Ending her run a few minutes before his, she flashed a friendly smile as she passed him and headed for the juice bar. It worked. The moth drew near the flame.
“Can I buy you a juice?” he asked.
She nodded and issued a coy smile. “Thanks. I left my debit card in the car.”
Although much too young and way too eager for her, Connor Logan was, as his friends had described him, a nice-looking young man. His thick, blondish hair had a slight wave, his shoulders spread broad and he possessed a disarming dimpled smile.
“You’re a long way from home,” he said.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Your sweatshirt. Princeton.”
She nodded. “Very observant.”
He extended a hand. “Connor Logan.”
His grip–firm. His smile–genuine. “Heather McBlythe. Pleased to meet you, Connor Logan.” She made sure to flash a wide smile.
“What brings you to Texas?” he asked.
“Right now, a mile run and the number three kale-mango organic juice.”
His reared back his head and laughed. “Right, first things first.”
With orders placed he repeated the question.
“Business,” said Heather. “I’m looking at acquisitions and investment possibilities in and around Houston.” It wasn’t a lie. The thought of her multi-million-dollar trust fund and what to do with it loomed on the horizon. “And you, Connor Logan? What are you into?”
“Trading stocks,” he said with confidence.
“Day trading?”
“Uh-huh.”
She lifted her eyebrows. “Penny stocks?”
“Yeah.” His head tilted to one side. “How did you know?”
“You have that ‘I-can’t-wait-to-be-rich’ look about you.” The statement came out flat, as intended, neither a compliment nor a condemnation.
The drinks arrived and they moved to a pub-height table. While he took his first sip she asked, “Any hot tips on trades today?”
“As a matter of fact—”
Here it comes. The hot, can’t-miss deal of the day.
His eyes widened. “A start-up company in Austin will announce development of a new game that’s set to absolutely explode in time for Christmas. I’ve seen the data and all the results from beta test groups. Projections are for it to be one of the hottest sellers of all times. The press and all the big gamers who write blogs will be given access to the game at eleven a.m. central time. They’ll play for an hour or two and hit their lap tops. By tonight, the stock should go up in value a thousand percent.”
“Interesting. What’s the name of this company?”
Connor’s eyelids squinted enough for her to know his suspicion had been raised by her question. She offered a broad smile and patted his forearm that rested on the table. She looked him dead in the eye and said, “I know people who know more about penny stocks than you can imagine. Tell me the name of the company and I’ll make a couple of phone calls. If this company is legit, then I won’t invest until this afternoon. That gives you plenty of time to buy all the stock you want. I’ll even stay with you until then, if you don’t trust me.”
Connor took a long pull on the straw, giving him time to consider. “Okay. You have an honest face and that Princeton sweatshirt tells me you might have some good connections. The company name is Yukyuk Graphics. Yukyuk.com is their website.”
Heather grabbed her phone and scrolled through the directory. On the second ring she shifted in her chair. “Jerry…It’s Heather. How’re things on Wall Street?...Yeah? Three Adderall already today? Listen, I’m looking for some info. What’s the word on a gaming company out of Austin called Yukyuk Graphics? There’s a rumor they’re going to make a big move today…Oh…Uh-huh…really? That’s interesting. Thanks, Jerry. That’s a big help.”
She turned to Connor. “I want you to get on your phone and search a number for me. I already have it in my phone, but I want you to know I’m on the up-and-up. Get the number for the FBI, New York City.”
His eyes grew wide but he complied. Once he had the main number she showed him her phone and the identical number he’d pulled up. She instructed him to put his phone on speaker and she’d do the talking. After working her way past two underlings a man answered. “Special Agent Tim Walker.”
“Tim, it’s Heather. Do you have time for a pump-and-dump on a penny stock that will take place today? I have most of the information you’ll need.”
“I don’t have time, but I might be able to pawn it off on someone else. What do you have?”
“Two guys named Rothchild, working out of their basement in Minneapolis. Their company is called Yukyuk Graphics. Their dot-com goes by the same name. They’re supposed to have a company in Austin, Texas that’s hitting the market this afternoon with a can’t-miss new video game.”
“What’s your source, Heather?”
“A day trader in The Woodlands, Texas named Connor Logan. He’s with me now listening in.”
“Mr. Logan, this is Special Agent Tim Walker. Can you go to our office in Houston this morning? We need to know who gave you the information to purchase stock in Yukyuk Graphics and any other information you might have about this scam.”
Connor’s posture became rigid. “Uh, yeah. I guess so.”
“Good. I’ll let them know you’re coming. By the way, Mr. Logan, were you considering buying stock in this company today?”
“Well, yes. I was.”
“You need to buy Heather dinner tonight. Whatever money you were going to invest would have been long gone by the time you sat down for salad.”
Following some chitchat Heather said her farewells. “Nice guy. He works securities fraud. One of my Princeton buddies.”
Connor sat dumbfounded, but managed to squeak out, “You saved my life.”
“That’s a little extreme, isn’t it, Connor?”
