Читать книгу Hearts in Vegas - Colleen Collins, Colleen Collins - Страница 12
ОглавлениеCHAPTER FOUR
TWENTY MINUTES LATER, Frances took a seat at the table, immaculately set with linen, crystal and a bottle of champagne—Taittinger, no less—chilling in an ice-filled silver bucket. The lights were moody low, the classical music softly romantic.
Her boss, Charlie Eden, was dapper in a charcoal Ralph Lauren suit that complemented his silvering hair. He looked at her with shining, attentive eyes from across the table.
She and Charlie had sometimes ordered cocktails during these meetings, but champagne on ice? This was a first. Made her uncomfortable. Did he think this was some kind of date?
She flashed on several women at the Vanderbilt Insurance office who’d run over their own grandmothers to be in Frances’s shoes right now. In the company kitchen, they’d whisper breathlessly about his Porsche 911 and how its custom paint job matched its baby-blue cockpit, his Tuscan-style home on a golf course, his European vacations.
What they liked was his money, of course, not his withering looks when displeased or his condescending tone when addressing someone he viewed as an imbecile, which seemed to be half of the earth’s population. It amazed her how some people, like Charlie’s office groupies, viewed the almighty dollar as if it were the most important attribute in a potential mate, rather than traits like kindness and devotion.
Or maybe Frances was more attuned to what money couldn’t buy based on her mom’s stories of her privileged, but painfully lonely, upbringing.
So here Frances sat in a luxurious restaurant, feeling awkward. Maybe she wouldn’t have thought twice about the decor and champagne on ice if her dad hadn’t been so insistent that Charlie had a thing for her.
Did he?
She’d never picked up on any signals from her boss, but then she’d always related to his professional role, not the man behind it.
Something about Charlie she’d always picked up on loud and clear, though. He wasn’t a gambler. His every action had a plan and a purpose. Nothing with him was ever simple or spontaneous.
Which meant his reasons for selecting this restaurant were more convoluted than his setting up a date. Eventually, he’d tell her what they were.
“Hope the bubbly wasn’t too expensive, Charlie,” she said, setting her smartphone on the table, “because I won’t be drinking any. Way too early for me.”
He flashed his Gordon Gekko smile. “It’s almost noon.”
“It’s a few minutes after ten.”
“Frances, as always, you are enmeshed in the minutiae. Observe, document, categorize.”
“If everybody saw the forest instead of the trees, nobody would know how to plant a seed.”
Charlie did a slight double take, but didn’t say anything as the waiter appeared at their table. He wore a white jacket with Chez Manny stitched in blue on the pocket and gave them a practiced smile. After setting a basket of “hand crafted” rolls and butter on the table, he gestured toward the champagne. She noticed initials inked on the inside of his ring finger, which made her wonder why people got tattoos with personal messages, as though anything in life were that permanent.
“Now that your guest is here, shall I pour the champagne?” he asked.
She held her hand over her glass. “No, thank you.”
The waiter bent his head in understanding and poured the bubbly into Charlie’s crystal flute.
Her boss had wanted to meet at this restaurant last night, too, but she’d canceled, explaining she felt drained after the odd undercover-cop escort and limo meeting.
She was glad she’d gone straight home last night, because her dad had been worrying himself sick since their aborted phone call. He’d also thought he’d failed her because although he’d left messages for Charlie, he didn’t know if Charlie had heard them, so her dad fretted about her possibly being behind bars with no one coming to her aid.
Wanting to ease her dad’s concerns, she’d glossed over what had happened during their dinner of Spam sandwiches and leftover Chinese food. Said the undercover cop had pulled her over for a broken taillight and let her go with a warning. That she would have called her dad after that but had been pulled into a last-minute meeting at a downtown coffee shop with a Vanderbilt client.
After dinner, she wrote an email to Charlie filling him in on all the details, including that she’d be conducting a delivery in the morning for the Russian, after which she could meet Charlie. He wrote back later that he’d be at Chez Manny by ten.
“Would you perhaps like a Baby Bellini, a nonalcoholic drink made with peach nectar and sparkling cider?” the waiter asked her.
