Читать книгу The Book Of Schemes - Marcus Calvert - Страница 9

It took me a while to stop crying. Miles Yarlbrough had just left my office with his hat in hand (and $10,000 richer). The P.I. truly earned the hefty check. Scanning the stack of photos, typed transcripts, and a loaded flash drive on my desk – I had all the proof I needed that my husband was sleeping around. The bastard was banging some Yale grad student on the side … and a call girl in New York … and a Japanese stewardess … the list just went on and on!

I should’ve been happier. After all, I was a gold digger (in the technical sense). Andre D’Armane’s personal net worth was at $459 million dollars, as of last week’s financials. By all rights, I could gut him in court. And, for good measure, I could see to it that photos of his “sexcapades” ended up all over the news, just to add insult to injury. After all, the only thing my “loving” husband loved more than his wealth and good looks was his sterling reputation. Strangely enough, the press hadn’t bothered to dig into the D’Armane family’s background.

The D’Armanes made their fortune smuggling drugs out of Quebec. During our wedding, Andre’s older brother Bernard threatened to kill me if I ever broke his little brother’s heart. When I mentioned the scary asshole’s threat, some weeks later, Andre confided in me that I had indeed “married into the mob.” Yet, he assured me that he had absolutely nothing to do with the family business. I remembered how Andre kissed me with those perfect lips and promised to protect me.

I believed him.

Well, the funny thing here was Andre ended up breaking my heart. While I did marry him for the money, I actually fell in love with that piece of shit over our four years of marriage. Andre didn’t treat me like a trophy wife. Rather, he helped me transition from over-the-hill runway model to entrepreneur to the point where he loaned (versus gave) me the startup money for my own modeling agency … a fantasy I had all but given up on.

Even when I had access to his millions, I figured that I’d simply be good “arm candy” and push out a few babies. But Andre wouldn’t let me abandon my lifelong dream. He stole time from his own interests to help me set mine up. I actually repaid the loan and turned my agency into a profitable enterprise. That’s when I realized that I loved him. Anyone who’d do that for a silly, aging blonde from Toledo was just –

I succumbed to my grief and freely sobbed.

Afterward, I picked up the flash drive and slowly rotated it between my right index finger and thumb. Maybe I should forgive him. Andre had been so good to me. Better than I had deserved …

I slipped the drive into my computer. Through photo after photo, betrayal after betrayal, my grief flew away. No wonder Andre was so good in bed. He had more women than JFK! And he was seeing them right under my nose. Were it not for some strange late-night calls made to our home, I never would’ve known. When I called Yarlbrough, I suspected that Andre might’ve been in danger.

The last straw was the footage of him banging my therapist on her couch.

My blood felt like fire and I grabbed some tissue, dried my tears, and collected my thoughts. Leaning back in the ergonomic office chair, I grabbed an empty notepad and picked up a pen. I scribbled a note to fire my therapist. I also added a reminder to get myself tested. For all I knew, Andre had given me something incurable.

Next, I made a note to send Yarlbrough a bonus check for $50,000 for providing such damning evidence. Then, I scribbled Alvin Normenstein’s name down. The sly old lawyer was the preferred choice among my social circle. He loved taking divorce cases to court (where he rarely lost). These spirited, cathartic notes helped calm me down. That’s when my cell phone vibrated along the surface of my antique oak writing desk.

The Caller ID read “Andre.”

Now wasn’t the time for confrontation. I needed to create my plan and take him by surprise. Frankly, the sly bastard might weasel out of his just desserts if I tipped my hand. I bit back my rage and answered the phone with my sweetest voice.

“Hi sweetheart,” I said, as a sugary voice crept through the scowl on my face.

“I need to speak to Helen D’Armane,” a gravelly male voice declared.

I frowned and wondered who this idiot was. Of course it was “me.” This was my cell phone.

“Speaking,” I said, leaning back into my chair as it made an audible creak. “Who is this?”

