Dangerous Comforts (The Ruby Danger Series Book 3)

by Rickie Blair

  “We don’t know. That’s why we need you.” Watson tapped his cigar on the ashtray and leaned back.

  “Your investigation analyst must have—”

  “Useless. He monitors customer transactions only.”

  “To root out money laundering, yes, but don’t you have anyone monitoring your staff?”

  “We have a surveillance department like all casinos. They watch for card counters and scam artists. We’ve never needed anything more.” William tapped his cigar on the ashtray, then leaned his elbows on the table.

  “Why don’t you go to the police?”

  Watson’s face contorted into a snarl.

  “Dammit, Hari, I told you why.” Watson sank back in his chair, fidgeting with a fork on the table. “Who would book vacations with us if this got out?”

  Hari pulled over the Stilton, careful to keep his face blank. Watson had one hell of a temper. What had he gotten himself into? He sliced off a wedge of cheese.

  “If you knowingly put your customers at risk, you could face lawsuits down the line. Your lawyers must have told you that. Maybe you should come clean and take the consequences.” He speared the cheese with his fork.

  “Just find the bastards,” Watson’s eyes glittered black as he ground his half-smoked cigar into the ashtray. “We’ll know what to do with them.”

  Hari put down his fork with a gust of irritation. His new client was already getting on his nerves.

  “I’m not sure I’m the man for—”

  “Sorry.” Watson rolled the extinguished cigar between his fingers, studying it. “Sorry. Jayden tells me I can be too … intense at times.”

  Hari finished his cheese, chewing carefully while he studied Watson.

  “Okay,” he said, slowly. “What’s my cover story?”

  “I’ve told the media, off the record, that I’m looking at selling the Starlight. So everyone in Vegas has heard the rumors. We’ve set up a fake identity for you. Management has been told that you represent offshore investors who want to double-check the numbers before signing a deal. They’ll give you access to the Starlight’s books, department records, IT, anything you need.” Watson pulled a leather travel wallet from his breast pocket and placed it on the table in front of Hari. “These are your travel documents and credit cards, and an associate will meet you at the airport in Las Vegas with cash.”

  Hari flipped open the wallet.

  “I’m not sure I can pull this off. My partner usually does the undercover work.”

  “Miss Delaney?”

  Hari nodded. He must call Ruby before he left London. Running a finger along the documents, he slid out a black Amex card. Unlimited spending. He put the credit card back and opened the British passport. His own face looked back at him, but the name on the passport was Daniel Yanez.

  “How did you get this?”

  “Friends at The Home Office arranged it. I’ve been in a position to do them a favor once or twice.” Watson leaned in. “Hari, you must understand. You cannot tell Miss Delaney where you’re going or what you’re doing. You cannot tell anyone. Whoever is behind this, they’re not amateurs. They could be dangerous.”

  “Dangerous?” Hari looked up with a twist of unease.

  “Oliver believes there’s a link to eastern Europe. Some kind of syndicate.”

  Hari stared at the wallet, tapping his fingers on it. Watson cleared his throat.

  “If you’re having second thoughts, tell me now.”

  A smile tugged at Hari’s lips. It was credit card fraud. How dangerous could it be? And after he wrapped the case at the Starlight, he could go to Los Angeles and surprise Ruby on the set of her new movie.

  He picked up the travel case and tucked it into his jacket.

  “When do I leave?”

  Chapter Twelve

  Las Vegas

  Dragos Luca leaned back on the outlet mall bench, spread his arms along its back, and squinted into the sun at the blockhead who stood before him.

  “For God’s sake, Freddie, I told you already. It’s not that complicated.”

  “Okay, okay. Just explain it one more time.”

  Luca turned to watch the tourists, clutching shopping bags, who marched along the sunny pavement on the hunt for their next score. All it took was a red-penciled price for them to vacuum up the goods, which made it the perfect place to troll for prospects.

