Bootscootin' and Cozy Cash Mysteries Boxed Set (Books 1-6)

by Scott, D. D.

  “We’ve got a flight booked for…,”

  “Europe?” I asked, oh-so-pleased with the incredulous surprise on his face.

  “How did you know?”

  “I have my sources and my ways of getting to them,” I said, enjoying very much this new cat-and-mouse game we were playing.

  “Speaking of which, we’re going with your little rabbit out of the hat routine back there,” he said, taking me by the elbow then looping his arm through mine on our way down the gorgeous staircase to the mansion’s main entrance.

  “What do you mean?”

  “From now own, I’m your new boyfriend,” he said, his cat-just-getting-a-freakin’-canary-not-no-little-mouse grin taking command of his incredible lips.

  Okay. So maybe I was back to liking my new gig.

  As long as the dead bodies stopped piling up in Range Rovers at Jiffy Marts or floating in the pools of oceanfront estates.

  For an instant, I’d surrender to our new plan.

  Why?

  Why not?

  Chapter Five

  So my new boyfriend Roman and I may now be on our way to Europe—Vienna, Austria to be more precise—but apparently, the entire Cozy Cash storm had really heated up at the Palm Beach Country Club the December McCall was arrested…precisely the scoop I needed to try to make sense of our money trail.

  Once we’d gotten all comfy underneath our first-class, ultra-soft blankets, Roman continued to fill me in, “I was actually in Aspen, having dinner with some friends…”

  “You have friends?”

  I just couldn’t resist asking, although I was rather surprised he did. Roman didn’t strike me as much of a guy’s guy buddy type. He was all business. And a dark business at that.

  “Yes, Smart Ass, I have friends. Unlike you, who only seems to hang with your assistant and a few of your clients like Alexandra, Roxy and Jules.”

  Speaking of assistants, choosing to ignore his dig at the small circle of people I trusted and cared to hang with, I made a mental note to contact Ross, my once beyond fabulous assistant, as soon as we landed in Vienna.

  ‘Til I returned from Europe, he would have to handle Camilla de Vil. And he was sooo not gonna be happy about that assignment.

  I said he was once my beyond fabulous assistant because that’s the way Ross had started out when I hired him. Unfortunately, he hadn’t been keeping up with his original fabulousness. In fact, he was becoming a rather whiny and inept, pain in my ass.

  Now that I’d saddled him with Camilla, probably meant I’d need to find some amazingly chic, vintage boutique then hook him up with something majorly over-the-top love-worthy, some little bit of to-die-for that could make me totally short of breath plus bribe him to just do his job.

  “Can I continue with Cozy Cash business now?” Roman asked, a playful twinkle still offsetting his deeply serious, dark as espresso eyes.

  “Sure,” I said, for-real interested in how our money trail wound its way to Vienna, Austria.

  “So I’m having dinner with friends, a couple of whom are big-time McCall investors, and their cell phones begin ringing, almost in an eerie sequence,” Roman said, his features taking on this I’m-all-in dedication that was just rock solid hot.

  “My friends attempted politeness at first, of course, but the damn things kept ringing and ringing. Upon their return to our table from finally taking the calls, their faces were much paler than their Aspen slopes’ Golden Boy norms,” he stated, leaning-in closer to me, which I was definitely fine with, despite thinking it was more for the nature of our conversation than because he wanted to seem more boyfriend-ish.

  And yes, for the record, I’d have been more than okay with the we’re-a-couple lean-in.

  “McCall had been arrested and confessed to cheating clients out of billions, at least fifty billion was being reported at that point.”

  I choked a bit on the swig of hot tea I’d just sipped, and my hands shook against the cheap sides of the airlines teacups.

  “Whoa there,” Roman said, placing his hands over the top of mine to steady me and the cup of English Black Tea.

  My hands went from shaking to tingling, a surge of recognition in his touch that I had no way of being familiar with. That kind of touch that whispers to your soul that you’re home with this person even though your mind hasn’t yet a clue.

  “You okay?”

  “Uhm, sure. Must have been a little turbulence. Did you feel turbulence? I did. Just a bit. Turbulence,” I mumbled, not even convincing myself with that dose of beyond lame.