“I’m the man in charge,” he said with an abundance of melodrama. “We’ve got your husband, Mrs. D’Armane.”

I paused for a moment.

“Come again?”

“We’ve taken your husband. And if you don’t want this frog bastard chopped up like … like uh … like uh…”

“Like celery?” I offered, fairly certain that this was some kind of sick, stupid joke.

“Yeah! Celery! If you want your hubby back, alive, you’ll pay us $50 million in –”

I didn’t hear the rest because I was laughing so hard that I dropped the phone. I cracked up until more tears – of mirth – came out of my eyes. I had to give this prankster a hug if ever I saw him. The way this day was going, a good cleansing laugh was just what I needed.

I picked up the cell phone.

“This is for real, lady!” the “kidnapper” shouted.

“You’re saying that you kidnapped my husband?”

“Yes!” The kidnapper yelled in exasperation. “And you’ll need a bunch of tiny coffins for him if we don’t get $50 million in six hours.”

I glanced at my watch and noted the time, fine with playing out this silly prank a bit longer.

“It’s five o’clock p.m. on a Wednesday,” I cleverly replied. “The banks are all closed.”

There was a pause on the other end.

“Uh … make that six hours after the banks open tomorrow then.”

“And how do I know that he’s alive?”

“Your husband?”

“Yes,” I bit back an insult and sighed. “How do I know he’s not already in pieces?”

“I’m calling you on his cell phone, right?” the kidnapper argued.

“Doesn’t mean he’s alive,” I leaned back in my chair and fantasized about Andre really being kidnapped and killed somehow.

“Good point,” the kidnapper admitted. “Hold on.”

“Okay,” I muttered.

As I waited, I wondered how these pranksters got their hands on Andre’s cell phone. While he had a sense of humor, he wasn’t one for pranks …

Then it dawned on me – this was not a joke.

Andre was in trouble. And, for a moment, a part of me wanted to help him. But then I glanced back at computer, grabbed the mouse, and clicked through the digital photos from earlier. I stopped at one where Andre and a pair of slutty blondes were playing a naked round of “Twister” … on our bed.

That moment of concern passed. I let my mind wander over the possibilities as the minutes went by. My arm started to get tired when I heard a rustling sound on the telephone.

“Helen?!” Andre’s voice addressed me from the other end. “Helen! It’s me!”

“Are you all right?” I asked, my voice full of well-faked concern.

“Just a little banged up, my love,” he replied, his perfectly sexy phone voice edged with fear. “They want the money by 3pm tomorrow, in untraceable diamonds … or they’ll kill me.”

I bit back a giggle, relieved that I didn’t have to keep a straight face. $50 million in diamonds? While we were in New York, that was a pretty damned tall order.

“Where?”

“They’ll call you at noon with the details. And no police, my love. Be prepared to deliver it alone.”

Like hell I will!

“Of course,” I lied. “I love you.”

“And I love you –”

The phone was pulled away from him.

“There! He’s alive! Now, do what he says and you’ll get your loving husband back tomorrow. Do you understand?!”

“I understand,” I replied as I fought back the giggles.

“And no police!”

“No police,” I covered my mouth with a hand.

With that, the kidnapper hung up. Then I burst out laughing. This had to be the best day of my life! I reached into my purse and pulled out a quarter. While I’d love nothing more than to sit back and leave my husband to these morons, it might come out that I received a ransom call and did nothing (an unforgiveable sin amongst the wealthy). Worse, the authorities might think I was involved.

So, I readied the quarter for a toss.

Heads: I’d call the NYPD and try to find as much costume jewelry as possible on short notice. Even with their trigger-happy reputation, I’m sure that the cops could probably save my blue blood of a husband and catch his dimwitted kidnappers.

Tails: I’d call Bernard, who’d probably snort something powdery and show up with a bunch of armed thugs. They’d tear this town apart, looking for Andre, and probably get him killed via friendly fire.

To hell with it!

I’ll do both!

And if he somehow survives, I’ll take him for everything he owns.