by Louise Clark
"You don't know, do you?" Roy turned to Quinn. "Frank thinks Christy will just rollover and do what we tell her."
Quinn laughed. "She's changed, cat." He closed his eyes briefly. "I can't believe I'm having a conversation with a dumb animal." Then a wicked little smile curled his lips. "Or is it a dumb husband I'm talking to?"
The cat stood in a sudden lithe movement. His lips curled back in a snarl and his tail lashed as he glared at Quinn.
Roy interrupted before battle could be joined. "We know quite a lot at this point." He lifted up his hand to tick the items off on his fingers. "To start with, Frank is dead, not disappeared. He did not embezzle from his trust fund—three of his trustees did. Probably because he was blackmailing them." Very much in parental mode, Roy fixed the cat with a disapproving look. "Not the smartest move, Frank."
The cat hunched a shoulder and didn't reply.
Roy continued on. "Frank's friend Aaron is a pusher and is somehow involved in his death. So is Crack Graham, Aaron's dealer. Graham has been impersonating Frank to make it seem that Frank is still alive." He cocked his head toward the cat, who was glaring at Quinn. Neither responded. "The question is, why is it necessary to make it seem that Frank is still alive?"
So the jerk or jerks who ripped off my trust fund could keep on stealing from it until they'd drained it dry.
"Follow the money," Quinn said. "The audit showed that the biggest chunks of cash were moved after the day Frank disappeared. If a man has skipped town with his girlfriend, it's not surprising that he's also going to move his money somewhere he has more access to it."
"Endicott said the money that was embezzled after Frank died was transferred to a bank in the Far East. After that it was sent to a numbered corporation in Brazil and the trail ended there," Roy said.
The cat hunched his back and his hair stood on end, adding an impressive volume to his bulky frame. That's a lot of money to disappear into the ether. All the cash assets and the proceeds of the sale of the mansion. Whoever did it must have a pretty good understanding of the banking business.
Roy passed this information on to Quinn, who frowned. "Macklin is the obvious choice."
He likes to bully people, but he's a coward at heart. There was a sneer in the voice. He's got a good life, and he's afraid of getting caught, so he doesn't stray far from the straight and narrow.
Roy thought about big chunks of cash. Visualizing the process of money transfer in his mind, he said, "But maybe the trail didn't end. Maybe we're just looking at it the wrong way."
Quinn learned forward. "What do you mean, Dad?"
Roy struggled with the ideas forming in his mind. "What good is money in a bank in Brazil if you're not living it up in Mexico with your bimbo?"
I wouldn't know. The cat stood up and started to prowl. I never got a chance to find out.
"Exactly!" Roy said.
"Dad! Stop talking to the cat. Fill me in."
"The money disappeared into the bank account of a company in Brazil. We don't know what happened from there. Everyone has been assuming that Frank has been using it to fund a fancy lifestyle in Mexico, but we know Frank is dead. Further, we know he never got to Mexico. Would anyone who stole millions of dollars be willing to leave it in Brazil forever?"
"You think the money is on the move again?"
Roy nodded. "Back to whoever stole it in the first place."
"What we have to look for is someone who has suddenly come into a lot of money."
Not bad, Armstrong. Finding out where it is now isn't going to be easy, though. But that's your job. You're the one who can do the legwork.
Roy stood up, then went into the kitchen. When he returned, he had a bottle of beer in one hand and a lit joint in the other. He handed the bottle to Quinn before taking a drag of the marijuana. When he exhaled, he blew the smoke the cat's way. "Whoever embezzled the bulk of Frank's estate probably killed him. Before we go any farther, I think we have to ask if we want to find out who that person is. Would Christy want us to?"
Yes! The cat breathed deep, his eyes narrowed in pleasure. There was a sigh of satisfaction in Roy's mind.
Quinn held the bottle to his lips and drank. "If we don't find out, the trustees will hold Christy hostage for the rest of her life."
Roy nodded. "In that case, I think Frank's right, Quinn. You are the one who has to do it."