  “It’s just that I don’t—”

  Luca held up a hand to shush Freddie while he watched a young woman push a sticky-faced kid in a stroller up to the Burberry store. Her hair hung down her back in a silky curtain, swaying above tight pants that revealed a shapely butt. She eyed a leather tote bag in the window display as if it were a long cool glass of water and she had been crawling through the Nevada desert for days. He would definitely give her a business card. She would have friends who needed Burberry tote bags, too, or the appropriate facsimiles. Luca watched, absorbed in the way her rear bounced as she walked, before turning to the man who shuffled his feet before him.

  “Okay, Freddie, here’s how it works. I give you a guaranteed list of losers. People who haven’t paid their mortgages and are gonna get foreclosed on. You tell ’em you can delay that foreclosure if they give you a small check every month. Seven hundred bucks a month. That’s all they have to pay. Tell ’em the bank sent you, that usually works.”

  “Won’t they want proof?”

  “Of what? You’ve got their name and account number and how much they owe. You obviously got it from the bank.”

  “But what if they phone the bank?”

  Luca leaned forward with his arms on his knees.

  “They won’t. They’re sick to death of talking to jerks at a bank. You tell them this is a special deal the bank’s worked out so it doesn’t have to sell all those foreclosed houses. And this way they don’t have to pay their original mortgage anymore, the one they can’t afford. They just have to give you their seven hundred dollars. Tell ’em the bank figures, ‘better some money than none.’ They’ll bite, don’t worry. ”

  “And then I pay you—?”

  “Five hundred bucks a month. You get to keep two hundred. Damn good return for shooting your mouth off for a half-hour or so.”

  Freddie frowned, fidgeting with his hands in his pants pockets.

  “But how does it work? I mean, how do you get the bank to delay the foreclosures?”

  “They have no choice. It’s a beautiful scheme. First we get the name of someone who’s declared bankruptcy. Then we write up a deed that transfers ownership of a small part of our loser’s house to the guy who’s gone bankrupt. Then our loser—your loser now—signs it and we get it notarized.”

  “Do you tell the bankrupt guy about it?”

  “Of course not.” With a snort, Luca sat up straight. How many times had he explained this? To how many Freddies? He should take the advice of his colleagues in Bucharest and focus on their real business. Forget the sidelines. But he’d already finished the prep work for the next online auction of credit card numbers, and it was still three days away. He needed something to occupy his time, even if it was banal.

  “We don’t need to tell him. We just send a copy of his bankruptcy papers to the bank along with the deed. The bank can’t go ahead with a foreclosure if the owner of the house, even if it’s only a part-owner, has filed for bankruptcy. It’s called an automatic stay. So the bank has to put the whole thing on the back burner, and your mark gets to stay in their house.”

  “Wow. So we’re doing them a favor, really.”

  With a snort, Luca took his cellphone from his pocket to check his calls.

  “Yeah, that’s right.”

  “What happens in the end?”

  “The bank gets permission from the court to go ahead with the foreclosure. But it can take years,” he said, without looking up from his phone.

  “And then?”

  “And then? Who cares?” Luca placed the phone on the bench beside him. “Do you want the list or not
?”

  “Yeah. Sounds good to me.”

  “Okay, like I told you, I need a five-hundred dollar downpayment. Then I’ll give you ten names. You come back with at least five sign ups and we’re in business.”

  Freddie pulled out his wallet, counted out the bills, and handed them over. Luca thrust the money into his pocket and gave him a small paper. Freddie stared at it.

  “That’s it?”

  “What were you expecting? Gold embossing?”

  “I thought there would be more details.”

  “The names and amounts I got. The details are up to you. Are you backing out?”

  “No, of course not.” Freddie slipped the paper into the pocket of his shirt and held out his hand. Luca waved him off, watching the young woman push the stroller to an information kiosk.

  “Go.”

  Freddie turned toward the parking lot and walked off.

  Luca rose from the bench and ambled over to the young woman, who scanned the list of stores while the toddler squirmed in the stroller. She looked up as he approached. Luca knew what she saw, because he worked hard to put it across. A man on the wrong side of forty with thinning hair, a scrawny build and slightly bulging eyes, dressed in a aqua velour track suit and sport trainers. Totally harmless. He held out a card, careful not to let his sleeve ride up to reveal the gold Rolex on his wrist.

