by Rickie Blair
“I’ve had to make personnel changes recently. People can be so disappointing.” Fulton got up and walked to the window, crossed his hands behind his back, and looked out at the street. “You wouldn’t disappoint me, would you?”
“Of course not.” She gripped the chair so tightly her knuckles turned white. He turned to look at her and smiled.
“Good answer.” He walked back to his desk but this time he leaned against it, facing her. “So, are you interested?”
“I am.”
“This is a big promotion, Leta, and that calls for a formal interview. Let’s get your background out of the way first. We have your résumé on file, correct?”
“Yes.”
“And it’s a complete fabrication?”
Her mouth opened, but nothing came out.
“Don’t worry.” He pushed off from the desk and strolled back around it. “I’ve known that from the first time I saw it.”
Leta’s heart raced as Fulton sat and swiveled his chair to face her. His lips twitched and the twinkle in his eye was back.
“Let’s recap. You didn’t go to Stanford, you don’t have an accounting degree, and your MBA is total fiction. Did I miss anything?”
She relaxed her grip on the chair and her heartbeat slowed. Fulton knew nothing. Leta flexed her cramped fingers.
“No, that’s it.”
“I don’t care about your résumé. But it might have unfortunate consequences for your career if it came out. Naturally, as long as you stay with Capital Street and keep our secrets safe, that won’t matter.” He crossed his arms behind his head. “Is there anything else you want to tell me?”
“No, nothing.”
“What about Hari Bhatt?”
Her heart hammered so loudly it threatened to break through her chest.
“What do you mean?”
“You’re sleeping with someone who’s investigating an affiliated company. Didn’t it occur to you that might be a problem?”
“How did you—?”
“As it happens, your new relationship is useful. You can tell me whenever Bhatt and his sidekick delve into something new.”
“He doesn’t discuss his cases with me.”
Fulton gave her a withering glance.
“I think you know how to get around that.”
“Are you suggesting—?”
“Do you want the job, or not?”
Leta recalled Hari’s strong hands, his intense brown eyes, the jagged scar that stretched across his muscular torso. She remembered curling up against him, snuggling under the sheets, in the early hours before the sun rose. She saw his goofy grin when she gave him the key to her apartment. And recalled how he’d once said, Tell me something no one else knows.
“Well?”
She sat up straight.
“I want the job.”
“You can start tomorrow.”
She stood and turned to go. Hari Bhatt was a pleasant diversion, but she couldn’t allow anyone to disrupt her plan.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
By ten on Friday morning, Sandy Ferris, wearing a brassy blonde wig, brown contacts, and a low-cut fuzzy pink sweater, stood in Global TradeFair’s reception area asking to see Gregory Keller. As she had predicted, no one recognized troubled starlet and tabloid staple Ruby Delaney.
“Just a moment,” the receptionist said, picking up the phone.
Ruby was still deciding what to ask Keller. She planned to improvise, perhaps something about a job in the billing department, and then drop a few royal names and see if she got a reaction. After that she would float the blackmail suggestion.
The receptionist peered at Sandy over the top of her glasses as she spoke into her headset. The nameplate on her desk read Patricia.
“Really? When is he coming back? Uh-huh. Uh-huh. No kidding. Uh-huh. Okay.” Patricia clicked off the call and tucked a strand of long brown hair behind one ear. “I’m sorry, Miss Ferris, but Mr. Keller doesn’t appear to be in.”
“Can I wait for him?”
“You could, but I don’t know what time he’ll be here. Or if he’s coming in at all.”
“Will he be in tomorrow?”
“I couldn’t say.” The receptionist leaned over her desk. “Thing is, no one seems to know where he is.”
Sandy snapped her gum.
“Wow, I’d like to have a job like that.”
Patricia smiled. “Me, too.” The phone rang again. She glanced at call display and picked it up. “Mrs. Keller, hello. We were just going to call you.” She raised her eyebrows at Sandy. “But he’s not here. We thought he was ill.” Her eyes widened. “Oh, I see. Thank you.”
