“Two thousand.”
Still greedy. “Phone and laptop,” I repeated. I walked to the door and opened it. “Negotiation’s over.” I held my breath, hoping to brazen it out.
The man grabbed the bag and stopped next to me at the door. He stood so close I could feel the heat from his bulky body. When he reached into his pocket, my stomach flinched. I hoped my baggy T-shirt hid the reaction, because all he did was hand me a business card. “I’ll check on the phone and computer,” he said, nodding. “Call me at noon tomorrow.”
I closed the door behind him, set the card on my desk, and went to the window with the same camera and lens I’d used the night before. A couple of cars drove by. I took some pictures. They probably wouldn’t amount to much. The ones from last night hadn’t. Once I’d satisfied my need for action, I returned the camera and looked at his card again.
He must have created business cards with the pbskids.org History Detectives website template and chosen “expert” as his classification. I noticed his name right away, Mike Porpine, and that sounded familiar. The next morning at the pay phone outside Starbucks, I confirmed my suspicions with Harry’s ex-girlfriend, Susie.
“Yeah, Old Porcupine screwed up my life,” she confirmed. “Let me know if you need any help trashing the bastard.”
I wasn’t sure if she meant him or Harry’s father, but the father was who I focused on. His business manufactured and supplied airplane parts to Lockheed Martin. The library and Google were becoming my best friends. I hiked there, settled in at a computer, and found the company. Some employees had posed for pictures available online. This time I searched for the muscle-bound nerd with the glasses. No luck. I tried Lockheed Martin. Maybe they were doing a secret business deal, and if I released those photos, it would compromise the announcement. My eyes blurred from hunting for employee pictures. The odds against me mounted, but I sloughed on. I only had until noon.
I called it quits at eleven, returned to the pay phone, and called Harry. “It’s Skip.”
“Oh.” His clamming up meant he knew something.
“Someone stole my phone and laptop after our party the other night.”
“Not me.”
“Yeah, but you’re how they got my address. Who’d you give it to?”
“Nobody. Just Dad. He wanted to send you an invitation to another party. You and your mother.”
That hurt. He knew my family situation.
“You’re acting like an idiot,” he said. I thought he was quoting my mother’s last conversation with me, until he went on. “I can’t believe you were stupid enough to believe that was Sophia Loren at the party.”
“What do you mean?”
“Hello! It was a look-alike. Sophia doesn’t do commercial gigs. Come on. She hasn’t worn that painted-on mole since 1960. You’re proving yourself a dilettante. You don’t even know the business.”
Like he was a hotshot paparazzo? Pretending his little website was a top media outlet. How did he even know I saw her? “You’re in on it,” I said.
“I’ve still got my hand in the paternal wallet. What did you think, Skip? Be smart for a change. Just give them the pictures.” He disconnected before I could ask another question or, more likely, cast another allegation.
I was missing something big-time. I strolled into Starbucks and breathed in the bracing brew of hazelnut, vanilla, and coffee. A cup of Komodo Dragon would get my brain working. Once the steaming beverage arrived, I sat at a table by the window and looked at the first picture I’d taken. The one with the two guys in it. Studying faces once again didn’t get me anywhere. I stroked my beard.
What if it was something else? I examined the blown-up photo from edge to edge. Beige walls, tan carpet, a table, chairs, computer. Nothing out of the ordinary. I stared at the blurry reflection on the window from the computer screen. A small red and white square with what looked like a cross on it. A flag. The Red Cross flag. So they were making charitable donations at the party? Who would care if they were seen doing that? Unless they didn’t want other people coming after them for money. That happens to rich people a lot. But surely that wasn’t incentive enough to steal my phone and laptop. They could have just asked me to keep it under wraps, and I would have agreed.
A half hour before I was due to call Porcupine, out of ideas, I ordered another coffee. “Hey,” I said to the attractive young woman filling my cup. “Pretend you’re on Jeopardy! and the answer is the Red Cross flag.”
She glanced at me. “What flag was developed from the Swiss flag by reversing the colors, using a red cross instead of a white one?”