  “Miss?” he asked. “Can I interest you in some discounted Burberry purses?”

  She eyed the card with suspicion. Gold lettering on a black background read Designer Handbags and, in much smaller print, name brands that included Chanel, Prada, and Céline.

  “I know what you’re thinking,” Luca said, ruefully smiling at the card still in his hand. “What would a man dressed like this,” he looked down at his track suit and spread his hands sheepishly, “be doing with Burberry purses? But my associates are able to offer Burberrys, and Louis Vuitton, and Gucci, at bargain prices because they don’t waste money on fancy store fronts,” he flicked his hand at the nearest shop, “like these.” He held out the card again. “It never hurts to look, does it?”

  She reached out a tentative hand, took the card and read it. Luca smiled, holding his breath. This was the tricky bit.

  “Where do you get the bags?” she asked after a moment. He exhaled.

  “Hong Kong, mostly. See, that’s a huge market for luxury bags. Huge. The Chinese really know their designer goods. But sometimes store buyers get a little overenthusiastic and take on more than they can sell. That’s where we come in.”

  She studied the card again, then glanced at the Burberry storefront.

  “So, what would a bag like that cost?” She pointed at a purse in the window.

  Luca looked over his shoulder, pretending to study the display.

  “Oh, that’s a popular model. It retails for over two grand. I can get it for you for three hundred bucks. Cash.”

  Her eyes widened as she handed back the card.

  “I’m sorry, I can’t afford that.”

  “I understand,” Luca said solemnly. He tucked the card in his pocket and crouched next to the stroller. The toddler eyed him skeptically and coughed up a little spit. “And who’s this young fella?”

  “Kennie.”

  “He’s a good looking boy.” Luca looked up. “Your first?”

  She nodded shyly and Luca got to his feet.

  “Listen, I don’t usually do this,” he said, reaching into his pocket for a tiny silver-plated notebook and pen, “but you seem like a nice lady and I appreciate times are tough right now.” He smiled at her. “To tell you the truth, you remind me of my daughter.” He opened the notebook and scrawled his address, tore off the sheet and held it out.

  “We’re getting a shipment in tomorrow, all premier bags. More than we need. Come to this address on Saturday night and you can pick one.”

  She opened her mouth to speak and he held up a hand.

  “Whatever you can afford, no problem. Fifty bucks, if that’s all you have.”

  “Fifty bucks? Really?”

  “Uh-huh. Fifty bucks.”

  “Will you have one of those?” She gestured at the Burberry storefront.

  “I’m sure we will,” he said, without taking his eyes away from her. “Like I said, it’s a popular model.” He could see that she was suppressing a grin.

  “What’s your name, dear?”

  “Tracy.”

  “We’ll see you Saturday night then, Tracy.” He winked at her.

  “Maybe.” She opened her purse, tucked in the paper and turned to leave. Luca watched her hips sway as she walked away, pushing the stroller. Saturday night, Tracy. You’ll get a purse, all right.

  His phone rang and he checked the display with a scowl before answering.

  “I told you, that old woman doesn’t know where he is.” He held the phone away from his ear before drawing it back. “Are you done? Listen to me. It doesn’t matter. He’s a goddamn junkie. He won’t figure it out.”

  He clicked off the phone and slid it into his pocket, turning his attention to a young woman who bent to peer at a shoulder bag in the Burberry display. Her thigh-high tube dress slid up to her rear. Nice view. Luca slid the phone into his pocket, slid off the bench and sauntered over.

  Chapter Thirteen

  In the Audi’s back seat, the injured Maltese sat up and yipped.

  “Hey, look who’s checking in,” Ruby said, watching her in the rearview mirror. “How are you doing back there, Tinks?”

  Another yip, which turned into a whimper. Tinks lay down on the shawl and closed her eyes, panting heavily. The stoplight changed and Ruby turned off the main road.