She ordered one, plus an omelet. Charlie ordered the cedar-plank-roasted salmon special.
After the waiter left, Charlie lifted his glass of bubbly. “To my star investigator.”
“Hardly a star. All I did was talk to the Russian.”
He took a sip of champagne, set the glass back on the table. “But he trusted you enough to invite you into his inner sanctum, Frances, which is a coup. You’ve been an investigator long enough to understand the significance of that.”
She caught an edge of apprehension in his tone.
“Pass the bread?” she asked pleasantly, studying his face, wondering what was going on with him.
He held out the basket and she helped herself to a “hand crafted” roll. She spread some of the butter—which the waiter had mentioned was “lavender laced”—on the warm roll and took a bite, savoring its herb-infused, yeasty taste.
For several moments they said nothing, listening to a gentle violin played over other diners’ murmured conversations.
“I have good news and bad news,” he finally said, “or possibly good news and good news, depending on how successful you are in this case, Frances.”
“I’m not sure I like how this sounds,” she murmured.
“I shouldn’t call it bad news. More correctly, it is potentially good news for both of us.”
“But you said this depends on how successful I am, so apparently my actions dictate how this...whatever it is...will affect both of us.”
“Correct.” He drew his lips into a tight, reflective grin. “I’ve been interested for some time in opening my own antiquities insurer company, but haven’t found enough interested backers. Fortunately, the CEO of Vanderbilt—an old friend of mine, we attended Cornell together—has offered me the helm of a new Vanderbilt division that will handle all high-end antiquities insurance policies. I’ll be building an elite team of appraisers, underwriters and fraud investigators whose focus will be to reduce claims fraud on our more valuable jewelry and antiquity items. Frankly, I haven’t been happy with most of our investigators—their sloppy work has resulted in Vanderbilt paying extraordinarily hefty claims without recovering insured items. But you, Frances, have a solid track record of solving cases. I’d like you to join my team as my first investigator, but...”
But what? He was giving her high praise one moment, then seeming critical of her the next. She held his gaze for an awkward moment or two, watching the sparkle go out of his light brown eyes until they reminded her of dead leaves.
“Spit it out, Charlie.”
She’d never spoken like that to her boss, but it was grating on her nerves he didn’t just speak his mind. She might tell white lies to her dad so he wouldn’t worry, fabricate stories and identities in the course of her investigative work, but sometimes the best way to deal with an issue was to put it out there.
As the violin music trilled in the background, Charlie stared hard at her, finally saying, “You can’t fail at this case.”
“Because you want to show Vanderbilt I have what it takes to be part of your elite group.”
“Correct.” He took another sip of champagne.
“I know how much Vanderbilt wants me to find those coins, Charlie, but there are never any guarantees. You know that.”
“I do. Just bring your A-game, Frances. That’s all I’m asking.”
Which brought up the issue she’d tossed and turned over last night. Sometime between 2:00 and 3:00 a.m., she’d finally dozed off, still torn about whether or not to make this request.
“I’m not sure I should investigate this one,” she said.
He frowned. “Why not?”
“It’s out of my league. I can bring my A-game, but it’s like asking a—” she listened to the violin warble “—a small-time fiddler to play first violin in an orchestra. You want me to find coins worth millions of dollars...but, Charlie, you seem to forget I was a teenage pickpocket who later lifted a few pieces of jewelry. My biggest theft was a diamond-and-ruby necklace worth eighteen grand retail, and I got caught.”
Charlie obviously saw her concern because his expression turned soft, almost apologetic. “Let’s table that discussion for a minute.”
She nodded.
“Speaking of that eighteen-grand necklace, you’ve almost paid off the restitution, right?”
“Almost.”
“I’m proud of you, Frances.”
She didn’t feel any pride over what she’d learned these past five years, but she definitely felt humbled.
It hadn’t been easy paying the restitution. Besides the cost of the necklace, the court tacked on their case-processing fees, plus an assessment for the victims’ compensation fund, which brought her financial obligation to just over $22,700. A hefty payoff considering her fence, a pawnbroker named Rock Star, paid her only $4,500 for the necklace, the standard 25 percent going rate.