Out of the mouth of babes. I dropped a five into the tip jar and dashed to my table. She was right. It wasn’t a red cross, but a white one. The Swiss flag. I stared at the reversed letters on the window. BLS—Bank Lullin Swisse, the main competition to UBS. UBS had just settled a tax fraud suit with the IRS. They admitted to collaborating in tax evasion, paid a large fine, and turned over account information for cheating clients. Maybe Bank Lullin Swisse had similar practices. Porcupine could wait. I needed to talk to Mom.
SOME THINGS ARE better done in person. Convincing Mom to let me violate our agreement without consequences was one of them. I filled the van’s tank with the cash from the shots I’d sold yesterday and drove to Malibu. Mom lived in a stunning beachfront estate with a walled driveway, ocean views, and her own private fruit orchard. I understood the attraction of the pool and lanai. Why she needed eight bedrooms and three guesthouses stumped me, but I knew better than to broach the topic.
I parked my van in front of the garage. She could tell neighbors I was a repairman for all I cared. A new housekeeper answered the door and escorted me to the pool, maybe to verify that I was actually the son of one of the richest women in America.
Because of the sunny day, Mom lay dressed in her bathing suit but in the shade to protect her skin. She slipped her Armani sunglasses down her nose and looked over them at me. Her hair shone, its luster a tribute to the product she developed that brought all those millions. A smile crept across her face. “Have I won?” she asked.
“No, I need a favor.” I pulled over another chaise and sat on its edge.
“Prescott, I’m not inclined to grant one.”
“Skip.” I hated my real name. “My name’s Skip now.”
“Okay, Skip. You’ve got two more months to live your fantasy. Go! Enjoy them.” She pushed her glasses back up and leaned into her lounge chair.
I almost stood and left. I should have turned over the pictures and forgotten about them. Instead, I stared at her, seeing the businesswoman who donated a million to Haiti earthquake relief and then a million to Chile’s, too, because it was the right thing to do. I was about to put the rest of my life at risk because it was the right thing to do. All rich people aren’t money-grubbers, only half of us. “Mom, I need your advice.”
She turned her head away, looking across the infinity pool toward the beach. “I gave it to you ten months ago.”
She’d allowed me one year to prove I could earn a living pursuing my dream of being a photographer. If I succeeded, I’d have a lifetime. Otherwise, I was sentenced to a year working at Vanvell Shampoo before she signed over my trust fund.
“Remember International Accountants?”
Her head snapped back to me. “Those idiots who audited Uncle Ferdinand?”
“How would you like a little payback to one of their VPs?”
Her eyes gleamed. “So what’s the favor?”
“A contact at the IRS and access to my trust fund.”
“The first is no problem, but the second means you’ve lost.”
“I’m only moving the money to another bank, not spending it, so the deal should still be on.”
“You’ve got to give me something.” Her eyes narrowed. “Patti called me the other day.”
“No way, Mom. I am not going on The Millionaire Matchmaker. Think of something else.”
She rubbed her chin. “How about this?
”
I sighed and ran a hand over my beard, a good-bye caress. “Okay, deal.”
OLD PORCUPINE RETURNED my laptop and phone when I gave him the photos. “Don’t know what the big fuss is anyway,” I said when I handed them over.
He just said, “Keep it that way.”
But I had other plans.
I called Harry. “Now that I know what’s going on, I want in.”
“What about your deal with your mother?”
“I’m sick of living in that dump. Listen, she’s signing over the trust fund and some extra on the side. I need that invitation you bragged about.”
“I’ll talk to my dad.”
“Why does he have so much influence?”
“Why do you think, dummy? A sideline. We get a commission for bringing in clients.” It figured. Harry always worked the angles at school. Guess he could blame his genes. It took a week to set everything up. My mother had her lawyer document the conditions of the release, bought me a tailored Italian suit, and even arranged for a barber to shave me at her place. I sensed a lack of trust at that last part but didn’t complain, especially when she gave me the Cartier Tortue diamond-encrusted, rose gold watch. She’d been amazing.