“I went to one of those payday-loan places and gave them the title to my car. I was going to sink all the money I had and what I borrowed into Yukyuk Graphics.” He washed his face with his hands. “The joke would have been on me. How can I thank you?”
“Get out of day trading. You’re a nice guy, but you’re a minnow swimming with sharks. Isn’t there something else you can do?”
He gave a short nod. “I have a real estate license.”
“Use it.”
“That’s what my dad said.” His head hung for several seconds before he seemed to gather himself and said, “That FBI agent told me to buy you dinner. Can I?”
“I’m not sure that would be a good idea. You see, one of the properties I’m interested in acquiring is the building that houses your father’s law practice.”
Connor pulled back. “I didn’t know he’d put it up for sale.”
“He didn’t.” She gave him the look a mentor would give a student. “You’ve been involved in real estate. You know that successful agents get listings any way they can. They keep an eye out for unexpected life events. I do the same thing.”
“Like deaths?” asked Connor.
“Deaths, divorces, sudden or severe illnesses, you name it.”
“So your being here isn’t a random meeting?”
“No. I went to your father’s funeral and I knew you’d be here this morning.”
A puzzled look came over his face. “But why did you keep me from losing my shirt on a worthless penny stock?”
The moment she’d worked for had arrived. She looked him straight in the eye. “Because I need information and I needed you to trust me.”
“What kind of information?”
“If I’m going to sink money into an investment involving a multi-story commercial property which includes a law firm, I need to do a lot of due diligence. I’ve found that family members can be invaluable.”
Her cards had been placed face up on the table. His response would tell if her plan had worked or not. She’d already found out what Steve wanted to know. Connor Logan needed money. It was her turn to do
a little business of her own.
“I’m not sure how much help I can be.”
She patted his hand. “I’ll be the judge of that. First question. Was your father in any financial trouble?”
“Not that I know of. Things sort of fell apart four or five years ago between Mom and Dad. He put the whole family on a tight budget. Something must have changed last week. Dad told me his ship had sailed and would soon dock. He said things would be looking up quickly.”
“Do you know what he meant?”
“Not a clue. Dad was a good lawyer. He kept secrets.”
“Why were you down to a title loan on your car?”
“Dad cut me off. He wanted me to stay the course on selling real estate. He told me my odds were better in Vegas than being a day trader.” Connor hung his head. “I guess he was right.”
Heather didn’t want to ask the next question, but knew she had to. “Were your parents considering divorce?”
The look on his face was one of hurt and uncertainty. “Dad wasn’t. He always said Mom would come around and he wanted to be close by when she did.”
“And your mom?”
He shrugged. “She’s not dealt well with getting older.”
“What can you tell me about your sister?”
His head tilted back and he laughed. “She’s weird.” He stopped smiling. “She’s also brilliant and miserable.”
With her back to the door, Heather didn’t see the woman approach. A voice straight out of Gone With the Wind spoke in a molasses-covered accusation. “Connor Logan, I’ve warned you about strange women trying to pick you up in here.” She ran a manicured hand down his cheek as her glacier stare fixed on Heather.
“Time for me to go,” said Heather. She turned to the woman. “Give Aunt Pitty-Pat my best.”
Chapter 8
Heather winced as the worn-out tennis shoes squeaked with each step. As Pat Beerhalter she led Steve into the Logan Professional Building, a tan three-story brick edifice fronted by a parking lot loaded with newer vehicles. Other occupants of the building included a mortgage company on the bottom floor, and a title company and Speedwell Construction Company on the second floor. The Logan Law firm occupied the top floor, although it came nowhere near utilizing all the space.
As soon as the elevator door closed Heather turned to Steve and asked, “Did you know Speedwell Construction was in this building?”
“I remember Ned telling me the business office of a large construction company was here, but I didn’t know which one. Has Mr. Speedwell called you back for the drink you teased him with?”
“Not yet. If I don’t hear from him by tomorrow—”
The door opened on the second floor. Before she had a chance to finish her sentence, Brant Speedwell stood in front of her. She swallowed hard.
“Going down?” he asked.
She closed her gaping mouth and said, “No, hon. We’re headin’ up. I’ll send ’er back down.”
A snicker came from Steve as soon as the door closed. “I take it that was your second date with Brant Speedwell. You didn’t get much information.”
Heather’s heart pounded. “Don’t worry about me. Let’s see how you do with Brittany Brown.”
The name plate on the receptionist’s desk read Sunny LaForce. When Steve and Heather entered, she had her back to them. Bending from the waist over a file cabinet, she showed the majority, and almost the minority, of long, tanned legs. She rose, turned and smiled. Her summer-blond hair framed a porcelain face, while a tight skirt started not a moment too soon. She proudly displayed her assets with shoulders thrown back.
Heather hoped her gasp didn’t travel far. Before her stood the woman she’d seen earlier that day at the gym, the Dixie-chick with her talons deep into Connor Logan.
“How can I help y’all?” she asked with none of the water moccasin venom Heather had heard that morning. The accent and demeanor dripped of Georgia peaches, grits, and hand-held fans.
“Steve Smiley. I have an appointment with Ms. Brown.” He paused. “And this is my aide, Pat Beerhalter.”