  “There’s a vet’s office near here, I saw it yesterday.” She turned the car onto a side street, scanning the road, then pointed to a strip mall. “There it is.” Silhouettes of a cat and a dog flanked an overhead sign that read Summerwood Veterinarian Clinic, and paw print decals marched across the plate glass.

  Ruby bundled Tinks in the shawl and lifted her out while Felicity held the clinic’s door open. They walked into a chilly blast of air conditioning, tinged with a strong smell of disinfectant and a fainter whiff of urine. Ruby deposited Tinks on the counter.

  “We need emergency care for this dog. I think she was hit by a car.”

  The receptionist stood up and peeled back the blanket.

  “Poor little thing.” She looked at Ruby. “Wait here. I’ll be right back.”

  She returned with a young woman in a blue smock, who carried Tinks into an examining room and set her on a stainless steel table that jutted out from one wall. A woman in a white coat, long black hair tied back at her neck, walked in.

  “I’m Dr. Salgado.”

  “Abigail Baxter,” Ruby said. The vet ignored her outstretched hand while staring intently at Tinks, who tentatively wagged her tail.

  “You said this dog was hit by a car?” she asked, snapping on latex gloves.

  “Actually, I have no idea what happened. If it was a car, I didn’t see it.”

  The vet probed the little dog’s midsection, opened her mouth to check her gums, then unlooped the stethoscope from around her neck.

  “Any vomiting?”

  “Not that I know of. She belongs to an elderly woman who’s in hospital. Tinks ran away last night and I don’t know what happened after that. We found her this morning.”

  Dr. Salgado placed the stethoscope on Tinks’s torso, listening.

  “Is she going to be okay?” Ruby asked.

  “Her belly’s not distended, and there are no obvious broken bones, but she reacted to pressure on her ribs. There could be internal injuries. Whatever happened to her, it wasn’t a car.”

  “How can you tell?”

  “She’s too small. Dogs this size rarely survive an encounter like that. It looks more like—” she gave Ruby a sideways glance. “Could someone have kicked her?”

  Ruby swallowed hard, recalling Millie’s words. They frightened her, coming into the house lik
e that. They frightened me.

  “I don’t know.”

  “We’ll need to do blood tests and X-rays. Can you leave her overnight?”

  “Of course.”

  Ruby joined Felicity in the waiting room and they walked out to the car. Felicity rummaged through her purse.

  “Gum?” She held out the package, but her smile disappeared when she saw Ruby’s face.

  “Oh, my God, why are you so pale? Is Tinks okay?”

  “The vet said she might have internal injuries.”

  “I’m sorry, Ruby. She’ll be fine, I’m sure.”

  “How am I going to tell Millie?”

  Felicity sighed, popping a piece of gum into her mouth.

  “You’ve got to stop worrying about Millie.”

  Ruby shook her head, only half-listening. An image of her elderly great-aunt swirled through her mind. She hadn’t visited her in months.

  “I keep thinking about Aunt Dot—”

  “Who would tell you the very same thing if she were here. You can’t do anything else tonight. Let’s go back to the hotel.”

  * * *

  At eight the next morning, Ruby stood under the portico of the Starlight Hotel glugging coffee from a cardboard cup. A bus painted in bright shades of yellow and blue belched exhaust while chattering tourists climbed aboard for the five-hour drive to the Grand Canyon’s South Rim. Ruby drained her coffee as she watched. Clearly none of those people had been sitting at a blackjack table until three in the morning.

  After a hotel car valet delivered the Audi, Ruby headed for the hospital. She had called to check on Millie twice the previous evening without success. “Call in the morning,” the staff had said.

  At the hospital, she headed down the hall to Millie’s ward. With a quick wave to the attendant on duty at the nursing station, she turned into the second room on the left. She stopped dead and clapped a hand over her mouth.

  The room was empty. The bed was freshly made, the floor swept, and a clean water glass sat beside an empty pitcher. She tore back to the nursing station.

  “What happened to Mrs. Havelock? In Room 37?”