by D. L. Wood
Jack shook his head. “No angle. I’m just here to help Chloe—Ms. McConnaughey. She’s in a bit of trouble now and needs what was in that package. We were hoping there’s a copy somewhere. If you could help us—”
“Know why I let you in here?” she asked, staring Jack down.
Jack shook his head.
“Because I’ve known all along Herb didn’t die of a heart attack. From day one that’s what the cops told me, but I didn’t buy it for a minute.”
“Why not?’
She pulled a pack of cigarettes off the table and lit one. “Because he had his ticker checked out two weeks prior. Completely. Even had a scope done. The doc found nothing. Healthy as a horse. Even offered to trade hearts with him. If he had a heart attack, it’s because somebody gave him one.”
“Look,” Jack started, treading carefully, “I’m glad—more than you know—that you’re talking to me, but I have to ask—why? How do you know I’m not that somebody?”
A knowing grin twitched at the corner of her mouth, pulling the cigarette up. “Because they’ve already come to see me.”
“What?’
“Two days after the cops talked to me two more guys showed up on my lawn—just like you did. Only they’re dressed in suits, flash a couple of badges, and tell me they’re following up on the investigation. But I know right off they’re not. I know that these guys are with whoever McConnaughey ticked off.”
“How? And wait . . . what exactly do you know about Tate?”
“I knew they weren’t cops because of their shoes. And the suits. But mostly the shoes. Too nice. Armani, I think. Not something your average detective wears on the job. And because I’m a very good people reader. I can tell when people are lying. Have to do it all the time in Vegas. Have to take care of myself.
“Well these guys reiterated the heart attack story, but said that they just had to ask a few procedural questions to close the case—that the final medical workup wasn’t back, and they wanted to cover all their bases since Herb was found parked on a side street like he was. They asked me all kinds of questions about what Herb had been doing, did I know of any odd cases, anybody with a grudge? I was smart enough to play dumb. Told them no, no issues other than the odd angry husband of a client. After that song and dance they got around to asking about McConnaughey specifically, along with a couple other clients. Said standard procedure had turned up the names. I said I thought maybe I’d heard the name, McConnaughey, but couldn’t remember where. I asked who he was, gave the impression I didn’t know anything, hadn’t done any work for him. It was obvious they wanted to see if I knew anything. Probably would’ve killed me if they thought I did.”
“So what happened?”
“They left. Satisfied, I guess. Haven’t heard from them since. I’m betting they don’t want the exposure of getting rid of me unless they know I’m a threat. They probably realize the cops would get suspicious, start looking more closely, if all the sudden I kicked it, too. And because I don’t want them re-thinking that strategy, I’m not telling the cops anything either.”
“So why talk to me?”
“Like I said, I’m a good people reader. Knew right off you weren’t with them.”
“What if I had been?”
She shook her head. “Hit men don’t usually take cabs. Plus,” she continued after another sip, “I’m a bit of a gambler. I decided maybe you had something to offer here and it was worth the risk. And,” she said, rolling the word out slowly as if there was a difficult admission coming, “I guess, because Herb was good to me. Not the best husband or father, mind, but a good boss. Paid me well. Gave me paid vacations and sick leave. Flowers on Secretary’s Day. Sent me to Vegas once a year for a conference. He didn’t deserve this. I’m not brave enough to go to the cops, but if you’re working with McConnaughey’s sister, then at least you’re causing them trouble somehow.”
“Do you know what was in the package?”
She looked at him like he was crazy. “Course I did.”
“So, you know there was a flash drive in there.”
She nodded.
“Do you know if he made a copy?”
“Sorry. Not one I know of anyway.”
“Oh,” Jack remarked, deflating.
“Why do you need it anyway?”
He pursed his lips before answering, as if gauging how much to say. “There’s a video on it. But we didn’t get to watch it all. We need it to get out of the mess we’re in.”
“I thought this was Ms. McConnaughey’s mess,” she said, smirking.
“Can you help us or not?”