* * *
He didn't mind being the one to do the digging to keep the case alive. Research and investigation was what he did best. He enjoyed asking questions, particularly the ones no one wanted to answer. He lived on the rush that came when the pieces fell together to create a completely new pattern.
He parked his car in an underground lot. Thanks to awards that gave him name recognition and a publisher who respected his international experience and wanted to feature his material, he had access to the research facilities of a major Vancouver daily.
For a moment he remained in the car, staring blindly out the windshield. When he'd come to Vancouver, he'd estimated it would take him about a year—no more than two—to help his father through the worst of his grief. He would sort out the family finances, which his mother had always handled, and make sure Roy would be able to cope, then he'd slip back into his own life.
Now, as he sat behind the wheel of his car, he wondered about his future. Though his father seemed to be adapting to his loss, he truly believed he was talking to a cat. A cat, moreover, who shared his desire to get high from time to time.
Shaking his head, Quinn jerked the key out of the ignition and opened the door. His father wasn't cracking up, he was. He'd been talking to the damn cat too.
He took the elevator from the parking garage up to the main lobby where he transferred to another elevator that would take him to the floors used by the paper. The lobby was a pleasant, utilitarian space with granite floors, a reception console that could have been manned, but wasn't, and a listing of the floor on which each department was located.
Newspapers didn't spend a lot of money on fancy interiors or cushy office space. Not like the Jamieson Trust. Now there was an organization that saw interior decoration as an investment. They claimed it was because of the prominence of the Jamieson name. Quinn thought it was because the people who used the space liked to spend other people's money. That brought him back to the meeting three days before and Christy's reaction to it.
She hadn't spoken to him since she refused his help. That hurt. He didn't want to admit it did, but it did. Worse, when they were out on the sidewalk he'd asked her to share his car. She'd shaken her head, then driven home with his father. That was when she had announced she wanted the investigation to end. She'd told his father, not him. Why?
His father thought it was because telling him would be too difficult. What was that supposed to mean? Was he such a grouch that Christy couldn't talk to him? He thought they had something going, that when this was over they would see if sex was as good as it had promised to be on that beach in Mexico. Did he mean nothing to her?
That thought made him angry. She should have had the guts to talk to him directly, but she hadn't. When the chips were down she'd caved. He'd expected more of her. As he headed into the elevator, he pondered that. Why had he expected more? Was it because he was attracted to her? If he looked back, he could see that his relationships had been with women who were strong and independent, who fought for what they believed in, never allowing themselves to give up.
Women who would die for a cause.
He swallowed and pushed his thoughts away from that one. Christy was a stay-at-home mom, when all was said and done, despite the Jamieson name and the society page status that went with it. Why should he expect her to have the fierceness of a woman like Tamara, who had dedicated her life to tending the injured in the dangerous places of the world?
What burned him was that he'd misjudged Christy. Usually he was pretty good at reading people, but this time he'd created a character for her that didn't belong to her. That wasn't hi
s style, so why had he done it? Because his desire for Christy was so strong he'd do anything to satisfy his needs? What did that say about him?
He should forget Frank Jamieson's disappearance and get on with the story he'd pitched over three months ago. There were plenty of candidates he could use as examples for an article on how inherited wealth shaped the lives of the children of the super rich. He didn't need Frank Jamieson, or Christy Jamieson, to be able to write the story.
So why was he here, chasing a paper trail, trying to find the killer of a man who was not officially dead?
The elevator reached his floor. He stepped out, moving quickly. At the door to the archives, he stopped. He was here because he had never run from a problem. Sooner or later he would have to face Christy, confront her with the issues between them. He wasn't ready to do that, not with the sharp pain of betrayal still fresh in his mind. He'd let it dull a bit before he talked to her. Otherwise, he might say something stupid in the heat of the moment.
Like something about commitment.
No way.
* * *
You're caving, babe.
"Shut up." Christy dug through Noelle's closet. There were built-in shelves for her casual clothes as well as a space to hang dresses. At the moment, Christy was looking at fall clothes like jeans, sweatshirts, and long-sleeved blouses to see what Noelle needed for the change of season.
