by Andrea Stein
Noah excused himself before Sam could finish the thought, both so he didn’t have to answer and because he wanted to find Caitlyn, kiss her, tell her how he felt, but he knew he wouldn’t, not yet. No, winning Caitlyn Montgomery would take a subtle touch.
Chapter 36
They had spent the night after Adriana’s party together at her house, and he had cooked her breakfast and then surprised her by telling her he had some things to take care of. Since then, Noah had been around, taking her to dinner, always picking her up at the house, respecting her wish that they keep things on the down low, eating at restaurants outside of Queensbay where it was less likely they would be spotted.
He warmed her bed some nights, but he had business meetings in the city, and sometimes he stayed there. It wasn’t that she sensed their relationship was cooling off, not at all. It was just getting comfortable, into a rhythm, like she, and he, expected that Noah would be there.
Still, he hadn’t brought up the future again, or pushed. Noah was taking her lead. Caitlyn was pondering this, missing him, since he had spent the last two days in Boston on a business trip, judging a business plan competition, and wondering just how had she and Noah Randall, hot-headed teenage lovers, had settled into this. A couple. A couple that no one knew about with a future they dared not touch. And it was almost Christmas. What did one buy for one’s secret billionaire boyfriend?
Caitlyn was looking on the Internet, searching for ideas, when the phone rang. She looked at the caller ID on her phone and sighed. It was Tony. And she didn’t really need to deal with Tony right now. It was first thing on Monday morning, and she hadn’t finished her coffee. But you couldn’t keep your best client waiting. She picked up the phone.
“Hello.”
“Caitlyn,” Tony’s voice bellowed over the receiver.
“Of course, what can I do for you?”
“I need my money.”
“Excuse me?” Caitlyn said.
Her stomach did a flip-flop. How come they never called when they were happy? They never congratulated you when you made them money. They only called when something was wrong.
Caitlyn pulled Tony’s files. The quarterly statements had been sent out to clients last week and copies delivered to the Account Managers just before that. Everything looked fine with the accounts.
“What’s the problem, Tony?”
“I need the money I sent you.”
“What money?” Caitlyn said.
“The million-five I sent you to get involved in the partnership.”
“How did you send it?” And what was he talking about?
“I wrote checks. From different accounts, I might add,” Tony said.
“And you sent them in the mail, to me?”
“Yes, that’s what the material you sent me told me to do.”
Caitlyn remembered. Heather had admitted to sending him information, standard stuff at the behest of Tommy. She didn’t know what the actual deal was or what Tommy had asked for.
“They told you that you needed a million-five to be part of this?”
“No, you told me. Your name was on the letter,” Tony said.
Caitlyn tried to hide her surprise.
“Don’t you know what’s going on there?”
“Of course I know, Tony. But you put up the money to invest in a deal, what deal?” she asked, frantically searching her desk, flipping through screens on her computer as if the answer could be there.
“Something to do with biotech. Caitlyn, that’s not the problem. I need the money back. I need my original amount back now.”
Tony sounded like he was in a panic, and Caitlyn was curious. It didn’t sound like the man she knew.
“Is everything okay, Tony?”
She heard him draw in a deep breath. “It’s fine, just fine. But I have some unexpected capital needs, and I need the cash back sooner, rather than later.”
There was an opportunity to preach, Caitlyn thought, to say something along the lines of ‘I told you so.’ She didn’t think it would be a good idea and certainly wouldn’t endear her to Tony. Of course it might bear to remind him of the fact once everything had cleared up. It might make him more willing to believe that she really did have his best interests at heart. “Listen, Tony, this doesn’t have to be a problem. Let me see what I can do.”
“Fine. Sooner would be better.” He hung up on her.
Caitlyn looked down at the phone. This bothered her, more because she could have seen it coming. She knew about Tony’s financial position. That was why she had advised him on the slow and steady route. But she had let Tommy Anderson push him into something riskier. And why? Had she wanted the commission that badly? She’d been planning how to spend it before it was even paid. She shook her head.