“Like I said, there’s no copy. But,” she said, pausing dramatically, “I could tell you about the video if you want.”
“You saw it?”
She nodded. “Watched the whole thing. Wasn’t supposed to, of course, but it gets boring in there sometimes.”
“Ms. Grabney—again, I’m glad you’re talking to me, but everybody else that’s touched that flash drive is dead. You need to be more careful.”
She shook her head, chastising him. “I’m careful enough. Besides, nobody suspected I’d ever seen the thing. Herb kept McConnaughey’s file locked up in his private safe, and he mailed the package himself. He never even knew that I knew it was there. He sure didn’t know I’d made a copy of the safe key years ago.” She smiled mischievously. “That’s where Herb keeps all his,” she drew quotation marks in the air, “top secret stuff. The McConnaughey file was just sitting in there with all the others.”
Jack shook his head. “Others?”
She took a wheezy breath and continued. “P.I. videos, you know? From divorce cases. Mr. Right cheating with Miss Wrong? Better than soap operas sometimes. I’d watch them when I’d get bored. One day I saw the McConnaughey file in there, but I didn’t have time to check it out. So I just left it for another day.”
She took a deep breath, which seemed like hard work, and continued with her story.
“So, anyway, Herb had to go to Italy for a few weeks, and that’s when he told me about this client named McConnaughey that was supposed to check in every week. Herb didn’t say why, he just said that I was supposed to let him know right away if McConnaughey didn’t call the office while he was gone.
“Well, of course, that got my curiosity going. The minute he left I got my copy of the safe key, pulled out the McConnaughey file, and took a peek. There it all was, scratched on some notes Herb’d made—all of Tate McConnaughey’s instructions, with the flash drive tucked inside. Tate was supposed to check in with Herb every week, his way of letting Herb know he was still around. If he didn’t call, then Herb was supposed to forward the package to his sister.
“I popped the flash drive in my computer. I’m just biting into my tuna on whole wheat, when this Tate kid pops on the screen and starts telling his sister how he’s got seventeen million of somebody else’s money, he’s probably dead—”
“Seventeen million?” Jack interrupted.
Grabney nodded and kept going, “and she needs to get a hold of it right away. Says people are going to come after her and try to kill her. Well, you can imagine what that did to me. I locked the thing back up, but I couldn’t stop thinking about it. Kept me up at night. Nightmares.”
Jack nodded his understanding.
“Three days later, Tate didn’t call when he was supposed to. But I was too scared to tell Herb. I was afraid of what would happen if he mailed that thing off and got mixed up in that mess, or worse, had me do it. I hoped the kid was just late and would call eventually. When he missed the call the week after that, too, I started thinking that whoever he’d stolen that money from must have finally caught up with him. So, I decided the best thing I could do was keep my mouth shut and pretend I didn’t know a thing.”
“So who mailed the package to Chloe?”
“Herb. When he got back from Europe and Tate missed that week’s call, Herb quizzed me about it. I acted like I’d forgotten all about it. He laid into me, bu
t he bought it. He didn’t have any contact info for Tate, so he couldn’t check on him. He got on the Internet and finally found mention of Tate’s accident online. That’s when he mailed it.”
“The morning the cops came in to tell me they’d found Herb—I don’t know—a light bulb went off in my head. I went to Herb’s private safe to check on the McConnaughey file, you know, just out of curiosity.” She shook her head. “It was gone.”
“What was on the video? We only got a couple minutes into it. How much do you remember?”
Grabney adopted a sly expression, exposing yellowed teeth. “I’ve been a card counter for years. I remember every jot and tittle of that boy’s words.”
“Okay . . . well, great. Tell me.”
“Like I said, I’m a gambler Mr. Collings.”
“Yeah, I got that.”
“And I’m gambling you’d be willing to pay me to hear what was on that video.”
Jack’s face grew stony. “You’ve got to be kidding.”
“That information’s worth millions, Collings, and now I’m out of a job. I am not kidding.”
