by Rickie Blair
“Please, listen to me. I don’t know—”
“Shut up!”
Jourdain held his breath.
“You listen to me. I want my money. And now, I want double. If you don’t hand it over, I’ll tell everybody what I know. Tell him that. See if he laughs at that.”
The phone line went dead.
Merde.
Jourdain’s first call was to Thérèse. He drummed his fingers on the desk calendar while he waited for her to pick up.
“Thérèse? Has Ginette heard from Brigitte lately?”
“Brigitte? I don’t know. What time is it? Are you still at the office?” Thérèse sounded puzzled. “Brigitte is in New York still, but I’m sure they’ve talked recently. Why do you ask?”
“I was looking at old photos and I saw her picture, that’s all.”
“I’ll ask Ginette about Brigitte next time I hear from her. And if you don’t have anything to do but look at old photos, come home.”
His second call was to Fulton.
“I had a phone call from an associate of yours, Gregory Keller. He was très agité. Furious.”
“Furious? About what?”
“He believes something has happened to Brigitte and we’re responsible. That’s not true, is it?”
Fulton gave a snort of laughter.
“Is that the girlfriend or the wife?”
“My niece.” Jourdain’s voice rose. “Brigitte is my niece.”
“Okay, sorry, calm down, Jourdain. I’m sure nothing has happened to … what was her name again?”
“Brigitte.”
“Brigitte, of course, Brigitte. Very pretty girl. I’m sure she’s fine.”
“He made threats, Raymond.”
“Threats?”
“He said he knows what we’ve done and he will tell everybody.”
“Who’s everybody?”
“He didn’t say.”
“What does he want?”
“Double what he’s owed.”
“What did you tell him?”
“Nothing. He hung up after that. Are you sure nothing has happened to Brigitte?”
“What could have happened? He must be lying.”
De Montagny stared at the smiling, happy faces in the photo.
“Jourdain? For God’s sake, don’t be so melodramatic. You’ve got to stop living in the past. Think of Thérèse. Think of your future. Nothing has happened to this girl, I promise you. Are you listening?”
De Montagny glanced across the room at the other photos. So many memories.
“I’m tired, Raymond. Edwin was right. We can’t keep this up.”
“Goddammit, Jourdain. Pull yourself together. Nothing’s happened to this girl. Put it out of your mind and I’ll make sure you never hear from that bastard again. I’ll deal with it. Are you listening? I’m telling you—”
Jourdain put the handset down and picked up the photo. The voice coming from the phone was barely audible. He studied the smiling faces. Two weeks. Then it would be over.
Chapter Twenty-Four
In the Manhattan offices of Capital Street Management, Raymond Fulton hung up the phone and pulled a cellphone from his jacket pocket.
“Terrell, I need you to deal with something in Jersey City. Call me.”
Fulton clicked off the phone and tapped his pen on the desk, lost in thought. Jourdain was losing it. Edwin was right? Where had that come from? He frowned, remembering their partner’s betrayal.
There had been three partners then. The originals, Raymond Fulton and Edwin Gavan, and Jourdain de Montagny, who came on board after a market downturn sent investors fleeing. Edwin didn’t want to expand to Europe, but it was hard to argue with the money Jourdain brought to the firm. His client list included some of the oldest families in France, all delighted to pledge their assets to the Castlebar Fund.
And all was well, until Edwin stabbed them both in the back. Scowling, Fulton spun his chair to face the window. He had last seen Gavan over a decade ago, in the grimy holding cells beneath the courthouse where his former partner awaited trial for fraud.
Fulton had wrapped his handkerchief around the telephone handset before speaking to the gaunt man facing him on the other side of the glass.
“You have to stop sending those letters, Edwin.”
His partner tugged a hand through his hair. His eyes were wild.
“Raymond, you have to listen. I didn’t do it. This is a mistake.”
“The prosecutors don’t agree.” Fulton pulled his foot off the floor, inspected the gum stuck to his thin-soled leather loafers, and gingerly replaced his foot on the linoleum tiles. “Frankly, your claims are preposterous.”
“For God’s sake, Raymond, in all the years we’ve worked together have I ever lied to you?”
“You were lying all along, apparently.”
“I didn’t take that money. Why would I?”
“Are we talking about the money you transferred to an offshore account?” Fulton’s voice rose. “That money?”
Edwin jumped to his feet.
“It wasn’t me!” The guard stepped nearer and Edwin sagged into the chair, his knuckles turning white on his handset. “It wasn’t me. I didn’t transfer that money, and I didn’t open that account.” He ran his fingers through his hair again with a bitter laugh. “This is a nightmare, isn’t it? So why can’t I wake up?”
Fulton gave an exaggerated sigh.
“I’ll see you at the trial.” He pried the gum off his shoe with his handkerchief and rolled it into a ball. On his way out he handed it to the guard, wrinkling his nose in disgust.
But there had been no trial. A few days after the meeting with Fulton, Edwin’s lawyer obtained bail for his client. One week later, Edwin hanged himself in the garage workshop of his Connecticut home.