Harry came through with an invite to the next yachting event.
I arrived at the country club in a limo, also courtesy of Mom. I drank a couple of club sodas, afraid I’d blow my role if I had even a single beer. While I waited for my appointment, I watched the crowd, my fingers tapping the side of the glass, a totally inadequate way to dispel pent-up tension. No look-alikes today. I wondered where Sophia was.
My worst fears came true when I finally entered the conference room to meet with the private banker, and the pale-faced, muscular guy with the glasses from the Californian shook my hand. What if he recognized me in spite of the clean shave and fancy suit?
“I’m Peter Gruekir. Nice to meet you, Mr. Vanvell.” He had a slight accent with a European flavor.
I settled into the plush brown chair next to his. “Call me Prescott.” I thanked my mother for the pretentious name. “I’ll get right to the point. Taxes are killing me.”
“We certainly hear that a lot. Have we met before?” He stared.
Did he recognize me? Sweat moistened my chest beneath my jacket and shirt. “No. About my tax problem, you don’t know the half of it.” I handed the check from my trust fund to him.
“There are a number of strategies—”
I interrupted, “Think income when I say, ‘You don’t know the half of it.’” To keep him off balance, I leaned forward, the gold stud in my tie keeping it in place. “I need somewhere I can safely put that other half.” I thought about winking but restrained myself, not wanting to overplay the part.
“I don’t know what to say, Mr. Vanvell.”
Crap! He wasn’t going for it. I added a rich man’s frost to my voice. “Then I’m in the wrong place.” I rose.
His mouth dropped open. “No, please. There are other options, entirely at your risk, but you’ll need to fly to Switzerland.”
I dropped back into the chair. I hadn’t expected that. It wasn’t illegal for BLS to do business in Switzerland. I frowned to look suitably distressed. “Impossible. My father died in a plane accident. I don’t fly in respect of my mother’s wishes.” I’d finally found my calling, the biggest liar in the state of California. I hoped he didn’t know that what dear old Dad had been flying in when he crashed and died was his Mercedes. I waved my arm to make sure Peter spotted my Cartier watch. “I have to admit I’m new to this, but can’t I bank over the Internet?”
He pressed a couple of buttons on the laptop, and the Swiss flag appeared. “First, we must create an account for you, yes? This will be a secret between you and the bank alone.”
I smiled. “Excellent. Put it under the name Skip.” I leaned into the chair, making sure my tie pointed at the laptop to capture the procedure. I wondered if the IRS would let me keep the camera tie tack that was broadcasting the evidence they needed. A small reward for catching BLS and all those tax evaders with secret accounts.
Peter typed. He hesitated, then hit enter, and frowned.
Now that I’d said my nickname, the code word, I couldn’t wait until the justice department and IRS agents busted in. I put my hand in my pocket and closed it around the small digital camera waiting there.
The screen responded with the message “account established.” Peter turned and stared at me. “Why the name Skip?”
I froze. How stupid was it to use something he would recognize? I wished the camera I clutched could morph into a gun.
Peter examined the check I’d given him. He studied me again.
I held my breath, certain I could hear his brain clicking, putting it all together. Peter slipped off his glasses and rubbed his nose.
Dissembling? Sure I was used to fighting paparazzi to position myself for the best photos, but I used my elbows, not my fists. Where the hell were the IRS agents?
Someone yelled. Footsteps pounded. Peter looked toward the door.
I dared to breathe again. Oh, yeah! My pictures would be an exclusive. I would sell them to the real news. The hell with paparazzo. I was graduating to photojournalist. Winning the bet with my mother, the final satisfying victory. I pulled out the camera. Ready, set, smile. Here they come.
DAPHNE, UNREQUITED
BY ANGELA ZEMAN
At 11:45 on a spring night, Daphne March unlocked her Greenwich Village apartment door. She entered, her gown swirling at her ankles, still drifting in the otherworld of her thoughts. The heavy fire door swung shut, eclipsing the outer hall light. She dropped her keys with a musical clatter into the dish on a dimly lit table. And in the darkness of her living room, her eyes registered a shadow that didn’t belong.