At first she’d felt sorry for herself for getting into that mess. Then one day her probation officer called and said the victim, a woman named Leona, who’d recently lost her daughter in Afghanistan, wanted to meet her. Frances had balked, anxious about facing Leona’s justified anger, especially as the necklace had never been recovered.
Her mother, in the last weeks of her life, although Frances and her dad didn’t know it at the time, simply said, You owe it to her.
The following week, Frances had sat in a spacious, airy living room, eating chocolate cookies with Leona, a plump, fiftyish woman with eyes the color of water. She didn’t get angry. Didn’t mention the necklace, either. Instead, she talked for two hours about her daughter, Dena, who’d played the flute, raised bees and dreamed of being a veterinarian. She never mentioned Dena’s death, only said she’d joined the army to help pay for her college.
Later, Frances thought how she’d gone to Leona’s so the woman could yell and vent her justified rage. Instead Frances received something far greater. Forgiveness.
“But you weren’t caught stealing that necklace,” Charlie continued, “which is commendable.”
Frances was surprised he’d used the word commendable about her theft. For all Charlie’s education, sometimes he had the depth of a puddle.
“It was the fence that snitched you out, right?” he said pleasantly, as though this were a light, inconsequential conversation.
“The buyer of the necklace coughed up my fence’s name to the police, who in turn coughed up mine.” Loyalty among thieves.
“Which is my point—you’ve never been caught in the act,” he said, “because you’re good at what you do. Which our mystery Russian recognized after watching your brilliant audition on the surveillance feed.”
The waiter returned with her Baby Bellini, poured more champagne for Charlie and informed them their food would be served shortly.
After he left, Charlie said, “You’re not out of your league, Frances—you’re stepping up to it.”
As he paused to take another sip of champagne, she tasted her Baby Bellini, enjoying its peachy fizz, thinking she should call Leona and ask how her bee farm was going.
“Was the Russian at his office this morning?” Charlie set down his drink.
“Don’t know. Oleg was in the front area, working on a computer, but the other doors were closed.”
“Did Oleg discuss your work there?”
“Just to be there Monday morning around nine and to ask for him.”
“Oleg,” he mused, “is a very savvy hacker if he’s breaking into a government facial-recognition database. If the feds were to nail him, he could spend up to ten years in prison.”
“These people don’t leave electronic tracks.”
“No, they get caught after doing something stupid, like leaving behind a half-eaten sandwich covered with DNA.”
A famously stupid mistake in one of the largest jewel heists in history. After several years of rigorous planning, a brilliant jewel thief named Leonardo Notarbartolo executed a meticulous break-in of the Antwerp World Diamond Centre and its supposedly impregnable vault. Afterward, he tossed his half-eaten sandwich, along with receipts for some of the break-in tools, in a farmer’s field near the scene of the crime. The farmer called the police, angry people were dumping trash on his property, and read them the information on the receipts, which the police recognized to be the tools used at the crime. After running a DNA analysis on the sandwich, they identified Notarbartolo, who spent several years in prison, although he never divulged the whereabouts of the diamonds.
Cases like that taught investigators to never dismiss seemingly unconnected leads. That the jewelry was never located wasn’t a surprise, however, as in nearly half of such thefts, the gold would be melted and the gems recut.
Which made intact historical jewelry pieces, such as the Helena Diamond necklace and the fifth-century-BC coins, all the more valuable.
“Think the big man’s from Saint Petersburg?” Charlie asked.
“Chocolates were from there, but that doesn’t mean he is. Saw a name—Dmitri Romanov—on the envelope I delivered this morning to Braxton.... Apparently that’s the name he goes by, but I don’t know...could be an alias, too.”
“I don’t think we know enough about him. What else did you notice?”
“I’ve gone over and over our meeting in my head. He wore no jewelry, had no visible scars from what I could see, but the lighting was dim in the limo. I described that other set of Georgian earrings at Fortier’s in my email—learn anything about them?”
“The slight blue cast of the diamonds is unusual, but there’s no record of their theft.”