You're letting them control you.
"Your trustees still hold the purse strings, Frank," she said crossly. "If I don't go along with what they want, I don't have grocery money until I get a job." Two pairs of jeans, a pair of sweats. She made a note on a piece of paper that she needed to look for another couple of pairs of pants.
Quinn and Roy say that you're too stubborn to let the trustees get away with pushing you around.
In the middle of stacking T-shirts, Christy stopped and briefly closed her eyes. "Quinn and Roy are wrong."
They made me look back at us. I didn't like what I saw. I wasn't much of a husband to you. There was a sigh in the words. I blackmailed the trustees off and on for three years, Christy. You can't trust them. If you give in to them and stop the investigation, they'll just push you around on something else, later on.
"I told Harry Endicott that I had enough information for now. I asked him to hold off on the audit." Two sweatshirts, three long-sleeved jerseys, four blouses, and a sweater. Not enough for a school that didn't require a uniform. She'd have to take Noelle shopping for clothes. How were her socks doing?
You can't hide in the cupboard, babe, the voice said gently. My trustees are bad dudes. Hell, I should know. I grew up with them as my guardians. Aunt Ellen was always on my case for some stupid thing or another. 'Your father wouldn't have done that,' she used to say. 'He had ethics. He had morals. He was strong. Not like you. You're weak. You're not good enough.'"
Christy stopped her counting to look at the cat. It was prowling Noelle's bare, builder's white room, tail lashing, those thick tiger muscles bunching with each lithe movement. "Frank, I had no idea Ellen put you down that way."
Why should you? I never told you. Bidwell was just as bad, always carping. Nothing I did was ever good enough. Macklin simply told me I was stupid and left it at that. In a way, he was the best of them because he didn't bother with me much.
"What about Gerry?" Christy stacked fall clothes in the easy-to-reach spaces and put summer shorts and tees where the warmer clothes had been.
Gerry used to tell me I had to try, that I owed it to the family name to make something of myself. He was okay, I guess, except he was always after me to take up an internship at Jamieson. I felt guilty about blackmailing him. I never worried about the others, even Ellen who was my only blood relative.
Christy stopped, mid-stash. She hugged a pile of socks to her chest as she stared at the cat. "Gerry was one of the ones you were blackmailing? For heaven's sake, why? What on earth could he have done that was bad enough to give in to blackmail?"
The cat stopped moving. He stared at Christy silently, like an ordinary cat, as if Frank had suddenly abandoned Stormy's body. He has affairs, the voice said at last.
She laughed, relieved that the voice was back. "Get off it! Gerry is too much of a family man."
Ha! That's what he wants people to think, what he needs his wife to believe. Her father was one of his backers when he started Fisher Disposal and the old man still owns thirty percent of the company. Eve Fisher owns twenty. Gerry only owns forty percent. If his wife divorced him for adultery, he'd lose control of Fisher Disposal.
Christy closed the cupboard doors. "So why doesn't he stop, if he has that much to lose."
Again that hesitation, then the cynical tone. Maybe he has. But do you think Eve would forgive him for the affairs he'd already had?
"Good point." Christy glanced at her watch and headed down the stairs. "I have to pick up Noelle, then we're going to the mall."
The cat bolted past her. Chris, you can't give in to them on this.
At the bottom of the stairs, Christy stopped. She sat down on one of the steps. Stormy hopped onto her lap. She stroked his soft fur, soothing herself as much as her cat. "Frank, I don't have a choice. They threatened me, and they have all the power."
No one knows I'm dead but you and the Armstrongs. If you don't prove I'm gone you'll stay married to me, forever.
Christy sighed. "For years anyway. Yeah, I hear you, Frank. Eventually, when you never show up, I'll be able to have you declared legally dead. How long does that take? Seven years or something? By that time Noelle will be fifteen, almost ready to go out on her own."
That might be okay, the voice said thoughtfully. It'll probably take Armstrong that long to sort through his issues.