“That seventeen million is blood money. People have died over it. Doesn’t that matter to you?”
She glared at him again. “Of course it matters. I loved Herb in my way. And I want to help you if it means stabbing his killers in the back. But I gotta take care of myself. Nobody else is gonna.”
“How much?”
“I’m not asking for anything crazy.” She eyeballed him. “Let’s say twenty thousand.”
Jack’s eyebrows shot up. “Well, we have a problem, then, because I don’t have twenty grand on me.”
“Looks to me like you and your lady friend don’t have much of a choice. So I suggest you figure something out.”
He could call his financial advisor. He wouldn’t have to know anything’s wrong. I could have him move it to Grabney’s account. If they are watching her, it might get noticed, but what choice did he have? He took a gravelly breath. “I’ll give you ten. Take it or leave it.”
The ticking of the grandfather clock in the living room echoed in the aftermath of his offer. She extended a veiny, mottled hand. “Deal.”
Jack didn’t reach out to shake it.
THIRTY-TWO
Renaldi DiMeico was the founder, President, and CEO of Inverse Financial Holdings, Ltd. He had started the investment firm nearly ten years ago from scratch, and now its client list included companies and individuals from all over the world, each with millions that needed managing. But to this day, Renny insisted on being heavily involved in the day-to-day operations, handpicking most of its employees. That was how it happened with Tate. More than that, Renny had been personally involved in courting Tate before he accepted, wooing him with the very best that Inverse and Miami had to offer.
Chloe was convinced that Renny himself was part of the reason Tate had ultimately taken the job. She had to admit that the man did have a certain magnetic charm that made it impossible not to like him. And then, there was the way that Renny had taken Tate under his wing. By the time she came down for her first and only visit, right before Tate accepted the job, the mentor/mentee relationship was already solidified.
Tate’s death had seemed hard on DiMeico. He was one of the first to call Chloe after the crash, completely beside himself as he tried to convey his sympathies. He even came up for the funeral, something that surprised her. At the gravesite he discreetly approached her, expressing his condolences again and pleading with her to call him if there was ever anything he could do for her. She had never thought she would need to take him up on the offer. Here was someone who actually had the resources to do something to help them, but the last thing she wanted was to drag him into it. She’d just find out what, if anything, they still had of Tate’s, and then go.
The double doors to the conference room swung open. DiMeico, a big bear of a man, strode over to Chloe and swept her up into his Hugo Boss suit.
“Chloe, my dear Chloe!” he exclaimed, hugging her tightly. “I am so very glad to see you. It has been far too long.” His mild Italian accent was as charming as ever, and, as always, he was dressed impeccably, right down to the tasteful gold cufflinks. Chloe squeezed back warmly.
“You’re right, Renny. It has been too long. It’s really good to see you.”
He pulled back and looked at her appraisingly. “You look much different than the last time I saw you.” His eyes settled on her hair. “Quite a bit, I think.”
“I needed a change. How are you?”
“I should be asking you that question, should I not?” he replied, still grasping her upper arms. “But I am well. And you?”
Chloe cleared her throat. “I’m managing. It’s still hard.”
Renny nodded. “He is missed.”
“Thank you, Renny.”
“But enough of that depressing talk. To what to do I owe this unexpected pleasure?”
“Actually—” She cut herself off when she noticed Renny’s secretary seated behind a desk just yards outside the conference room door and a few others milling around in the waiting room. She nodded towards them. “Do you think we could go somewhere and talk privately?”
He turned his head in the direction of her gaze and understood immediately. “Absolutely, darling. Absolutely,” he acquiesced, ushering her out of the room. “Besides,” he said, flashing a smile, “I’d rather not share you.”
Chloe shook her head. “Ever the charmer, Renny.”
He shrugged unapologetically. “I am what I am. Margaret, we will be on the roof,” he announced as they walked past the secretary’s desk, then added, “I would prefer to not be interrupted.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And have some drinks brought up.” He turned to Chloe. “Still Tom Collins, no?”