  “Within hours that night, we knew of about a dozen more of our friends who’d been hit, and that my two friends’ early retirement was over,” Roman said, taking a swig of his own black tea, then settling back into his seat.

  “Those next few days, cell phones rang all over the slopes and in the lodges. People stayed glued to their gigantic flat screens, wondering how long before those screens, as well as the high class comfort of the walls they were mounted to, would last. To say it was mass hysteria is an understatement. The hysteria was soon only a part of the humiliation and shame recognizing they’d been duped by a guy they considered to be their friend.”

  “So, I take it, it’s not so bad not having many friends then, right?” I couldn’t help but tease him to try and lighten the heavy load McCall’s scheme carried with it.

  “You’re right there. Thanks to Bernie playing the spread amongst all his friends, the bad news soon piled-up in imaginably high stacks of cash from Aspen to New York to Palm Beach.”

  Roman took out one, dark-Italian hand from underneath his blanket and combed through his darker still, messed-up and super sexy hair.

  “What does it mean to play the spread? And how does that mean Sonja Medici is taking us to Vienna?”

  I wish I’d read up enough on all this to know the answers. I was used to being “the” source in my field, not the new kid on the block greener than the new Spring Runway’s brilliant emerald or the money trails we were chasing.

  To my credit, I did have a huge stack of research I’d accumulated, but with being swamped preparing for Awards Season for my clients, as well as studying up for my P.I. Licensing Exam, the research was still waiting on me, at home, on my coffee table.

  “Good questions, Plum Puddin’,” Roman said, delighting me with his surprised but pleased response to my inquiries.

  “McCall made his whole Ponzi-scheme work by, interestingly enough, taking money from people who knew how to make money. And that came from one of the Manhattan locusts, I mean attorneys, representing a Russian mobster McCall took for an ill-fated ride.”

  “But how did he take the money?”

  “I’m getting there,” Roman said, once again leaning-in so that I could not only feel his cinnamon hot and black tea breath on my throat but melt from his five o’clock stubble grazing the side of my cheek.

  He’d apparently misjudged the distance between us. Not that I minded his error.

  “Back then, if you had say a mortgage-free home worth millions in any of these cozy cash locations, Aspen, New York, Palm Beach, etcetera, you could easily get a mortgage on it at four percent, invest the money with McCall, and he’d guarantee you a return of eight percent over the difference between carrying the cost of the mortgage and his return on your investment. Thus, these people grew accustomed to living on, or investing more with, a sweet million plus in their pockets, just by playing McCall’s spread. That was one of his tricks,” Roman said, tilting his head as if contemplating, that at the time, McCall was clever and appeared to be an outta the park home run for his investors.

  Taking in the ramifications of Roman’s explanations, I could feel my eyes continue to widen. No wonder we were dealing with billions upon billions. He’d played these people for major fools.

  “So how does all this tie-in with Palm Beach and my friends the Zicowers, then Sonja and now Vienna?” I asked, still not getting the connection.

  “Palm Beach was hit enormousl
y hard because McCall really targeted his fellow Jewish Communities. After I’d been in Aspen and had that fateful dinner with friends, I was due at an international aid relief banquet at a family friend’s estate in Palm Beach,” Roman said, shifting his weight in his seat.

  Or was he fidgeting because he was uncomfortable telling me about his ultra, high-class connections? I’d bet on the latter, and was carefully taking in all his familial and friendly alliances.

  Yeah. I had a ton of research to do as soon as we landed, and it wasn’t all Cozy Cash-related.

  “People came into the event that evening, panicked beyond belief. Crying out that they’d lost this much, that much. Then asking each other how much they’d been hit for. I heard rumblings of the entire situation being called a curse of damn near biblical proportions. References to the devil’s clouds descending again on the Jewish community. Charities were wiped out. Foundation doors closed overnight. Employee retirements gone. These weren’t just wealthy people. They were individuals and groups known for their philanthropy and putting their money where it was needed. I loved how the Vanity Fair writer covering the story Mark Seal put it ‘the group renowned for giving became the group that got taken’.”

