by Rickie Blair
“That doesn’t make sense. If he was dying anyway, why would someone slit his wrists?”
Ruby looked up at him, her eyes wide.
“I’m telling you, Hari, it’s a warning. Someone else is going to die.”
Chapter Thirty-Three
Benjamin cowered in his chair with one hand raised to block the blinding light. He squinted into the glare, trying to bring the face above him into focus.
“What…?” he rasped, his throat too dry to allow more.
“The password, jerk. Give us the password to your laptop.”
Rough hands wrenched his hand from his face and pinned both arms behind his back. A rope snaked around his wrists, scraping his skin. Benjamin gasped as it pulled tight, digging into his arms. His heart pounded against his ribcage.
Behind him, the same rough hands gripped his head and jerked his face up to face the light. Fingers dug into his skin to force open his eyelids. He screamed as the light pierced his pupils.
Footsteps, then another voice, a woman’s.
“Stop that. You’re not helping.”
Her blurry figure stepped between Benjamin and the light.
“Tell me your password, Benjamin,” the woman said. “Then I’ll get you some tea.”
She put a pencil between his fingers and guided his hand to a paper on the table in front of him. Licking his cracked lips, he tried to clear his head. Password. What was his password?
He scrawled letters and numbers, hoping they were correct. When he put the pencil down and pushed the paper away, someone snatched it up and passed it on. The light switched off and Benjamin sighed in relief.
“Are you in?” the woman asked.
“Yes. But there’s another password for his email.”
“Benjamin? We also need the password to your email account.”
The pencil was back between his fingers, but he couldn’t hold his head up. The room swayed around him. He tilted to one side and fell into blackness.
Water hit his face, and he gasped.
“He’s awake. Get him up.”
Hands yanked him to his feet and shoved him back onto the chair. Someone put a mug in his hand. Trembling, he lifted it to his lips and gulped. Water splashed over his face and down his neck and he choked. When his racking coughs had subsided, the woman spoke again.
“The password, Benjamin.”
He picked up the pencil to form letters and numbers. His joints ached and throbbed and his throat burned.
“Is that it?”
He nodded, and they pulled him to his feet. Back in his room, he collapsed on the mattress. It was over, for now.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Ruby hired a car and driver for their trip to the de Montagnys’ home outside La Bastide-Gourdon, a village forty miles north of Paris. The city’s crowded streets and freeways gradually gave way to narrow roads and stone walls, houses with lace curtains behind rustic wooden shutters, and small hotels with purple wisteria clinging to stucco walls. She craned her neck for a better view of La Bastide-Gourdon’s church, whose stone walls and tiled roof towered over the village. The scene evoked a France of centuries past.
Or would have, if it weren’t for the continual stream of traffic on the main road and the two multicolored buses parked outside the church, belching exhaust and disgorging tourists. Ruby waved at two little girls about the same age as her Canadian nieces, Naomi and Sarah. The girls waved back excitedly.
Their driver turned down a narrow avenue lined with ancient plane trees. Hazy sunlight filtered through the soaring canopy as the car passed between the massive gnarled trunks. The avenue ended at a stone house, two stories high and a hundred feet wide, its limestone walls topped with a gray slate roof and dormer windows.
“Le Manoir de Roche Noire,” the driver said.
Ruby and Hari crossed the courtyard and stepped onto a worn stone stoop. Hari slammed the hand-shaped knocker twice on the carved wooden door. A young woman in a green silk dress, her long hair pinned back with combs on either side, opened the door.
“Mademoiselle Delaney?”
Ruby nodded.
“Madame is waiting for you.”
The young woman ushered them into a sitting room where lace-dappled light caressed antique furniture and intricate brocades. A slim woman with gray hair and a Roman nose rose from a divan.
“Bonjour,” she said, holding out her hand. “I am Thérèse de Montagny.”
“Madame.” Ruby walked over and shook her hand. “Nous vous prions d’accepter nos sincères condoléances.”
“Merci.” Madame sat and gestured to two chairs opposite the divan.
“This is my partner, Hari Bhatt,” Ruby said.
“Oui.” Madame nodded curtly. “How may I help you?”
The young woman returned with a tray of sablé biscuits and espresso. She put the tray on the table, handed cups to Ruby and Hari, and left.
Hari perched on the edge of his chair. Ruby put her cup on the small table beside her.
“Thank you for seeing us. Please forgive the intrusion.”
Madame rested her hands on the arms of her chair, ignoring the coffee and biscuits.
“Nina said Jourdain was to have lunch with you both on Sunday. I was curious to know why.”
“We run a … consulting business in New York. We’re tracking a fraud artist who may have used your husband’s business to conceal his crimes.” Ruby cast a warning glance at Hari, whose eyebrows were rising, and turned back to Madame de Montagny. “Monsieur graciously agreed to look into it for us.”
Madame bit her lower lip and looked away.
Ruby picked up her coffee and sipped it. Hari stared out the closest window.
Madame turned to face them.
“I do not think I can help you. My husband had business problems of late, but the details are unknown to me. I only know that he and Monsieur Fulton had talked more than usual. Jourdain was preoccupied. He brought work home, papers and so forth. I had never known him to do that.”