Caitlyn found Tommy Anderson in his office, as usual, staring at his computer.
“Caitlyn? What can I help you with?” He looked up, and Caitlyn was hit with a sudden realization. He reminded her, in certain ways, of Michael. Or perhaps it was just the feeling of revulsion that came over her whenever she thought about either one of them. At least she only had to work with Tommy.
“I just got a call from Tony Biddle.” She sat down in the chair across from him, staring straight at him.
“So? He’s your client.”
“Funny, that’s what I thought, too. But, apparently, he decided to put money into one of your deals, Tommy. Yet he thinks I suggested it to him. I find that interesting.”
Tommy leaned back and crossed his arms. “He looked over some papers and sent back his investment.”
“And now he needs it back,” Caitlyn said.
Tommy laughed a little. “We’re not a library, Caitlyn. He can’t just have his money back.”
“Sure he can. We have the money; we can give it back.”
“If we gave back money to anyone who changed his mind, then we wouldn’t have much of a business, would we? Our business is built upon the assumption that we get to keep the money for a while, to invest it. It’s in the paperwork.”
“Tony needs his capital back to handle some of his current expenses. He’s not ready to be throwing that kind of money into uncertain deals.”
“It’s not uncertain. We’re just not ready to give him back his profits. He’ll have to wait like the rest of the investors. He’s a sophisticated businessman; he knows all about the risks.” Tommy stabbed a finger on the desk, to make his point.
“So, you won’t do anything to help him?” Caitlyn said, waiting.
Tommy lifted his hands and shrugged.
“Fine. Then I think Sam might be interested to hear this little story. And in the future, don’t mess with my clients.”
Tommy smiled. “Sure, you do what you need to do.”
Caitlyn bit down her unease and went off to find Sam Harris and get Tony’s money back for him.
Chapter 37
Peter Flynn sat on the train nursing his Budweiser Tall Boy. It was difficult to make it last all the way home. There was always the temptation to buy two, but that usually put him asleep, and he did not like to sleep. There were too many things that could be missed if you slept. He had found people were very indiscreet on trains. They would talk loudly and clearly about their business and everyone else’s.
His bland features helped him here; most people ignored him, and he had picked up more than a few good tips from loudmouths. You’d think women would be the worst, he reflected, sipping his beer, but it was always the men. If they could talk about business, even to strangers, it made them seem important, always trying to prove they worked harder than the next guy. Suckers. Didn’t they realize the goal was not to have to work very hard at all? Women, on the other hand, once they were finished with work, were finished.
But tonight was late and most of the other travelers were quiet, reading their papers or staring out the window at the darkened scenery rushing past. Even cell phone use was done, and Flynn sig
hed and thought about moving to another car in the hopes of finding better hunting grounds. But, in the end, he stayed put. He was tired. Every part of him was tired. This last day in the city had been somewhat of a disappointment. He’d done well up to this point, but he’d been blown off today.
He ran his stubby fingers through his tightly curled gray hair. People loved to gossip, especially if they thought they would make it into the paper. He’d spent weeks collecting background information on all of the players, and he was closing in. But he needed someone on the inside, someone to get the final bit of proof, the smoking gun, as it were.
The train let out a long howl, the toot rolling across the suburban landscape of Westchester County. He would be home soon, where he could have a nice little vodka to finish off the evening. Flynn leaned his head back and let his eyes close for just an instant.
He almost missed his stop. It was the conductor walking through the car collecting the last of the ticket stubs that woke him up. He’d fallen asleep, and some of the beer had spilled on his overcoat. He brushed it off with his hands, cursing a little. His wife did not like the fact that he drank beer from a can, wrapped in a brown paper bag, on the train. His defense, that everyone else did it, fell on deaf ears.