She twisted and backed against the table. “Who’s there!”
“Hello, darling Daphne.” The man’s tone was creamy, appreciative.
Her heart thudded in her throat, nearly choking her, but her expression remained unruffled.
“Lord,” the voice continued, “who knew you’d grow up to be a queen.” A flare of light and a metallic snap indicated he’d lit a cigarette.
“Joseph.” She began stripping off her long gloves, the only evidence of emotion in the trembling of her fingers.
“No other flesh than mine.”
She asked lightly, “How did you get in?” She let her gloves drop to the Persian rug and strode toward him, flipping on light switches as she advanced. The lights illuminated a cozy room, upholstered in chintz peonies of pink and peach against forest green moiré silk–covered walls and white painted French doors. Her apartment was small, half the penthouse floor of a twenty-story prewar building. Only one bedroom, but bright from many mullioned windows. A wraparound terrace offered views of the street below and the Hudson River farther west.
He waved the hand holding the cigarette vaguely toward the door. “It’s a very old lock.”
Tall with fair hair and a deep tan, his slender, bespoke-suited body weaved slightly. He opened his stance for balance. His smile was full of awareness of his own charm.
“How much did you pay Max to let you in?”
“Your noble guardian of the door? You besmirch his—”
She stopped, still ten feet away. “You’re drunk.”
“Well, yes. Liquid courage was required.”
“To bribe Max?”
“Aaah, no. That was easy. Noble Max came ignobly cheap, to be frank.”
Daphne considered him. Despite her forty-nine years, her features were unlined and her figure only slightly fuller than in her youth. The hair she kept pulled into a simple coil was more golden blonde than his, but she avoided the sun.
“You couldn’t be upset at the blind item in my column. Everyone knows about your marriage aspirations.”
“Now that—” He stabbed the air with his cigarette. “That’s the problem.”
“That people know?”
“No, darlin
g. My aspirations.”
“Your marriage plans?” She squinted with incredulity, but her breathing eased. “Are you sure you want to continue this discussion? With me?”
“You mean, because you might print what I say in tomorrow’s paper? Nope. Not worried.” His lips quavered. “I’m in love.”
She said, unimpressed, “In love with her father’s reputed billions.”
“Not reputed. Real. Did a thorough check.” His smile brightened.
Daphne said, impatience edging into her tone, “Then pardon me if I’m being dense, but what…”
“Why? Weary from scrounging tittle for the huddled masses yearning to be me? Nobody’s waiting up for you. I know for a fact you’re practically a virgin. Lovely with the light behind you. What color is that dress? Peach again?”
She said plaintively, “Joseph.”
He sighed. “Okay. I’m not free to marry the girl—yet.” He dragged unsteadily on his cigarette. A column of ashes fell to the rug.
“But you are free. Or did I lose track after you divorced the Olympic skier?”
“Her Shpanish papa gives not un poco euro abou’ the skier. Or the others. No, darling Daphne, the problem is you.”
“We divorced twenty-five years ago.” No emotion flickered in her brown eyes. “I was your first.”
“Sure were,” he said softly. He swayed again and repositioned his feet. “Remind me… oh. Yesh—well. Remember Father George, presided at our wedding?” His head drooped and bobbed. “Bishop now… but you lunch with him Thursdays; no reminder needed, is there?”
Sour knowledge filled her eyes. “Oh, dear. Teresa Rosa De La Paula, late-life apple of her devoutly Roman Catholic papa’s eye. To them, you’re still married. To me.”
“In—.” He hiccuped. “Indeed. Daily mass, daily malarkey. You, all over again.” His tone was bitter.
“Joseph. That child will expect—things—from you. She’ll interfere with your—your habits, and you hardly need her money! With your family’s wealth, you could buy castles.”
“Don’t want cashels.”
Mystery Writers of America Presents the Rich and the Dead Page 32