Tattoo Thief (BOOK 1)

by Heidi Joy Tretheway

  “You don’t need to,” Dan says. “I told you, it’s a soft sell. When they need something, they’ll call us.”

  His wait-and-see attitude might work for business, but I’m running around New York City with only my emergency credit card.

  Then Dan drops a clue without realizing it. “You should check out the photos in the Post today, there’s a great one of you dancing.”

  I find the picture online, Peter and I looking more than friendly as we dance. Unfortunately, the caption gives me nothing more than the name of the charity, venue and date.

  I screen-capture the image but it’s not good enough. I want Peter’s last name so I can find that bastard and get my stuff back. Shelling out for a new phone and ID would be hell on my bank account.

  Then I remember his mother, the statuesque redhead whom he said was on all the boards.

  I open the Manhattan Children’s Literacy website and scroll through a tab that lists the board of directors—virtually all of them are women and every one looks astoundingly beautiful in her headshot. Peter’s mom is there: Veronica Fischer.

  I Google Peter Fischer and get nothing. Then I remember dancing with his stepfather and retrace my steps, Googling Veronica Fischer and finding several entries for Veronica Todd Fischer. Pre-2002, she’s just Veronica Todd.

  Guess what this Nancy Drew gets when she Googles Peter Todd? Oh, hell yes.

  Got him.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  It’s an hour before any normal person would take lunch, which makes it a perfect time for me to tell Dan I’m taking an early lunch to do a personal errand. I catch a cab downtown to Wall Street, where Peter Todd is supposed to work at Cartwright Collier Finch as a fund manager.

  Confidence gets me past the lobby guard to the elevator. More confidence gets his receptionist’s attention and she doesn’t make me take a seat as she dials his office and alerts him that his eleven o’clock is here.

  After a little back-and-forth in which I supply my full name—Beryl Katherine Sutton—the receptionist promises that he’ll be out to greet me momentarily.

  I steel myself for the meeting, glad I’m in one of Lulu’s dresses, a severe black shift with white piping, plus killer red patent shoes that Stella approved on our recent shopping trip.

  Peter bursts through a door etched with the CCF insignia on the glass. He’s in a spectacular bespoke suit and tiny wire glasses that make him look studious and safe.

  Looks can be deceiving. I know that now.

  “Beryl. How nice to see you.” He delivers the chilling pleasantry with a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.

  “I was looking forward to it,” I tell him as he gestures for me to follow him to a small, private conference room around the corner from the lobby. The brass and leather coasters in a mahogany holder also bear the CCF logo. This place screams money.

  He doesn’t offer me coffee or invite me to sit. He knows this will be a short conversation.

  “I’ve come for a few things,” I say, and his mouth twists with annoyance. “My keys, my phone, my wallet, my shoes—and an apology.”

  “Forget it.”

  “I’m prepared to wait.”

  “Then you’ll be waiting a long time.”

  I pull out a chair at the conference table, hoping to call his bluff. “You can’t just pretend this didn’t happen.”

  “Of course I can. I’m too rich for this to matter. You don’t matter.” He turns on his heel and exits the conference room.

  Shit. Now what do I do?

  If my stuff is really gone, I might as well give up and go shop for a new phone with what’s left of my lunch break. But if there’s a chance he didn’t chuck it—and from his expression, I suspect there is—I wonder if I can win a game of chicken against someone who’s clearly accustomed to getting his way.

  I put my messenger bag on the conference room table and pop my head out to the receptionist. I smile to put her at ease and ask for the guest Wi-Fi password and a cup of coffee.

  And I get them.

  I send an email to Dan to say I’m working on a project and then start Googling the heck out of Peter Todd. I compile a pretty impressive dossier on him in an hour, ranging from women he’s been pictured with at various charity galas to a list of all nine charities where his mother’s on the board.

  The one piece of information I want pops up later—the full name and contact details for his stepfather. I hope Gerald Fischer will hear me out.