Flynn walked up the swaying aisle. A gust of cold air hit his back as waited in front of the train car door. He glanced back. A teenager in a jacket and a sweatshirt with a hood, headphones, and sunglasses stood behind him. Flynn sighed. Why did they need sunglasses at night?
The train ground to a halt, and Flynn opened the door and stepped into the cold winter air. The ground still moved underneath the train, though slowly it stopped, and he could see in the yellow sulfur lights the individual rocks of gravel that the tracks ran in.
Peter stepped down, waved at the conductor, who did not see him, and started off towards his car. There was no one else returning this late at night; the station and the town were dark and quiet, the lights twinkling in the crisp clean air. The train gathered speed and moved past him, faster than he could make it to his car. He stepped up his pace, eager to be home.
He glanced back, thinking he heard something, but there was no one there. Flynn peered into the shadow created by the station house, but saw nothing and quickened his pace. He had come late to the station in the morning and had to leave his car in the no-man’s land parking lot, a dubious area where there was technically no parking and was therefore subject to the whims of the police force on whether or not they gave tickets. Eyes straining, he looked for the flutter of white paper against the dark glass of the windshield. Relieved, he saw nothing.
He almost made it to the car when he heard it, the quick flap-flap of steps and then interestingly enough the sound of music, muted, an indefinable pattern of noise. Flynn swung around and saw a figure come at him, hood up and sunglasses on. It was the teenager from the train.
“Give me your briefcase.” The voice was young, and Flynn thought to himself that he was just a kid. He came close, fast enough that Flynn found he was backed up against the car.
“No.” It was his first reaction, and he hugged it close to him. He was not going to give this brat his briefcase.
“Give it,” the kid said slightly louder, and then he showed his leverage. A gun appeared in his right hand and waved around, light glinting off the barrel. Flynn felt his heart skip a beat and hesitated, feeling himself tremble.
He hesitated too long. The gun came sweeping towards him in an arc, and though he tried to duck and lift the briefcase at the same time, to shield himself, he was terribly clumsy when it came to physical coordination, and his head went up and his hands down. He found himself flat on his back, staring up at the night sky, looking at stars that dotted the sky like little chips of diamonds.
“Oooppff…” he moaned as the breath went out of him and he felt pain in the small of his back.
The gun barrel came down, pointed more directly at him, and the face leaned over him. Flynn could hear the sound of music from the headphones dangling from the kid’s neck. A radio station playing one of those horrible rock versions of a Christmas carol. Flynn groaned again.
“I’ll give you my wallet. My watch,” he offered, doing his best to stay calm.
“And the briefcase.” The gun gestured. The sunglasses slipped down the nose and hung there, so Flynn could see a face. He gasped in surprise. His attacker wasn’t a kid.
The man glanced to the side, as if he could not bear to watch, and Flynn saw the finger squeeze the trigger. There were two loud booms and then a great dull pain. Flynn felt the briefcase being lifted from his hands and felt warmth spread over his chest. There was someone disturbing him, Flynn thought, and then remembered. The other man picked up his wrist, looked at the watch and then let it drop. It was only a Timex.
Flynn tried to move as he heard the sneakers run away, but he couldn’t. All he could see were the stars still in the sky, winking down at him before everything faded to black.
Chapter 38
It had taken some work, but Caitlyn had finally convinced Sam Harris to send Tony’s money back to him. After having to listen to another half-hour of lecturing, Caitlyn had returned to her desk, exhausted. She had won a battle, sure, but she felt like she was losing a war. Sam Harris didn’t have any faith in her. That much had been evident.
It would be a good night to go home early, Caitlyn thought, checking her watch, and then realized it wasn’t so early. Noah was in the city, having dinner with some investors, and she was alone. It would be a nice evening to relax, have a glass of wine and look at account statements. She still hadn’t had a chance to look at Mrs. Smith-Sullivan’s paperwork.