“And the license-plate numbers I forwarded?”
“Limo’s registered to Konfety, which appears to be a bogus corporation. That undercover cop’s vehicle is the real deal, though, as it’s registered to the city. My guess is he checked it out. I won’t subpoena the police for those records, because it would alert them that Vanderbilt has an interest in his identity, which of course would tie you to Vanderbilt.”
“That guy was nuts.”
“Maybe on purpose.” He lifted his glass.
“To throw me off?”
“He’s an undercover cop. You’re an undercover investigator. Both of you are good at deceiving people in the course of your work, right?”
If the singing detective was a Dmitri gofer, he could have acted that way to hide his real personality. On the other hand, if he was one of the good guys, maybe he’d acted silly to put her at ease, which had worked. That also meant the Las Vegas Metro Police were working their own case against Dmitri.
“You said the Russian asked you to deliver something this morning—what was it?”
“A manila envelope that felt like it had papers inside, but I didn’t want to open it and give myself away.”
“Who’s this private investigator?”
“Name’s Braxton Morgan. Works at Morgan-LeRoy Investigations downtown, but his brother’s the partner, not him. Apparently, Braxton is more of a security consultant.”
“Private dicks,” Charlie muttered, a look of distaste crossing his features. “Lowlife snoops in trench coats pretending to be Sam what’s-his-name.”
“Sam Spade?”
“Right, Sam Spade. Now, that was a private eye. Smart. Detached. Unflinching. Women wanted him, men wanted to be him.”
She almost laughed. Did pompous, corporate-America Charlie secretly yearn to be a tough-guy Sam Spade?
But Charlie had Braxton wrong. He wasn’t a lowlife in a trench coat. He wasn’t detached, either, but he was definitely smart.
On her way over here, she’d quickly checked him out on the internet, impressed with a news story about his saving a politician’s life years ago. Acting as a legislator’s bodyguard, Braxton had perceived a threat at a political rally and taken action that saved the official’s life. Such quick, calculated thinking proved his intelligence.
She’d have to do further research on Braxton Morgan.
“Most of those shamuses will do anything for a buck,” Charlie said, buttering a roll, “including break the law. Which this guy Braxton must be doing, too, if he’s hooked up with our Russian. How’d he react when you handed him the envelope?”
More like, how did he react to her.
“Seemed to be expecting it,” she answered.
“What’s your impression of him?”
“Early thirties,” she said matter-of-factly, “dresses professionally, which tells me he takes his work seriously. Don’t think he’s dirty, though.”
The last part slipped out before she’d given it any thought, but something about Braxton had struck her as honest.
“How do you know?”
“Just a sense I got.”
“Interesting. You don’t usually give much credit to first impressions.” He let that hang in the air for a moment. “Anyway, as you get more involved in this Dmitri fellow’s heist, keep your ears open for how Braxton fits into the picture.” He checked his watch, a shiny gold Rolex.
“Are you late for something?” she asked.
“Told my ex I’d pick up the kids, take them to see a movie. Let me make a quick call.”
He’d mentioned his exes before—there were two, but only one lived in Vegas—and Frances had seen framed photos of several boys and a girl in his office, although Charlie didn’t talk about them much, just passing references to having them for the weekend or taking them to some event.
Frances was surprised that he made the call at the table rather than stepping away, so she looked around the restaurant to give him a semblance of privacy. Scanned the brocade draperies that sealed off the far windows, listened to the beginning of a spirited piano concerto, caught scents of garlic and spices as waiters passed with steaming plates.
She couldn’t hear Charlie’s conversation as he kept his voice low, although at one point he snapped, “The credit card is maxed out, Cynthia!”
A few moments later he ended the call, slid his phone back into his jacket pocket. “Where were we?”
He looked pissed, but also confused, which was strange, since Frances had never seen Charlie betray any hint of vulnerability.
“Now that you’re on the inside of this Russian’s racket,” he said, shifting back to business mode, “Vanderbilt wants you to learn the players on his team, their roles and, as we’ve discussed, anything you can find about the coin theft. Any dirt you can dig up will be smiled upon, too. Sometimes these guys get a lot chattier when faced with prison, and we’d like him to chat about those coins.”