A handful of mourners attended the internment, shadowed by news photographers. After the priest’s final words, Raymond turned to walk away. A hand gripped his arm. He swiveled to face Beverly Gavan, whose nose was red and shiny. Beverly was a pretty woman, but she could use a little makeup.
“Raymond, you have to help us. We have nobody.”
In the background, cameras clicked and whirred. He placed a hand over hers and squeezed.
“Of course. Whatever I can do.”
“Why isn’t Helen here? Why doesn’t she return my calls?”
“I’m sorry, Beverly. Edwin’s betrayal weighed heavily on us. Financially, I mean.”
Her eyes widened. “I still don’t understand it. Edwin would never—”
He gently removed her hand from his arm.
“Call my office. My assistant will set up a meeting and we’ll see what we can do for you.”
She nodded, fighting back tears.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
Back at the office, he stopped at his assistant’s desk.
“Beverly Gavan might call me.”
“Shall I put her through?”
“Absolutely not. I don’t want to talk to her.”
“What should I say?”
“Anything you want. But don’t put her through to me.”
Now, years later, his remaining partner was also causing problems. Time to groom a replacement. Someone with secrets of her own, perhaps? Fulton reached for the intercom.
“Irene? Send in Leta Vaughn.”
* * *
Leta flipped open her notepad and took out a pen.
“No notes,” Fulton said. “This is confidential.”
He stood and motioned for her to follow. They walked down the corridor and onto the elevator, where he pushed the button for the coveted fourteenth floor.
Leta tried not to grin.
They entered a large room with rows of desks, most of them empty. Half a dozen people looked up as they passed. Leta noticed with a start that their computers were much older than the ones on the trading floor.
She followed Fulton into a glass-walled office where a single computer sat on a desk piled high with pa
pers. A printer stood on a stand against the wall. Fulton motioned for Leta to sit at the desk and he pulled up a chair and sat beside her.
“We had a computer malfunction this morning. Client data was lost and those jackasses in IT haven’t recovered it yet. We have to reconstruct the data from these printouts,” he tapped a finger on the documents stacked on the desk, “so we can update client statements.”
Leta ran a hand over the worn keyboard.
“Why is this equipment so old?”
“It’s not connected to the trading floor downstairs. Chinese walls. You know the regulations.” He flicked his hand. “These computers are perfectly adequate. And upgrading them would mean letting IT in on our trading strategy. That knowledge would be worth a lot of money to our competitors. I prefer to play it safe.”
He lifted a document from the stack.
“These are the securities held in the Castlebar Fund and this is our return for the month. Check the prices for the first of the month and extrapolate what our holdings would have been at the end of yesterday’s trading for each one.”
She stared at the pile of documents. Extrapolate?
“But we can’t do that. That’s not—”
“Allowed?” He chuckled, replacing the document on the pile. “There’s nothing nefarious here. In a day or two IT will have recovered the data. But we have to send out these statements today. We don’t want our investors to think our system is malfunctioning.”
“Maybe it is malfunctioning. This equipment is outdated.”
“I’m sure you’re right.” His jaw tightened. “But we won’t be updating it today, will we? So in the meantime,” he tapped the papers again, “we must rely on good old-fashioned elbow grease.”
Leta stared at the papers. She’d dreamed of admittance to the fourteenth floor, but not like this.
Fulton shrugged. “If you’re not comfortable with this, Gage can do it. But I thought you were interested in our operation up here.”
She looked up quickly.
“I’ll do whatever I can to help.”
“When you’re finished, bring the updated list to my office.”
As Fulton walked out, Leta picked up the first document and turned to the computer screen.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Benjamin fumbled with the control box, searching for the button that would open it. He clenched his teeth to stop them from chattering, blew on his chilled fingers and resumed his attempts to open the box.
He had decided to explore his pitch-black prison again. But instead of thrashing about as he had before, this time he had paced methodically, counting his steps and holding his hands out in front of him to mentally map the room’s dimensions. He was in a space thirty by forty feet, with a stone floor and walls, freestanding shelves that opened onto a central corridor like stacks in a library, and, on the shelves, cylinders that held bottles.
His prison was a wine cellar.
He had attended a wine tasting once, at a forensic accountants’ convention. There had been talk of varietals and vintages and other arcane stuff he mostly ignored. But the optimal storage requirements he had found fascinating. Adequate humidity was important, but the temperature was key. A wine cellar had to be cold, but not as cold as a refrigerator. Fifty-two degrees Fahrenheit was perfect.
Fifty-two degrees in bright spring sunshine, while wearing a warm jacket and gloves, might be pleasant. In a damp underground cellar, wearing only a thin shirt and pants, it was bone-chilling. Shivering, Benjamin twisted his numb fingers over a small bump on the control box. When it clicked, he pulled down on the hinged cover.
The convention’s wine expert had also said the temperature must never rise above seventy-five. Benjamin hunched his shoulders as frigid air blew over him from vents in the ceiling. Something must regulate the temperature in this wine cellar and it could be in this box.