Caitlyn pulled her coat tightly around her and turned off her office lights. The rest of the floor was empty. It was the holiday season, and no one was staying late. The parking lot was in the back of the building, looking at the brick face with its symmetrical row of windows. It was cold out, the sky already darkening, and the smell of fireplaces in the air, unmistakably winter. The quaint gas lamps of Queensbay were draped in evergreen garlands and red ribbons, and last Sunday had been the official lighting of the Christmas tree, complete with the Victorian-garbed carolers.
She picked up some supplies in the local market, chatting with the woman behind the counter. It was starting, she thought, to feel like home. She had managed to keep Flynn out of her mind. He hadn’t called her back, and she had tried to reach him, getting an answering machine. Maybe, she thought, her mind soothed by the friendly chit-chat, she already knew everything she needed about her grandfather’s death.
Caitlyn took her car, her grandfather’s old Mercedes, through the village and up the hill towards home. The Queensbay version of rush hour was starting. It had also started to rain, large cold drops, and she was reminded that new tires might be in order. She turned onto the Shore Road, following the curve of the land as it hugged the water. Streetlights twinkled on the surface, and a duck seemed to drift in and out of the pools of shadow and light. It was times like these, she thought, that she was the most vulnerable. She was thinking about her grandfather and her mother, and then about Maxwell. Because if Queensbay was starting to feel like home, going to work every day was feeling more and more like a battle.
An SUV with high headlights followed closely on her tail and, annoyed, she slowed down. The lights grew closer in her mirror before the other driver slowed down, and Caitlyn resisted the urge to make a rude gesture. It wasn’t as if either one of them was so far away from home that they needed to rush. She refused to be bullied into speeding, a small victory for the day, and the SUV followed at a respectable pace.
Caitlyn made the turn into her driveway, which dipped down and then up, and the other car slowed and then kept going. She thought about her break-in. The locks should be changed, but she hadn’t a chance to get around to it. That was the best she could do, short of getting a dog or spending a lot of money on a security system. She watc
hed her rearview mirror, but her driveway and the road remained clear.
Lights were on in the house, but then again, she never left without leaving a few like that. It made walking into it better. She opened the door and stamped her feet, jostling her keys. The sounds made her feel better if they served no other purpose. She listened. Only silence. The house was quiet, empty. She was alone.
Feeling calmer, she heated up some dinner and poured a glass of wine. She took it all into the study and set out the papers Mrs. Smith-Sullivan had given her. The old girl Sully wasn’t that far off, Caitlyn thought, after looking through things and using her calculator. According to her Randall Group statements, there should have been more than enough money for her to write a check to her nephew.
But that wasn’t what happened. It was only after she had needed it and complained, that the money showed up in one lump sum. Someone had forgotten to keep up the transfers, though according to Sully they were supposed to be automatic. And if there had been enough money in the Randall account, then there was no reason why someone wouldn’t have made those transfers.
Caitlyn leaned back and took a sip. It didn’t matter; the woman had gotten her money, after all. Of course, it would be interesting to see if it was just a simple administrative error on Tommy’s part that he had forgotten to transfer the money until it was requested. He had nothing to gain by not doing it. The money was just sitting in Sully’s account.
It was easy to think bad things about Tommy, Caitlyn thought. Too easy. It was unproductive and unprofessional. She wouldn’t want anyone digging into her accounts. Who knew what kind of honest mistakes could be uncovered that way?
Chapter 39
It was decision time. Caitlyn had gone to work the next day, but her mind wasn’t focusing on it. Instead, she thought about her conversations with Flynn and the account statements Sully had given her. How much did Flynn know? He’d hinted that history was repeating itself, and Caitlyn had a funny idea she knew what he had meant. But digging deeper into things now meant that she’d have to dig up the past. How much did she want to know what Flynn was offering her? The truth about her grandfather? Adriana had said there was nothing more to it. And if anyone had known him, it was Adriana.