of five million. You never know when that last little bit might come in handy. I figured that with Sonny’s contribution, I could even give Stella a little bonus on my way out the door.
We shook hands and Sonny whispered, “Sorry about that, I kinda got roped into lunch.”
“Hey, it’s not a problem for me. If you two like each other, just invite me to the wedding.” Acting like his big sister seemed to put me on the right path with Sonny, but I’d
tired of the drill almost immediately. For now, my role required me to keep up the charade. “So, how are Mom and Dad?”
He raised his right hand and held it out flat, fingers splayed, then rocked his hand from side to side. “Mom’s busy arranging some big society thing, Dad’s busy making money and playing golf. They see each other for meals.” He laughed. “When it suits them, which isn’t this week.”
“I hear you on that one. Raising parents can be a trial.” I wasn’t about to go into my troubles. Not with Sonny. Not with anyone for that matter. I held eye contact. “My grandma wants a family barbecue for her 75th. Everyone is going to be there—cousins, uncles, aunts—it’ll get really obnoxious. We call grandma Crazy Lacy because she likes to wear miniskirts and go clubbing with her sixty-something boyfriend.”
Sonny’s eyes lit up. “Sounds like fun. More than this society thing.”
I nodded. “My grandma’s fun.” And she was, but her name wasn’t Lacy and she didn’t go clubbing, though the boyfriend part was close to true.
“You ever go with her?”
“What?” It took me a second to realize what he was asking. I shook my head. “No.”
“What do you like to do? In your off time, I mean?”
Oh my God! Was he hitting on me? This SOB had just been tugging on his pants over Stella and now he was working me? For some reason, I couldn’t bring myself to flirt with this worm. “I’m kind of a homebody—very boring. Anyway, let’s get this wrapped up, shall we? You brought the check?”
Sonny loosened his collar. My people-radar went off. That wasn’t a good gesture.
“Uh, not exactly,” he said.
I forced a smile. “What’s ‘not exactly,’ Sonny? Is there a problem?” After all the time I’d spent working this son of a bitch, making nice like his big sister, he’d better not flake out on me.
He shook his head. “Dad kind of, uh, well, he—”
“He locked down your trust account.”
There went the finger in the collar again. “Uh, yeah. He thinks I’ve been spending too much money lately.”
License to Lie Page 2