  “So let me get this straight. First, McCall stole from the best and brightest money investors around. And second, you read Vanity Fair?”

  I could believe the first much more than the second.

  “Yes and Yes. McCall was a genius in that he made the transfer of large wads of cash seem cozy and comforting under his control. And about my reading habits, I read whatever I need to read to get the information I’ve got to have,” Roman said, as if both things were perfectly normal and part of his everyday routine.

  “Ahhh. So that’s how our Austrian Banker Sonja Medici must play-in, right? She did the transfers,” I said, kinda stoked by my piecing her into this follow-the-money puzzle.

  “In part. You catch on quick, Witherspoon. I like that about you,” he said, tipping his teacup to me.

  I couldn’t help but giggle. You’d think a guy like Roman would be tipping a martini glass—Bond style—not a teacup.

  Nothing about him added-up. He was the bigger puzzle and riddle I was interested in.

  This Cozy Cash stuff seemed fairly easy to figure out. At least the money connection parts of the game. As for the dead bodies, I didn’t yet have a grasp on the dots connecting them or why the bodies kept piling-up. But I was working on it.

  “Sonja is thought, by our sources, to have been, let’s see what did the New York Times say,” he hesitated, as if reading his over-stuffed mind took a bit of extra time and conjecture, “the hub of a complex network of European and Caribbean funds channeling money to McCall.”

  “Oh boy. And from what Emily said, she was Fred’s primary banker. That’s not good,” I said, and it wasn’t good, not at all good.

  I couldn’t help but wonder how or why Fred and Emily couldn’t have figured this out.

  And, I guess, there was also a huge part of me that just didn’t want to know why. These were my friends. Not just great clients. But good, very giving and caring people.

  How could I investigate people I respected and cared about?

  How could people like Roman stay vested in these high profile cases without ever feeling for the people they were examining under high-powered, secret lenses?

  Maybe that’s part of the dark side he didn’t seem very adept at hiding. At least not from me.

  “No, it’s not good,” he said, “but don’t worry your pretty head about it tonight. We’ve got a long journey ahead. Try to get some rest on the flight.”

  Did he have something besides tea in that cheap china cup?

  Don’t worry my pretty head? Weren’t we a little beyond that threshold?

  After he fluffed my travel pillow behind my head and touched the tip of one of his strong fingers to my nose, plus tucked my blanket into my sides, I was betting on much more than Black Tea. Probably why he’d also had a cinnamon candy…to cover the sweet, smooth scent of whatever alcohol was his elixir.

  Roman was definitely drinking more than tea. That I now knew for sure. Otherwise, he’d never have made me snug as a bug in a rug on our flight to Vienna.

  As he drifted off to sleep, or at least pretended he was, I snagged a sip of his tea.

  Aha. My very own James Bond drank brandy, not the 007 preferred, ice-cold and dry martini, shaken not stirred.

  Note taken.

  I powered up my Kindle. I didn’t have time to sleep. I had research to do. While in the airport waiting on our flight, I’d quickly downloaded five books. Everything of quality and great sources I could find on how Bernie McCall operated—or played the spread, as I now knew it was called—to single-handedly bring down most of the world’s billionaires.

  Or was it single-handedly?

  Sonja Medici had, after all, sent Ludwig, her henchman, after both Alexandra McCall and me.

  Maybe Bernard McCall didn’t operate Cozy Cash alone.

  Maybe he had help moving the money across much more than the Atlantic Pond.

  Chapter Six

  Stepping off the plane and into the Vienna airport, I was struggling to adjust to my new life as both (A) a Bond Girl and (B) a Stylist to The Stars for bitches like Camilla de Vil.

  Listening on my cell to my strung-out assistant Ross—strung-out on both his job skills and sheer Camilla evil—had me beyond strung-out too.

  Ross filled my ears full of Camilla’s latest bullshit, actually both ears, as I had to switch sides half-way through the call to save one ear from certain drum damage.

  I’d had it. With Camilla de Vil, not poor Ross, who I’d now decided to give a huge, well-deserved raise to, not for his talent, ‘cause he really didn’t have much, but rather for putting up with Camilla’s devil-born crap.