He prodded the interior until his fingers bumped against a small wheel with notched edges. Deciding the higher numbers would be on the right, he cranked it as far as he could and held his breath. The cold air stopped gushing from the ceiling and for a moment there was silence. Then a thump, a rattle, and a sound like hissing gas.
Benjamin dropped to his feet and ran his fingers along the wall. Heated air poured in from a vent near the floor. He rubbed his hands, basking in the warmth. It would take hours for the temperature to reach seventy-five, but once it did, a release mechanism might open the door, like the ones that automatically adjust greenhouse windows so the plants won’t overheat in the sun.
God willing, in a few hours he could leave this prison. He sat on the floor, with his back against the wall and his arms crossed against his chest, and grinned.
* * *
Benjamin reveled in the warm air that rushed through the vents. At first he spent the time massaging his hands and arms, and stretching his cramped limbs. But as the temperature rose, he started to worry. What if his captors returned before the door sprang open? Would they realize what he had done?
He paced the central corridor with his arms extended to avoid the freestanding shelves. Should he abandon his plan and turn the dial back? Benjamin ran his hand along the wall until it hit the control box, then fumbled around until his trembling fingers touched the dial. He gripped the serrated edge with his fingertips. Should he turn it off? Or leave it on? Turn it off? Or—
The blare of a horn sent him scurrying backward until he bashed into one of the shelves. He toppled over face first from the impact, falling onto his hands and knees, and gasped at the pain in his back. Rising to his knees, he clapped his hands over his ears but the clamor was still audible. A red light glowed in the control box, emitting just enough illumination to make the cellar door visible. How long would it take before his captors burst through that door?
With his heart pounding, he scrambled to his feet and staggered to the control box. He grabbed the dial but before he could turn it a loud click came from the cellar door beside him. Benjamin stared at it with his fingers still on the dial. A crack of light shone around three sides of the rectangular opening and cool air brushed against his face. The door was open. His plan had worked.
The blaring horn ceased. His fingers shook as he shut the control box. He had to move fast, before his captors returned. But when he opened the door, the glaring light of the corridor seared his eyes. He screwed them shut, turning his head away. After days in complete darkness, he was as good as blind.
He groped his way back to the mattress, dropped to his hands and knees, and fumbled on the floor for the blindfold. Hurrying back to the door, he placed the cloth over his eyes and tied it at the back of his head so he could see under its edge. Then he opened the door.
He froze. Footsteps were coming down the corridor.
Benjamin shut the door with shaking hands and backed away, his chest heaving. They must have heard the alarm and would soon realize that the door was unlocked. Would they blame him, or assume the controls had malfunctioned?
The footsteps paused outside the door. Benjamin backed up, his heart in his throat, until he hit a shelf. He turned, pulled out a wine bottle and took a deep breath. Time to make his stand.
The door opened, and a head came through.
“What the—”
A loud crack was followed by a gush of liquid and a sharp clatter as broken glass hit stone. Benjamin dropped the broken wine bottle and stepped over the body sprawled on the floor. He hustled down the corridor, peering under the edge of his blindfold to get his bearings. He remembered a flight of stairs. Pushing the blindfold up his nose as he become accustomed to the light, he looked around desperately. There, at the end of the corridor. Benjamin raced up the stairs two at a time, his leg muscles screaming, and thrust open the door at the top.
He screamed as sunlight seared his pupils. With his hands clapped over his eyes, he stumbled along the path.
“Stop,” yelled a voice behind him.
Benjamin froze, then slowly turned his head. The blurry shape of a man ap
proached him at a rapid trot. The man’s hair dripped blood onto his face and down his neck, and his hands were clenched into fists. As he came closer, Benjamin saw it wasn’t blood that stained the man’s chest, but red wine.
He shuddered. He knew what was coming next.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Leta placed the corrected statements on Fulton’s desk and took a step back. He riffled through them and pushed the stack to one side.
“Looks fine,” he said without looking up. “Do the same again tomorrow.”
“Can’t the IT department fix the problem?”
Fulton leaned back, his mouth set in a thin line. Leta lifted her chin. Despite the quiver in her belly, she was determined not to back down.
“I meant—”
“What?”
“—that the IT guys screw up more than they should.” Leta let out a huge breath.
“That’s not your concern.”
She looked at her feet. “Of course, sorry. Is there anything else?”
He studied her, tapping his pen on the desk.
“I didn’t mean to be rude.”
“Not a problem, sir.”
“Sir?” He raised his eyebrows and the corner of his mouth twitched. “You are mad at me.”
“No, it’s just…” Fulton was in a good mood, but that could change in an instant. She plunged ahead. “Considering all the screwups, maybe someone else should run that department.”
The corners of his mouth lifted.
“And that someone should be?”
“I couldn’t say.”
“Couldn’t you?” He ran a hand over his brush cut and then pointed at the chair in front of his desk. “Sit.”
She perched on the edge of the seat and leaned in.
“You’re the ideal candidate, Leta. You’re not an IT specialist, but that doesn’t matter. I need someone who can crack the whip, get things done. You understand?”
Nodding her head, she gripped the chair seat to stop her hands from shaking.