“Good memory,” she replied.
“If you will take care of it,” he said, nodding at Margaret.
“Yes, sir. Right away.”
A short trip on the elevator landed them on the roof, sixteen stories above downtown Miami. She had been up there only once before, for drinks late on a Saturday night. The view was as spectacular as she remembered, relatively unhindered, as the building was one of the taller ones in the area. In the distance, stretches of ocean were visible between breaks in the cityscape.
The wind ruffled her shortened hair as she stepped onto the first of several hundred squares of exquisite Mexican tile that bordered raised gardens generously edging the patio, each overflowing with a rainbow of vegetative color and lush greenery. In addition to several potted palms, towering willows swayed gently in the breeze, their feathery branches sweeping the floor in small strokes. A strong gust shook loose a frond that floated gracefully into the sparkling lap pool at the roof’s center, initiating an infinity of tiny ripples.
“I hope this is all right,” Renny asked with obligatory humility, as they sat down at one of the tables near the water.
“It’s perfect, Renny. And still gorgeous.”
“Not unlike yourself.”
Chloe cocked her head and gave him a wry smile. “Really, Renny. You’re too much.”
“As I said, dear, I am what I am. So,” he said fingering the edge of the table, “what is it? I can tell that something is bothering you.”
Chloe sighed. “Is it that obvious?” He smiled sympathetically. Chloe took a deep breath, then dove in. “The thing is, well, I have some questions. About Tate. About what he was doing before he died.”
Renny’s brow furrowed. “I’m not sure I understand. You know he worked to keep our computers secure and operational. And he developed software and such.”
“No, I don’t mean at Inverse. I need to know what else he was doing—on the side.”
“If Tate was moonlighting, I was not aware of it. I strictly prohibit that sort of thing. I want my employees to stay focused.”
Chloe swallowed hard. “I’m not sure he was moonlighting, exactly. But I do need to try to put together how and with whom h
e was spending his time.”
“Why? If I may ask?”
She sighed. “It’s just . . . important to me. That’s all.”
The elevator door slid open and an attendant stepped out carrying a tray of drinks. He walked directly to their table and set it down beside Renny. “Anything else, sir?”
“Not at the moment. Thank you, George.”
“Yes, sir,” the graying attendant replied, then exited the way he came.
“You were saying?” Renny asked, taking one of the glasses off the tray and handing it to Chloe. She took it from him and sipped.
“I came to you in the hope that maybe Tate kept something here, anything, that might shed some light on his time here in Miami.”
“But we sent you his things.”
“His personal things, but not his business records. Not his calendar or his date book. I didn’t ask for that stuff. I know it’s been a little while and if you’ve gotten rid of it—”
Renny held up a hand to stop her. “No, no. I think we should still have everything.”
Chloe’s face lit up. “Really? Because I thought it was a long shot. I mean, I know it still is—there’s no guarantee any of it will help me. But if I could just look through it tonight, I swear I’ll be out of your hair tomorrow.”
“Chloe, you are not ‘in my hair.’ And, of course, you can see whatever we have. But, first, quell an old man’s curiosity. I am worried about you. You seem . . . unsettled. Is there nothing more I can do?” he asked, fingering the beverage napkin bearing the Inverse emblem upon which his martini now rested.
“Look,” she started again, “I don’t want to involve you any more than I already have, so I don’t think I should say anything else. I wouldn’t have come at all, except I think this is my last hope. I’m sorry I can’t say more.”
“Pshh,” he said dismissing her concern, “do not be foolish. I want to help you in any way I can. I am glad you came.”
“Well, I promise, once I get a look at those records, I’ll be out of here.”
She hoped that he would sense her urgency and quickly summon someone to assist her in locating the records straightaway. But, instead, he sat there idly rubbing the same beverage napkin, now worn thin at the edges. His fingers moved to the lip of his glass, which he traced in slow circles. A singular bead of condensation trickled down its side, slipping onto the napkin, where it was absorbed into the dark blue emblem imprinted on the paper.