Patricia hung up and punched in a new number.
“Mr. Burke? Mrs. Keller says he hasn’t been home in two days. No, she has no idea. Yes, I did ask her and she ... swore at me.”
While Patricia talked, Ruby wandered over to a photo of Global TradeFair’s softball team. She read the names in the caption, searching for Keller’s, and then counted over, third from the left. The receptionist’s voice faded away as Ruby stared at the photo, her jaw slack.
Keller was the man who had met her at the coffee shop. Who said his name was Vincent Quinn. A chill ran down her spine at the memory of the speeding Town Car.
Ruby backed out of the reception area and into the vestibule, her heart racing. As she turned to open the outer door, she bumped into a young man walking in. He wore track pants and hoodie, with a baseball cap jammed over untidy hair.
“Whoa, look out.” Grabbing her arm, he gave her a puzzled look and his eyes narrowed. She yanked her arm away and lowered her head.
“Sorry.”
Ruby pushed past him and through the door. In the car she glanced back at the TradeFair building, pulled her phone from her bag and texted Hari.
We must talk to Keller’s wife. Now.
After reviewing her text she added another line.
I took the car. Was that wrong?
* * *
Ruby met Hari at the Newport subway station, near the Holland Tunnel. Crossing his arms, he evaluated her outfit with a shake of his head as she handed him the Fiesta keys.
“I said, ‘Don’t go anywhere without checking with me.’ I’m sure I said that.”
“Nice to see you, too, Hari. And don’t scold me until you hear what I found out.” She filled him in while they drove to Keller’s Jersey City home. “So it looks like you were right.”
Hari nodded without looking at her. His expression was grim.
“I talked to the TradeFair CEO, Martin Burke, this morning and told him about the fake suppliers. He has the internal audit committee busy rechecking their books and cross-referencing payments. Burke seemed genuinely shocked. I don’t think he’s in on it.” He turned to her and raised his eyebrows. “They still haven’t heard from Keller.”
Hari parked the Fiesta outside a neat two-story brick home with a picture window and small verandah. Ruby reached for the door handle.
“Wait,” he said.
She turned to face him.
“Keep in mind that Mrs. Keller is likely to be upset, confused, even tearful,” he said. “Often in fraud cases the family doesn’t realize what’s going on. White-collar criminals often take the money, clear out, and leave their families behind. They’re sociopaths.”
“So?”
“So, take it easy on her. Let’s not upset her more than we have to.”
Ruby held up her hands.
“Kid gloves, I promise.”
They walked up the flower-trimmed walkway and knocked on the front door. A woman with frizzy black hair and a semi-permanent frown wrenched open the door. She looked furious.
“Who are you?”
Ruby held out her hand.
“I’m Ruby Delaney and this is my partner, Hari Bhatt. We’re investigating accounting anomalies at Global TradeFair. Could we ask you a few questions about your husband?”
“That lying sack of shit? He hasn’t been home for two d
ays, I can tell you that much.” Scowling, she pushed the door open. “You might as well come in.”
They followed her into the small living room. A sofa and two matching armchairs sat on a faded rug in front of a picture window whose curtains were pulled back crookedly on either side. A fireplace mantel held family pictures, two Royal Doulton china figurines, one of them chipped, a small vase with a handful of silk flowers, and a mug celebrating the marriage of Britain’s Prince William and Kate Middleton. One photo pictured Keller, his wife, and two children in front of a rollercoaster that Ruby recognized as the Cyclone on Coney Island.
“So? How much did he take?” Mrs. Keller asked.
“Excuse me?” Hari said.
Mrs. Keller placed her hands on her hips.
“How much money did Greg take from Global TradeFair? The office wouldn’t tell me when they called.”
Hari cleared his throat.
“Has Mr. Keller done this before?”
With a heavy sigh, Mrs. Keller sank into an armchair. Hari and Ruby exchanged glances and sat on the sofa.