  I place the call from the conference room phone and wonder if the caller ID will help me get through. Maybe it does—after three transfers, I hear the man’s deep baritone on the line.

  “Mr. Fischer, I’m sorry to bother you today. This is Beryl Sutton—we danced at the Manhattan Children’s Literacy gala on Saturday night and you gave me some great advice about doing what I love.”

  “Beryl, is it? Of course I remember you, and I’m sorry I didn’t introduce myself properly that night.”

  “Sir, I wonder if I could speak with you confidentially? I’m here at Peter’s office and he’s been quite … unwilling to discuss a matter that came up on Saturday.”

  “Don’t dance around it. What?”

  “Well, he took me to a hotel and we had a … disagreement. I’m afraid I left in a rush and left behind my clutch, including my phone, keys and wallet.”

  “What kind of disagreement?”

  “Peter was trying to be, uh, romantic.”

  “Forceful?”

  “Yes. And I wasn’t interested.”

  Gerald Fisher’s tone drops. “Beryl, did he hurt you?”

  I swallow. “Not really. Scared me. Tore my dress. I ran. I had to borrow money for a cab back from Hoboken.”

  The shame I feel about what happened is replaced by indignation and a growing anger. How dare he do this to me? And if he dared, isn’t it likely he’s done this to other women? And maybe gotten much further?

  But maybe this isn’t typical for Peter. Maybe his money and his dimples and that ridiculous yellow car are enough to entice most women without a hint of force.

  “Beryl, tell me what you want. Why are you at Peter’s office, and what have you said to him?”

  “I asked him for my things back and I asked for an apology. He just walked out.”

  I hear Fischer hiss on the other end of the line. Then he clears his throat. “Beryl, I will take care of this. Expect a messenger to deliver your things later today. Where would you like me to send them?”

  I give him my work address, not trusting Gavin’s address with anyone associated with Peter. Then I pack up my things, thank Peter’s receptionist and leave, fingers crossed.

  ***

  I don’t believe Gerald Fischer has magical powers to rewind time, grab my stuff from the hotel suite, and package the lot with a sharp-looking messenger—in a bow tie!—in less than three hours.

  But he does. The man is a genius.

  I take the messenger’s ridiculously long form and get a pen to sign it. Dan interrupts me.

  “Beryl, what’s that?” Dan turns to the messenger. “What’s this? Who are you?”

  Dan takes the clipboard from my hands before I can sign. He scans the page that I barely glanced at and his brows knit, a frown sharpening his gentle features.

  “This isn’t about a package delivery. This is a legal document.” Dan reads it more closely and the messenger squirms. I’ve never signed for anything more serious than a FedEx package, but the messenger seemed like he warranted a fancy long form.

  “Berry, this says you’re holding somebody named Peter Todd harmless and you’re agreeing to a gag—you can’t speak about him or any encounter with him to anyone, including the media. What the hell happened?”

  I take a deep breath, knowing I’m going to have to tell Dan everything. Sensing I’m not going to sign, the messenger makes a move to leave with the package.

  Dan blocks his departure and wrests the package from under the messenger’s arm. “If this form is worth
signing, she’ll do it—after she’s had proper legal counsel.” Dan puts out his hand. “Give me your card.”

  The messenger hands Dan an expensive-looking business card that bears the name Cartwright Collier Finch.

  “Tell that fuckwad that this is not an apology,” I hiss. “And tell him my price just went up. I’ll take a grovel with that apology.”

  “Good girl,” Dan grins as the messenger retreats. “Now let’s take this thing”—he pinches the form between his thumb and forefinger as if it’s tainted—“to Keystone’s attorney. But only after we get a cup of coffee and you tell me what happened.”

  I cringe but follow Dan back to my desk, where I put my unopened package in an empty filing cabinet drawer. When Dan turns on his no-nonsense tone, I can’t imagine even our richest clients arguing with him.