“Madame, are those papers still here?” Hari asked.
She gave him a puzzled look.
“Non. They are on their way to New York with Mademoiselle Vaughn. She picked them up this morning.”
“Mademoiselle Vaughn? Leta Vaughn?”
“Oui. Monsieur Fulton’s assistant. You have met her?”
Hari stared at Madame de Montagny, his face rigid.
“Leta was here this morning?” Ruby asked.
“Oui.”
A loud silence followed. Ruby sipped her coffee, while Hari’s sat untouched on the table beside him.
“Madame, do you know Gregory Keller?” Ruby asked.
“I don’t think so. Why?”
“What about Brigitte Perrine?”
“Brigitte?” Her eyes widened. “Dear Brigitte is my niece. She was killed…” her voice broke and she looked away, swallowing. “In New York.” She turned back to Ruby and lifted her chin. “Why do you ask?”
“I am so sorry, Madame. We had no idea you were related.” Ruby’s hand trembled as she placed her espresso on the table beside her. If Brigitte Perrine was related to the de Montagnys, then she wasn’t a random investor in Banque de Roche Noire. Even Fulton, back in New York, must have known her, or at least heard of her. This could be the break they needed. She cleared her throat.
“Was she connected in any way with your husband’s business?”
“Not directly. Brigitte was ... troubled. When she left for New York three years ago, my sister asked Jourdain to set up a trust for her.” Madame pressed the back of her hand to her mouth.
Out of the corner of her eye, Ruby caught Hari staring at her. She knew what he was thinking. They should leave before they upset their host any further. Ruby avoided his glance.
“Just one more question, Madame, if you don’t mind. Are you familiar with the photos on the mantel in your husband’s office?”
“Of course. Jourdain was very proud of his family.”
&nb
sp; Ruby pulled her cellphone from her purse, scrolled through the photos, and handed Madame the phone.
“Do you know what picture occupied that empty space in the back row?”
Madame studied the screen.
“Mais oui. It was a photo of our family, and the three original partners in the business, at a picnic in Southampton many years ago. It is a favorite photo of Jourdain’s.” Frowning, she handed back the phone. “That’s odd. Perhaps he put it elsewhere in the room.”
“Do you have a copy of that photo, Madame? Could we see it?”
“To what end?”
“It might be connected with Mademoiselle Perrine’s death.” Ruby held her breath and avoided looking at Hari, who would be scowling at such a blatant lie. It was a gamble, but—
The gamble paid off.
Madame’s eyes misted and she looked away.
“That is possible. Brigitte was in that photo, you see. She accompanied us to New York that year. Perhaps, if I can find it—”
Hari stood up with a glance at Ruby, pulled a business card from his breast pocket and placed it on the coffee table.
“If you can, Madame, please send a copy to this address. We have taken up enough of your time.”
She smiled tightly and rose to walk them out.
At the front door, Hari turned.
“Thank you again, Madame. We are very sorry for your loss.”
Ruby took the older woman’s hands in hers and they air-kissed.
“Et je vous prie de bien vouloir accepter mes profondes condoléances.”
They returned to Paris in silence, except for a few comments on the landscape. At the hotel, while they waited for the desk clerk to print their bill, Hari checked emails on his phone. Ruby took a deep breath and plunged in.
“I take it you didn’t know Leta was in Paris.”
He did not look up from his cellphone screen.
“She doesn’t check in with me before leaving the city.” His expression told her to change the subject. Ruby leaned over the counter, counting on her fingers.
“There were three partners in Capital Street originally. Edwin Gavan died years ago and de Montagny is dead now. That leaves Fulton. Whoever took that photo could have meant it as a warning to him.”
Hari scrolled through more emails.
“Are we talking about the missing photo again? It’s a good theory, Ruby, but there’s no evidence to support it.”
“I wish we had Benjamin’s laptop,” she said.
Hari bent over the phone, his mouth slack.
“We may have something better.”
Ruby bent her head to read the email on the tiny screen.
I'm fine. Back soon. Ben.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Hari put his packed carry-on bag by his hotel room door and pulled out his cellphone. He had replied several times to Ben’s email, but there was still no answer. He couldn’t help thinking that someone else might have sent that message from Ben’s account. With a grimace, he placed his cellphone on the night table. Benjamin Levitt would never give up his passwords willingly.
Hari stretched out on the bed with his hands behind his head. Time to start at the beginning and figure out what they had missed. He closed his eyes.
One. Gregory Keller embezzled millions from Global TradeFair.
Two. He deposited that money into a joint account with his wife.
Three. That account was empty and Keller was missing.
Four. Keller’s girlfriend, Brigitte Perrine, had a trust fund at Banque de Roche Noire.
Five. Perrine had been murdered and her trust account emptied.
Six. The head of Banque de Roche Noire, Jourdain de Montagny, had also been murdered and thus was unable to confirm or deny a connection to Keller.