“We came here from Phoenix eight years ago, after Greg—well, he was Ned then—got out of jail. We were supposed to start over. He promised the frauds were in the past, and they were for a while. Greg got a job at Global TradeFair, we settled down, we had two kids.” Her eyebrows lowered. “Then he met that woman.”
Hari looked puzzled.
“Who?”
“That woman.” Mrs. Keller spit out the words. “Girlfriend, slut, whore. Whatever you want to call her. He thought I didn’t know.” She glared at them.
Ruby glanced at Hari, who stared at Mrs. Keller with his mouth open. Ruby tried to bring the conversation back to TradeFair, doing her best to keep her face deadpan.
“Is that when the fraud began?” she asked.
“I guess so.” Mrs. Keller stared at the photo of the Cyclone on the mantel and blew air through her lips. “Greg went on and on about this investment, some fund. He said it was a sure thing and we should get in on it. I wasn’t too keen at first about putting all our money into one thing, but he insisted. And I guess he was right because we got checks every month. We didn’t cash them, though. He said it was better to reinvest them.
“Last month we got our statement as usual. Greg looks after our financial stuff, but I opened this one because he was away. I knew how much we had saved and I thought that would be in our account, plus the interest. But I was wrong.” Slumping back in the chair, she stared at the ceiling.
“Had your husband withdrawn any?” Ruby prompted.
“Withdrawn?” Mrs. Keller looked up sharply. “No, he’d added to it. Our account was ten times what it should have been, even with the investment gains. I knew he hadn’t come by it honestly.”
“Mrs. Keller,” Hari said, “did your husband ever give other people investment advice? As a sideline, perhaps?”
“No idea. But he did get a strange letter. An account statement, it looked like, from Paris, but I can’t read French, so—”
“Can we see it?” Ruby asked.
Mrs. Keller shrugged and left the room, returning with a document that she handed to Ruby. It was from a company called Banque de Roche Noire. Ruby quickly scanned the document, her eyes widening as she read the embossed notation under the company logo.
A division of Capital Street Management.
“May we keep this?” Ruby asked, handing the paper to Hari and pointing to the notation. His eyebrows rose.
“Why not? It’s not doing me any good,” Mrs. Keller said. “My bank checked into it and said that account was empty.”
“Does your husband know anyone in Paris?”
“Not that I know of. But the slut’s French. He talked to her on the phone a few times when he thought I wasn’t listening. I recognized a few phrases.”
“Do you happen to know her name?” Hari asked.
“No, but I know where she lives.” At their surprised glances, she shrugged. “I followed him once. What of it?”
After Mrs. Keller retrieved the address for them, they got up to leave. Ruby turned at the door.
“One more question, if you don’t mind. What happened to your joint account?”
“Gone. Cleaned out. Every penny.” Muttering, Mrs. Keller slammed the door behind them.
As they drove away Ruby bit her lip, trying not to laugh.
“What?”
She turned to Hari and chortled.
“Confused? Tearful? Keller’s lucky he hasn’t come home. His wife would probably chase him around the house with a hammer.” Ruby tried to look solemn. “Gosh, Hari, I hope we didn’t upset her.”
“Oh, shut up.”
She turned her gaze to the road, still chuckling, and they drove on in silence. After a dozen blocks, Ruby turned.
“Seriously though, I don’t understand how he could leave his wife and kids and disappear.”
“That’s not the thing that most intrigues me.” Hari pulled up to a stoplight and looked at her. “Why does a mid-level executive at a small import export firm in Jersey City have an account with an investment bank in Paris?”
The address Mrs. Keller had given them turned out to be a modest brick townhouse. There was no answer to their knock, and Ruby tried the door handle. It was unlocked and she opened the door and walked in. The front drapes were closed and the hall and living room dark. She took a few steps into the hall and tripped as her foot caught on something.
Hari grabbed her arm before she fell.