“What about the brooch?”
“Icing. This Russian promised you the pin as payment after the heist, but Vanderbilt is more interested in your finding the coins before then. It wants to sink this Russian and his crew.”
An uneasiness swept through her as she imagined a pirate ship plunging to the ocean’s depths.
“The jewelry show is March first,” she murmured, running her fingertips lightly over the tight weave of the linen tablecloth. “A little over three weeks from today. What if I don’t find enough evidence by then?”
“Vanderbilt will undertake a sting. Swap out the necklace with a duplicate, which you’d steal, the critical point being when you hand it over to Dmitri. You’ll need to play this tight with Dmitri, get him to a spot you help choose—a hotel room, for example—where Vanderbilt technicians can be in the next room taking covert footage of him accepting the necklace, discussing the heist and so forth....”
Her nerves jumped. Those few videotaped minutes would make or break a multimillion-dollar case—the kind of high-stakes shakedown she’d never conducted, yet Vanderbilt thought she could pull this off in one shot? Even Meryl Streep needed more than one take to get a scene right.
“I’ll do my best to find evidence in the next few weeks, Charlie, but please remember I’m an investigator, not a miracle worker.”
“A lead investigator,” he said, raising his glass. Whatever confusion or irritation she’d noticed before was gone from his face. He smiled his signature Gekko smile. “On behalf of Vanderbilt Insurance, I’d like to congratulate you on your first promotion, effective immediately, which includes a seven percent raise, more stock options...and I finagled an extra week of annual vacation time, but keep that to yourself.”
“I’m being promoted?”
“That’s what the champagne and the classy restaurant are all about.”
“Really?” she said, feeling embarrassed that she’d wondered if this brunch was a date setup.
“Yes, Frances,” he said. “Typically, other executives would attend, but since you’re working undercover, Vanderbilt is keeping this celebration low-key. By the way, when you join my division as its initial investigator, your title will be Manager of the Special Investigative Unit.”
The food arrived. As the waiter fussed over them—“Another Baby Bellini, mademoiselle?”—she unfurled her napkin into her lap, titles and money and her future swirling in her brain. She took another sip of her Bellini, its carbonation stinging her lips. From thief to investigator to manager? Was this real?
Of course it was. One thing about Charlie, he’d never lied to her. Now it made sense that he’d been handing her tougher cases this past year. He’d been testing her, grooming her to join his team.
He rapped his fingers on the table and leaned forward with a smile. “You need to stop doubting yourself, Frances. You’re perfect—not only for this case, but also for manager of the special investigative unit.”
She took another sip of her Bellini, thinking about that word perfect, something she’d accepted long ago she could never be...unless she faked it.
* * *
BRAXTON SAT IN his Volvo on a side street next to the restaurant Chez Manny, one of those old-time Vegas restaurants that once catered to movie stars, famous singers and the usual assortment of high-living organized-crime types. These days it still had the reputation for great food, but the neighborhood had gone downhill. Run-down apartment buildings, empty lots cluttered with weeds and debris. An elderly man pushed a shopping cart, its wheels clattering over the broken sidewalk, eyeing Braxton as if he might jump out of his Volvo and try to steal the cart.
Not the kind of neighborhood that gave a person the warm fuzzies, but it was safer than a good third of Vegas’s hoods, unfortunately. At least Frances was meeting someone here during the day.
Braxton had been sitting here, wondering who that someone was.
When he’d bumped into her back at the agency parking lot, he’d slipped his cell phone under her driver’s seat. Then, after she’d left, he’d tracked his phone’s location via his online “Find My Phone” software. Not exactly a classy move on his part, but how was a guy supposed to ask out a girl if he didn’t even know her name?
Although that girl might not be too happy learning what he’d done. But if she were furious, he’d try to at least charm her into giving back his cell phone.