  “Can we go downstairs?” I ask, referring to Print & Press, the café and newsstand in the lobby of our building.

  “Uh-oh. This is latte-serious?” Dan’s eyes are worried but kind.

  “It’s breve-serious,” I say. “I’m going to need all the sugar, fat and caffeine you can pack into one cup.”

  “Then it’s my treat.”

  ***

  It wasn’t at bad as I expected.

  It was a lot worse.

  Dan brought all the anger, indignation, and outright fury I would have expected from my own dad if he’d been listening to my story instead of his best friend.

  It was horrible, but it was still kind of comforting.

  Dan cursed and threatened and seethed as I told him about how Peter came at me Saturday night, how I fought him off and fled, and how my conversations with Peter and his stepfather went down.

  He told me to sit tight while he read the entire legal document the messenger wanted me to sign. It promised that I’d stay silent about what happened with Peter—in fact, I’d deny ever meeting him—in exchange for twenty thousand dollars.

  My mouth dropped open with that figure but Dan was grim. “We’ll figure this out, Berry,” he promised. “And when we do, you’re going to get your apology.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  I open the package from the messenger and it’s all there—my clutch, wallet, keys, shoes, and phone. I open a long envelope, pull out a cashier’s check and stare. Twenty thousand dollars.

  It’s real.

  Dan is perched on the corner of my desk, watching over my shoulder. He gives a low whistle when he sees the check. “They really want this gone. Like it never happened.”

  “I know,” I say miserably. “But now what do I do?”

  “It’s up to you. You can sign the document, cash the check and put it all behind you. Or you can hold out for more.”

  “More money?” My eyes are wide. I’ve never had anything like this in my life. My checking account stands at less than five hundred bucks, barely enough to keep me going until my next paycheck.

  “I’d consider this a first offer,” Dan says. His dark eyes are calculating. “I think you should make a counteroffer. We’ll revise the contract from the messenger and you can take it back to Peter.”

  I feel the breve in my stomach sour. I so do not want to face him again.

  “Beryl, you can do this. You want an apology, and you can get one. If this is the way he wants to play the game, you play it too—only bigger and smarter. I know you can.”

  Peter thinks that money will keep me quiet, but money speaks louder in his world than mine. Suddenly, I have an idea.

  “I think Peter has deeper pockets.”

  Dan raises his eyebrows.

  “Don’t you think he needs to make a donation? To a worthy cause?” I wink and a slow smile signals Dan’s understanding. I turn to my computer and Google charities that would be most appropriate.

  The Manhattan Rape Crisis Line?

  The New York Women’s Hope Shelter?

  I remember one of the boards Peter’s mother is on and point to it on my screen. “How about the Safe Haven Network? They advocate for rape and abuse victims.”

  “Perfect,” Dan says. I follow him to Keystone’s attorney’s office where we explain the details we want in the new contract. In less than an hour I have a fresh document in hand and I slide it into a large manila envelope.

  “Good luck, Beryl.” Dan waves as I head out of the office.

  ***

  The receptionist at Cartwright Collier Finch recognizes me and before I ask for Peter she tells me he’s in a meeting and can’t be disturbed.

  “That’s OK, I’ll wait,” I say serenely, and park myself on a cream leather couch in the lobby. I hear the receptionist whispering into her headset and it doesn’t take more than a few minutes for Peter to push through the etched-glass door to the lobby.

  “I thought I made it clear that we were done,” Peter says, his eyes narrowed. He tilts his head, indicating I should follow him to a conference room, but I stand my ground.

  I don’t care who hears our conversation, but he does.

  “I found a few issues with your contract. I wanted to come over here and iron them out so we can get this finished today,” I say with plenty of volume for the receptionist to hear every word.

  Peter makes a move to take the envelope from me and I move it out of his reach. I raise my eyebrows. “Say ‘please.’”

  “Please,” he growls, and snatches it when I offer it slowly.