She stopped stroking the soft, silky fur. "What are you talking about?"
Quinn Armstrong, babe. He's got the hots for you.
Chapter 18
Five days in the length of a life aren't much. Five days in the life of a child go on and on. Five days without contact with Quinn Armstrong were endless. Christy continued her usual routine. She bought groceries, cleaned the house, cooked the meals, washed the dishes. Each night before putting Noelle to bed she read her a story. She added a few new activities, like the mall visit to look for clothes and a Halloween costume for Noelle, and sorting through some boxes that hadn't been unpacked yet. Overall, though, her days were a dull, boring, repetition that made her wonder why she had been content to stay at home rather than go out and do something significant.
The cat didn't help. He kept telling her she had to take back her life, prove Frank was dead and, in the process, find out who killed him. Christy protested at first, then gave up and let him nag her. After a time nagging turned to sniping and Christy's mood went into the dumpster.
The five days ended when a courier truck pulled up in front of her house and her doorbell rang. Christy answered, wondering what was up now. She soon found out.
The courier handed her a single letter-sized envelope and had her sign for it. Turning the envelope over in her hand, Christy closed the door behind him. It was a thick, textured cream. On the upper left corner was a return address that sent a chill through her: McGrath, Johnson, and Bidwell, Barristers and Solicitors.
She shoved her thumb underneath the flap and ripped it open. Then she hesitated. She didn't want pull the single sheet of paper from the envelope. Instinct told her something was up, something she wouldn't like, otherwise, why would Edward Bidwell send her a letter by courier? Her hands began to sweat.
"Read it and get it done," she muttered. But she carefully closed the flap over that terrifying piece of paper before she ran up the stairs. She'd settle some place safe, then she'd read it.
She curled onto the sofa by the big picture window, took a deep breath, then finally pulled out the letter. She put off reading it for another moment or two by carefully smoothing the folds so the paper would lay flat. Then there were no more excuses, only necessity. And what a nasty necessity it was.
The letter was stark and to the point. Written by Edward Bidwell on behalf of the Jamieson Trust, it stated that the trustees were no longer satisfied that Christy was the appropriate person to care for Noelle Jamieson. In the absence of Frank Jamieson and acting on his behalf, the trustees would be seeking court action to have Noelle removed from Christy's care. Further, they were asking for sole custody of the Jamieson heir, again on Frank Jamieson's behalf.
Horror engulfed Christy. She stared at the letter. Read it again, a third time and then a fourth, before she could accept the words written there. The trustees were following up on their threat to take Noelle. But why? She'd done what they asked.
The cat strolled into the living room. He stretched as if he'd just woken up. Hey babe, how about a plateful of tuna? It's lunchtime and Stormy could use a little protein.
Christy stared at him. "Can you talk to them?"
Hello? Talk to whom?
"The trustees. Did you tell them to send this?" Christy waved the letter at the cat.
He leapt up onto her lap. Claws out, he snagged the letter and pulled it down. Stormy, stupid cat, can't read. Tell me what it says.
"It says the trustees are seeking custody of Noelle on your behalf. Did you somehow ask for this?"
Hell, no!
Fury seeped into Christy's center. "He promised me they wouldn't do this if I stopped the investigation, if I did what they wanted. He promised!"
They're bad dudes, babe. You can't trust 'em.
Christy heard a smug 'I told you so' hidden beneath the words. "Shut up, Frank! Just shut up and let me think!"
Why? You haven't done a great job of thinking so far.
"And what is that supposed to mean?"
You know what it means. You let the trustees con you. They said what you wanted to hear and you believed them, when what you should have done was listen to me. But you never did, did you? You always believed the crap they told you. Took their word over mine.
"Not always!" Christy glared at the cat, who glared back. "Once I believed in you totally. I changed my life for you. I loved you! You were different in Kingston, Frank. You acted as if you cared, as if I was important to you. Then you came back here and you hung out with Aaron DeBolt and those other rich kids with too much money and not enough to do. They didn't like me. They put me down and you let them! Was I supposed to believe in you then?"