  “You know what, my dear Ross? This is how we’re gonna handle this,” I said, stopping along the side of the terminal and somehow managing to tug on Roman’s leather jacket so he’d know I was in a temporary holding pattern ‘til I finished this call.

  Roman stopped and turned to me, rolled his eyes and twitched his lips in that cute way he does when I’ve started to tee him off just a bit. But he followed his twitch with that quirky smile saying I don’t know why I like you but I do. And that somewhat soothed my angst.

  “Okay, Ross. Listen to me. I’m in Vienna. On, uhm, some personal business. Yeah. That’s it. Personal business.”

  I glanced-up, just a quick peek, and damn if Roman hadn’t caught that tiny, whitest of lies. But I didn’t have time right then for explanations—however lame they were. So on I charged to attempt to save my poor, as yet underpaid, but soon overpaid assistant. Although, really, no amount of money was worth putting up with Camilla.

  “Anyhoo…tell Camilla de Vil,” I started, enjoying the chuckle coming from Roman who did look damn hot with his muscle-lean legs crossed, leaning along the terminal wall while I tended to the Hollywood drama of my other job, “tell her I’m in Europe, attending the Spring Fashion Weeks in London, Milan and Paris. Yes, I know I’m in Vienna, Ross. But I’ll make the shows. Promise. Just listen to me.”

  Roman now had his head lowered, his dark eyes lifted over the tops of his Gucci aviator sunglasses, a look that, if he were so inclined, could get him into a GQ spread.

  “Tell her I just haven’t found an Oscar dress worthy of her yet,” I said, inserting my finger into my mouth and making a gagging motion.

  Although I was being dramatic, the thought of Camilla thinking no dress was worthy of her did about make me vomit. That’s all she needed…another ego uplift to go along with all her other nips and tucks.

  “Yes, Ross, I realize that’s only feeding the beast. But would YOU rather be the one to tell her I haven’t had time to look for jack crap for her to wear? Yeah. Didn’t think so. So schuz, Darling. I think that’s right for Vienna. They speak German here, right?”

  I looked at Roman who nodded his head that German it w
as in Vienna.

  “Yes, of course I’m asking you that, Ross. Who else would I be talking to?”

  Oops. I couldn’t blow my cover. And I certainly didn’t have any excuses as to why I’d be travelling with Agent Bellesconi on fashion business.

  After that fib, I pretended to rub-off a mark on my Louboutin’s, not having the nerve to check Roman’s reaction to my next lie.

  “So we’re all good then, right? You can do this, Ross. Just gather up some extra testosterone. Yes, I know that’s not your strong point. But go for the gusto, Darling,” I did my best to encourage him then quickly disconnected the call, knowing he’d need not just testosterone in large supply but a couple of stiff martinis and the extra liquid courage they’d provide.

  Roman started to open his mouth, and not knowing which of my fibs he might tackle first, I decided to shut him off before he even got started.

  “Don’t you even say a word.”

  “But…”

  “Nope. Not a word, Buddy,” I cautioned him, making a swift but sure duck bite motion with my hand, signaling him to just zip it. “And guess what? Since you think being my boyfriend is such a great angle to play, you’ll be attending your first European Fashion Weeks too.”

  Just like I’d planned. Score one for the sassy chick. That shut ‘em up and got him away from the wall and wheeling our carry-on luggage to baggage claim.

  Dodged those bullets, I thought, rather impressed with my no nonsense bravado. And speaking of bullets, I couldn’t wait to check out the latest Guns & Ammo magazine I planned to punch-up online as soon as we got to our hotel.

  If I didn’t end-up needing the goods for my new role as Bond Girl, it might not be a bad idea to be packin’ when Camilla was around.

  Before I knew it, Roman had us through airport security and customs then nestled into the luxurious confines of an ultra-plush, I swear, almost regal, limousine.

  Who was this guy?

  Maybe I’d been watching too many Human Target episodes, gearing up for my new gig as super P.I. So what if I fancied myself as a Ms. Pucci of sorts?