Pat Beerhalter issued an extra-wide grungy smile which caused a mixed look of disgust and pity to flash across the face of the over-endowed, wannabe Southern belle.
“She’s expecting you, Mr. Smiley. I’ll tell her you’re here.”
The receptionist hung up the phone. “You can go right in. She’s ready for you.”
Heather led Steve to a chair in front of the attorney’s desk and took a good look at the attorney. Brittany Brown appeared to be in her early forties, chunky, plain, and haggard. Her full, florid face and the fact that she poured her size eighteen body into a size sixteen dress telegraphed stress and discontentment. Heather wished she could tell Steve her observations, but those would come later.
Heather retreated to a club chair in the corner. An awkward silence was broken when Steve and Brittany Brown spoke at the same time. Nervous laughter followed with Steve saying, “Please, Ms. Brown, you first.”
She laced her fingers together and rested her hands on a clear spot amid piles of folders. “I was going to say, it’s nice to finally be able to put a face to your name.”
“Oh? I wasn’t aware you would know anything about me.”
Her head tilted. “Oh, yes, I’ve heard stories about the world’s greatest detective for years. You can’t believe what a hero you were to Ned.” Her voice dropped. “He counted you as the most trustworthy person he knew.” She glanced out a window. “I wish he’d trusted me half as much.”
“What do you mean?” asked Steve.
She took in a deep breath and let it out in a rush. “Ned kept a barrier up between us. He was a private man…almost secretive. I’m the only other attorney in this office. You’d think I’d know everything he was working on. That’s not how it is–or should I say, that’s not how it was.”
It came as no surprise to Heather when Steve asked an open-ended question.
“How was it?”
A touch of pink rose in Brittany Brown’s cheeks. “I’ll tell you how it was. For the last two and a half years I’ve been slave labor around here, doing the same thing day in and day out.” Her voice rose, as did the color in her cheeks. “Sixty and seventy-hour weeks were the norm. Nothing but one real estate sales contract after another.”
“You must have been well compensated for your work,” said Steve.
“Ha! That’s a good one, Mr. Smiley. I’m on salary. The pay raises stopped four years ago.” Something between anger and betrayal flashed in her red-rimmed eyes. “He made promises for years, but always vague ones. He said all I needed to do was stay the course a little while longer and he’d take care of me. He promised me a full partnership. He promised me…Oh, what does it matter what he promised? He’s dead and you’re in charge.”
Steve stiffened. A jolt ran through Heather when she heard the phrase, “you’re in charge.”
“What do you mean, I’m in charge?”
“Don’t be coy with me, Mr. Smiley,” snapped the attorney. “You’ve read Ned’s will.”
“No. I haven’t.”
“I don’t believe you, and I’m in no mood to put up with this.”
Heather watched as Brittany Brown picked up a folder. She rounded her desk and threw it in Steve’s lap where it slid off. She stormed out of the office, slamming the door as she went.
Heather stepped quickly to where Steve sat and scooped up the folder. “This will take me a few minutes to go through.” She turned to the last page. “It’s signed, witnessed, and notarized. It looks legit.”
Heather sat in the leather office chair of the attorney and began to read. Eighteen minutes later, after rereading it, she announced, “Congratulations, Mr. Smiley. Ned Logan has named you executor of his estate and has given you authority to act in loco pater familial.”
“I’m a little rusty on my Latin. What does that mean?”
“Simply stated, you are to act as the father of the family, the big cheese, the Exa
lted Potentate. The way this will is written, you control the purse strings until Connor Logan is thirty years old. After that, he takes over.”
A long, low groan came from the blind former detective. “Do I have to wait that long?”
“No. Who gets what. and when, is totally up to you.”
She allowed him to take it in for a moment. “Steve.”
“Yeah.” His voice couldn’t have sounded flatter if he had been run over by a steamroller.
“You’re in over your head.”
“I know.”
“I’ll help if you want me to.”
“Please. Where do we start?”
“Money. Always start with the money. You can’t start divvying up anything until you know how much Ned had and what he owed.”
“Good thinking.”
“Steve.”
“Yeah.”
“This could get messy.”
“It already is.”
◆◆◆
The ride back to Steve’s townhome passed in absolute silence. Once there Steve slumped in his recliner, took off his sunglasses and rubbed his eyes. What could he be thinking? The term pater familial was as foreign to him as the dead language it came from. As for children, Steve and Maggie had settled that a long time ago. Careers and each other formed their small, but complete, circle of family. Now he found himself the unwilling, blind, stand-in father of a dysfunctional home. The middle-aged mother wished to be a vivacious, rich aristocrat who could turn back the clock and be thirty years of age in perpetuity. The son, good-natured but gullible, took risks and would likely hock the family jewels to bet on a three-legged horse in the Kentucky Derby. To top it off, there was the miserable, out-of-place daughter, twenty years old, bordering on an eating disorder and aptly described as “weird.” What was Steve to do with this trio? Assuming, of course, that one or any combination of the three, didn’t kill the original pater familial.
Exercise Is Murder Page 5