“That’s far enough, I think.” He opened the front door farther to let in more light.
Ruby looked down at her foot.
“What is it?” Hari asked.
“A suitcase.” She tried to lift it. “A packed suitcase. Bonjour!” she called. “Hallo? Êtes-vous ici?
“I keep forgetting you speak French.”
“That’s Canadian public school for you. I suffered through years of French immersion. It comes in handy sometimes, though. I’ll check the kitchen.”
“Wait.” Hari stuck his head out the front door and checked the street before returning.
“All right, but make it quick. We shouldn’t be in here.” Hari walked into the living room and picked up a photo from the windowsill. He dropped it as a scream echoed through the hall.
Hari raced into the kitchen. Ruby turned and crumpled against him, burying her face in his chest.
“What is it? What happened?”
She pointed at the kitchen floor.
A young woman, dressed in a T-shirt and jeans, lay on her back with her arms flung out and her knees bent to one side. Her eyes stared vacantly at the ceiling.
A bullet hole made a perfect circle in her forehead.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Ruby winced as Detective Nolan chewed them out, the furrows on his forehead deepening as he talked.
“Are you sure you’ve told us everything this time?” he asked, glaring at her and Hari.
They nodded their heads in unison.
“You haven’t left out any ransacked houses, or car chases, or people shooting at you?”
They shook their heads in unison.
Nolan sighed and glanced back at the townhouse, where uniformed police were stringing yellow caution tape.
“Well, it wouldn’t have made any difference to the vic. Medical examiner says she’s been dead since yesterday.”
“Thank God,” Ruby said.
The detective raised his eyebrows.
“I mean,” she stammered, “not thank God she’s dead, but thank God our failure to report … those things didn’t endanger her in any way. Although, she is dead, and that means she was endangered, but not by us. Which is what I meant to say before.” She closed her eyes and winced again. Shut up, Ruby.
Hari rubbed his forehead with a sigh and turned to the detective.
“Who is she?”
“Has the name Brigitte Perrine come up in your case?”
They shook their heads again.
<
br /> “Thought I’d ask, in case it also slipped your mind.” Nolan glared at them. “She’s a French national who came here on a work permit a few years back. When her visa ran out, she stopped reporting in. She doesn’t have a job, but we ran her financials and there are regular deposits from an investment bank in Paris.”
“Banque de Roche Noire?” Hari asked.
“Yeah, that sounds right. How did you know?”
Ruby tugged at Hari’s sleeve.
“But—”
He brushed her arm away with a quick shake of his head.
“Mrs. Keller gave us a statement from that bank. That account was empty, though.”
Nolan tapped a hand on his leg, staring intently at Hari.
“When were you planning to tell us that?”
“Sorry, honestly, it didn’t occur to me that they might be related. Have you found Keller?”
“No, but Perrine had a message on her cellphone to meet him here. And the Jersey City cops called Paris and learned her investment account has been cleaned out. So Keller’s not only missing, he’s the prime suspect in her murder.”
Ruby cleared her throat loudly. Both men turned to look at her.
“It’s extremely unusual,” she said, “for a white-collar criminal to commit a violent crime, especially murder.”
Hari’s eyes widened, and he glanced sidelong at the detective.
Nolan clenched his jaw, studying them both.
“You two are some sort of forensic accountants, correct?” he asked.
Ruby nodded.
“Yes, but—”
“Well, how about you stick to the math and let us look after the murders?”
“But—”
Hari grabbed Ruby’s arm and pulled her to the waiting Fiesta.
“Thank you, Detective Nolan. May we go now?” he asked.
“Yes, but we may want to talk to you again.”
Hari opened the Fiesta’s passenger door, hustled Ruby in, and got behind the wheel. As they drove away, Ruby glanced back. Nolan shook his head at the car’s duct-taped window before turning back to the row house.
“What were you thinking, telling the police how to do their job?” Hari asked. “Aren’t we in enough trouble?”