No matter how many times Hari ran through it, he came to the same conclusion. Keller took the money he had embezzled from Global TradeFair, and possibly also Perrine’s money, and fled. Maybe he killed Perrine, but that was a matter for the police, as was de Montagny’s mysterious death in Paris. Bhatt & Delaney had discovered who swindled Global TradeFair, and that was all they had been hired to do. Once they got back to New York, he would call TradeFair’s CEO and report their findings. If the police caught up with Keller, they might yet retrieve TradeFair’s missing funds.
But what about the account statement from Banque de Roche Noire that Mrs. Keller gave them? Keller could have invested his embezzled cash there on Brigitte’s recommendation. And if TradeFair’s stolen money was in Banque de Roche Noire, it could be recovered. It might take a subpoena, or the French equivalent, but Hari and Ruby could get it back.
Then they could bill TradeFair for their services as well as a percentage of the recovered money, which would mean a substantial cash infusion for their business account.
He reached for his cellphone and keyed in a number. A woman answered.
“Bonjour. Banque de Roche Noire.”
“Nina? This is Hari Bhatt, from New York. If you remember, we met yesterday when Monsieur—”
“How could I forget? You were very kind, Monsieur Bhatt. I wanted to thank you, but when I left the hospital—”
“That’s not necessary. And please, call me Hari. I hope you’re feeling better now?
“Mais oui. I am fine. But it is a terrible shock.” She paused and when she resumed, her voice was hoarse. “I worked for Monsieur de Montagny for thirty years.”
“I understand, and I’m sorry to bother you, Nina. But we are following some leads in Brigitte Perrine’s death and I have a question.”
“That poor girl. Two deaths in the same family, only days apart. Madame is devastated.” Nina sighed. After a few moments she added, in a puzzled tone, “You don’t think the murders are related?”
“That’s for the police to determine. I’m merely looking into some financial aspects.”
“Then you are assisting the police, no? How may I help?”
Hari paused to consider. Surely it was only a small white lie. After all, if the police asked for his assistance, he would certainly comply.
“I’m tracking two investment accounts. Miss Perrine’s and one belonging to Gregory Keller, who also lives in New York. I need to confirm that both were invested with your bank.”
“I don’t know if I can tell you that. We cannot release details of individual accounts, Monsieur Bhatt. I mean, Hari.”
“We can’t get Miss Perrine’s consent, unfortunately.”
“Ah, well, I may be able to bend the rules for Brigitte, but not this man Keller.”
“The police believe he killed Brigitte.”
There was a sharp intake of breath on the other end of the line.
“Then certainly you will need the details.”
Hari gave her Keller’s account number from the statement.
“Can you tell me about the mutual fund that shows up on the account? I can’t find any record of it here.”
“Let me look. Oh, that’s not a mutual fund. It’s the notation we use to show the money has been transferred to New York, to a feeder fund that invests in the Castlebar Fund. You have heard of the Castlebar Fund?”
“Yes, but I thought it was closed to new investors.”
“That may be, but Brigitte was a family member, so…” Her voice trailed off.
“And Keller?”
“Let me see. Ah. Both accounts were transferred to the Castlebar Fund.”
“But Miss Perrine received regular checks from you, did she not?”
“Quite possibly. The money would come from New York and we would send it on to her.”
“How much money did your office originally send to New York on Miss Perrine’s behalf? And Keller’s?”
“Monsieur Keller’s account had about two million U.S. dollars and Brigitte’s about five hundred thousand.”
“I see. Thank you for your help.”
He slipped the phone into his pocket. TradeFair’s money hadn’t disappeared, it had simply taken a roundtrip t
ransAtlantic journey from Jersey City to Paris and back to Manhattan. But how to extract it from the Castlebar Fund, the most secretive investment on Wall Street?
There was a tap on the door and Ruby walked in.
“Ready to go?”
He nodded. There was nothing else to do in Paris.
* * *
At jfk airport in New York they lugged their carry-on bags to the curb, hunching their shoulders against the late-night chill. In the back seat of their taxi, Ruby turned to face him.
“Have you had any answer from Benjamin?”
“Nothing. My first priority when we get home is to find him.”
“I thought you were going to leave that to the police.”
“I am, but we can make inquiries. To be honest, I’m beginning to think your theory makes sense. About Capital Street Management, I mean.” He told her about Keller’s and Perrine’s accounts.
Ruby frowned. “But the police were told those accounts were empty. Could someone have made a mistake?”
“I guess. But on both?”
Ruby stared straight ahead, tapping her fingers on her thigh as the cab turned onto the parkway. Hari pulled out his cellphone to study his emails. The cab had swerved onto the bridge over the East River by the time Ruby turned to him and poked his arm. She was grinning.
“What?” Hari asked.
“We have to go after Fulton.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” He shook his head.
“It’s the next logical step. The police believe the money has vanished, but Nina told you that both accounts are in the Castlebar Fund.”
“If the police can’t find that money, I don’t see how we can.”
“Not by following the usual channels, that’s for sure.”
“What are you suggesting?”
“If Capital Street hid TradeFair’s money, they may have hidden money from other investors, too. There could be more going on here than we think.” Her cheeks flushed as she gripped his arm. “Ben said the Castlebar Fund was crooked. Don’t you want to prove him right?”
Hari’s mouth twitched at one corner. Why was he helpless to say no to her?