  He tears open the envelope and scans the contract language, his expression darkening, green eyes almost black.

  “This is blackmail,” his whisper is hoarse.

  “Not at all. I just thought you had some more apologizing to do.”

  “This is a ridiculous amount of money.”

  “Well then, there’s no need for us to discuss it further.” I make a move to leave, calling his bluff. As my hand touches the doors to the elevator lobby, he calls me back with a grunt.

  “Wait.”

  “I’m a busy girl, Peter. I think you’ve have plenty of time to become appropriately apologetic.”

  He scowls and I feel more powerful than I’ve ever been. It’s that power over him that gives me the freedom to let all of the anger and fear from that night go. I’m done, and I don’t care if he signs the stupid contract or not.

  “Wait here. Please.” I can tell the last word is forced but I like that he has to say it.

  Peter turns and disappears into his office. The receptionist looks shocked and I grin at her.

  “What did you do to him?” she asks in awe.

  “Just a little payback,” I say. “He owes me an apology and I’m here to get it.”

  “I’ve never seen him apologize for anything.”

  “That doesn’t surprise me. Do you know him well?”

  “I’ve only worked here for a few months.” Her eyes jump back to the logo-etched doors as if he might appear at any moment.

  “Let me give you a tip—don’t go out with him. He’s a pretty rotten date.”

  “Good to know,” she says. “Thanks.”

  Peter returns in a few minutes with the contract and a checkbook in his hand. “Who do I make it out to?”

  “The Safe Haven Network,” I say lightly and I see his face twist with fury. “And don’t forget to write ‘I’m sorry’ on the memo line.”

  “Fuck you,” he snarls, scratching the words into his check violently.

  “Like I told you before, Peter, no thanks. You’re just not my idea of a good time.”

  He rips the check from his checkbook and hands it to me as if he’s holding a dead rat by its tail. I crease it once and tuck it into my handbag.

  “The contract?” I prompt him. “I signed it already.”

  He signs his name at the bottom where I’ve helpfully attached neon “sign here” stickers, then he gives me the duplicate copy.

  “There’s a charity gala for The Safe Haven Network next month,” I tell him. “I trust I won’t be seeing you there?”

  “I wouldn’t be caught dead there.”

&nbs
p; “That’s the idea, Peter. Goodbye.”

  I stumble out of the Wall Street office building into bright sunlight and oppressive humidity feeling alive and ready to tackle anything. I didn’t get the heartfelt apology I wanted, but I got the upper hand, and that makes me feel even better.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  I don’t have long to celebrate. Back at the office, I have more errands to do. Greta Carr is back from Los Angeles so I take her mail, neatly filed, to her apartment with a bouquet of flowers to thank her for her business.

  “These are lovely. Thank you.” Greta’s voice is soft and high and she cradles the paper-wrapped peonies in the crook of her arm like a new baby. The flowers are a pale shade of pink that matches her pink-on-pink décor and Greta’s even wearing a pink sundress.

  I’m just about to push her mail at her and leave when Greta says, “Come in for a minute while I put them in water.”

  I close the front door behind me and trail Greta to her kitchen where she opens and closes several cabinet doors.

  “They’re in the upper cabinet, to the right of the refrigerator,” I say. Greta finds the vase I neatly organized along with the rest of her kitchen and meager pantry while she was away. I place the mail file on her dining room table.

  “Everything’s so organized,” she says, filling a vase with water. “You should be a personal organizer. It was great coming home to this, especially all the food in my fridge.”

  “You like it? I was trying to pick stuff you’d enjoy but there wasn’t much to go on.” I bite my lip, hoping I haven’t offended her. When I found out she was coming home yesterday, I spent part the morning at a gourmet market choosing fresh berries, Greek yogurt, salad greens and several healthy entrees from the deli section.

  “It was so great to just have stuff here so I didn’t have to order delivery. I don’t cook much.”

  I nod. Understatement of the year.