In spite of the cold, he’d rolled down his driver’s window, hoping a few stray breezes might freshen the old, musty smell inside the Volvo. A previous owner apparently liked to smoke while driving, because there were lingering scents of stale cigarettes, too. Scents of cooking food wafted his way from Chez Manny...baked chicken and something yeasty-garlicky he imagined to be rolls or calzone or—
Click. Click. Click.
He heard high heels on sidewalk. It was probably her.
He’d parked on the side street so she wouldn’t see him when she walked to her car parked in the lot behind the restaurant. Problem was, he couldn’t see her, either, until she entered the lot. But the clicks of those heels sounded as if she were coming down the walkway from the restaurant’s front door.
He pricked his ears, trying to identify other footsteps with hers. None. Good, she was alone.
Then she entered his line of vision, slim and gray, those hips swaying lightly as she headed to her Benz.
He jumped out of his car, taking care not to slam the door, then jogged across the street.
“Hey, Babe!” he called out, not wanting to scare her by running up too quickly.
She turned, a startled look in her eyes.
He stepped onto the sidewalk, slowing his pace as he crossed into the lot, trying to read her body language, but she stood so stiffly, that was impossible. Moving closer, he tried to catch a hint of her reaction to his surprise appearance and saw, well, surprise.
At least she didn’t appear to be pissed off. Things were looking up.
She carried a paperback-size clutch purse, which she held tightly against her chest. Her gaze narrowed as he approached, those sparkling amethyst eyes clouded by suspicion.
Things weren’t looking so up.
He stopped, held open his hands apologetically. “I, uh, accidentally dropped my phone in your car.”
She tilted her head, flashing an is that so? look.
“So, I, uh...” His throat suddenly felt parched, as if he’d been sucking dirt.
“So you checked your phone-locator GPS program and realized with great surprise that you’d accidentally dropped it in my car.”
Man, she was sharp.
“Something like that.”
She made a noise that said more than most people could in a paragraph, mostly that she knew he’d dropped it on purpose to track her, so stop the bull.
Really sharp.
When up against that kind of smarts, it was time to stop peddling a story and offer the truth.
“You’re right.” He smiled.
She didn’t smile back.
At least she’s still standing here, not getting into her car.
“Okay, I admit it,” he said, adopting a good-natured tone, “I dropped my phone in your car so I could find you. Which I was wrong to do,” he added quickly, “and I’m sorry.”
She released a torrent of breath he could hear ten feet away.
“I don’t like your stalking me.”
“I’m not stalk—”
“Tracking my location with a GPS device, without my consent, is a crime in Nevada.”
“Dumb move to track you, but I didn’t want you to get away.” That sounded bad. “I mean...”
A horn honked.
She looked over and waved at a light blue Porsche 911 that drove down the street. Glass was too tinted to see the driver’s features, but from the size and lack of hair, Braxton guessed it to be a male. A rather well-to-do male based on his choice of vehicle.
As if he cared.
Okay, he did.
He looked back at Frances, who still stood in the same spot, clutching her clutch, staring at him.
Handle this with aplomb. Don’t show you’re jealous over Porsche Guy.
“Who was that?” he asked, trying to sound politely interested.
“What’s it to you?”
He caught an intrigued look in her eyes, or maybe he was hoping for a positive sign that she’d stopped thinking he’d committed any felony class D actions.
“You’re right. It’s none of my business.”
“He’s an associate.”
She’d dropped her edginess, which he took as a sign that she was open to talking more. “Dmitri?”
She hesitated. “No.”
“How many associates do you have?”
An almost-smile curved her lips. “How many women do you talk this way to?”
“Only the ones I like. A lot.”
He gave his head a shake, realizing vagueness wasn’t going to help his cause.
“You,” he clarified. “Only you.”
She swept a strand of hair off her forehead, the shadows leaving her eyes as she relaxed, and this time that almost-smile made it to her lips.
And in that instant, he felt a mysterious kinship with her, a connection that defied words. He just felt it. Sensed the depth of her emotions in those eyes...her wistfulness, dreams, disappointments. And with a yearning that almost hurt, he wanted nothing more than to make this woman happy and satisfied.
To earn her love.
She blinked and the spell was broken.
