by G. K. Parks
“He probably thinks he was the subject of Billy Squier’s song.”
“Probably.”
“What do you think?”
“Cross wants to create a line of tactical wear. When I got shot, he actually used that as a way to broach the subject with Martin about taking on a joint endeavor, and that was before he knew we were dating. Just imagine what he’d do now.”
Mark frowned, closing the container and putting it back on the table. My words made him lose his appetite. “Before you do anything, you need to find out what’s what with your boss. And you need to make it clear that any chance he has at a partnership with Martin will disappear if anything were to happen to you.”
“You think he’d stage an accident or attack?” The cold chill traveled down my spine. Until now, I hadn’t really considered it, even though I confronted Kellan with that possibility earlier this afternoon. But that was me just lashing out and being bitchy.
“That’s the problem, Alex. We have no idea what he’s capable of.” Mark began cleaning up. “You need to take control of the situation. He needs your connection to Martin. I suggest you use that to your advantage.”
“Except, he’s livid that Martin and I are dating. I might have lost my leverage.”
“Find a way to reclaim it.” He looked at the closed bedroom door. “Or have Marty take care of it.” I opened my mouth to voice my obvious annoyance with that idea, but Mark held up a hand. “I know you hate it when other people fight your battles. But this isn’t just your fight. It’s his too. And I’ll tell you what I always do; the most important thing is that you stay safe. Understood?”
“Yeah, okay.”
“Contact Noah in the morning and play it by ear. Don’t be too easy or too stubborn. And let me know when and where you’re meeting. Someone needs to know what the situation is in case things go sideways or if that asshole with the knife shows up again.” He gave me a look. “It looks like you’re operating on your own again.”
“Just the way I like it.”
“Yeah, as if that isn’t asking for trouble.”
Sixteen
Noah wanted to meet for dinner to discuss my financial situation and options. He was smooth, selecting a public place. He didn’t want to spook me. He explained it was best not to meet at his office until he was sure he could assist me. The way he saw it, there was no reason I should pay for his time if it turned out I couldn’t use his services. This was meant to make him more endearing and convince me he wasn’t out for the money or to rip me off. However, I couldn’t help but wonder if he was still searching for new office space.
I looked up the physical address for R&P. The website and the business cards he gave me only provided a mailbox address. To someone not looking too hard, the address looked just like any other street address. It was only upon closer examination that it became apparent it linked to a mailbox rental. Although, I was sure, if I asked him about it, he would have a logical reason for it, but I had no plans to confront him. He needed to believe that I trusted him.
When I arrived a few minutes late to dinner, he was already seated at a table. He stood, coming around to pull out my chair. “Was it presumptuous to order a bottle of wine?” he asked, returning to his seat.
“I thought this was strictly business. I am a married woman,” I tossed him a friendly smile, “which is reason enough to drink.”
The waiter returned with a bottle of white, holding it out to Noah, who nodded. After some was poured into a glass, Noah picked it up, swirling it around before taking a quick sniff and a small sip. “That will be fine,” he said, waiting for the waiter to fill both glasses and leave the menus.
“Expensive wine,” I mused.
Noah remained transfixed by the menu. “Don’t worry. I have an expense account.” After what felt like five minutes of total silence, he closed the menu and placed it on the edge of the table. “Did you bring the materials I requested?”
Slowly, I closed my menu, as if selecting an entrée was just as important as stealing my husband’s millions, and reached for the bag at my feet. “Are you sure you wouldn’t prefer to do this somewhere else?”
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Scott. If you feel this is inappropriate or if I’m making you uncomfortable in any way, we will continue this meeting elsewhere.” He held up a hand for the waiter, probably to pay for the wine.
“No,” I reached across and placed my palm against his forearm, “I didn’t mean to be rude. I just figured you had somewhere else to be tonight.”
“I’m married to my job, Mrs. Scott. Most nights, I eat dinner at my desk or on the way to meet a client. This is a nice change of pace.” He met my eyes. “You said you were free, but if I’m keeping you from other plans, we’ll make this brief.”
I picked at the corner of the menu, letting my eyes drop. “No plans. Our home is outside the city, but with the gallery showing coming up, I’ve been staying here to work and paint. Truthfully, I don’t have much reason to go home.” I reached for my glass of wine, staring daggers into the abyss. “Conrad is using the house to entertain, and the hotel where I’m staying is far from cozy.” I took a sip, letting the bitterness eke out of my eyes. “We haven’t been happy for quite some time. I should have realized when I turned thirty that he would still want to be with a twenty-something.”
“Is it really that bad?”
I brushed my hair back. “I shouldn’t complain.” Absently, I played with the rings on my finger. “I knew what I was getting into.”
Noah finished his assessment just as the waiter brought our dinner. He reached for his silverware, slicing his grilled chicken into thin pieces. I hadn’t made a move toward my plate, and he watched as I carefully placed the cloth napkin on my lap and took another sip of wine.
“Based on what you brought, it appears you have liquid assets that could be redistributed, but your husband does not.” He popped a piece of meat into his mouth and chewed, waiting for me to pick up my fork and take a bite before he continued. “Most of Conrad’s wealth is tied up in investments. Real estate, stocks, property. The usual things. Your resources are more common. Bank accounts, jewelry, things of that nature.” He took another sip of wine. “Off the record, how much are you hoping to retain? Most jurisdictions favor a fifty-fifty split.”
“As I said before, we have a prenup. I’ll be lucky to walk away with the clothes on my back.” I narrowed my eyes. “Let’s not get into the nasty business of divorce. I don’t want to think about that tonight.”
“Unfortunately, Mrs. Scott, you have limited options. In good conscience, I can’t suggest or condone you taking or hiding what isn’t necessarily yours. Even though, the entire situation seems rather unfair.”
“It’s Alex,” I corrected. “Mrs. Scott makes it sound like I belong to him. I am not his property.”
Noah leaned in closer. “Okay, Alex.” His eyes shifted back and forth, as if making sure no one was eavesdropping. “On the bright side, at this moment in time, you are entitled to all jointly held assets. That includes the house where you live, the gallery, your joint bank accounts, stocks, et cetera. I don’t see any reason why you couldn’t move some things around, assuming you have the authorization to do so. Maybe you should go on a spending spree.” He popped another piece of chicken into his mouth and flipped through the pages again. “Your bank account looks like fair game, as does your control of how business is conducted at the gallery.”
“What exactly should I do?”
“I shouldn’t say anything. This could get me in trouble.” He sat up straight, finishing his wine and refilling both of our glasses. “You probably should seek legal counsel.”
“Please,” I reached for his hand, “his lawyers will eat mine for breakfast. What can I do?”
He took another gulp of wine. I knew the act. He wanted to appear to be an upstanding guy who followed the rules, but since he was sympathetic to my plight, he was torn. The conversation had invoked a moral dilemma. Should he help the damsel in di
stress or stick to his principles? His expression and mannerisms were convincing. Too bad he wasn’t part of SAG; at least then he might have gotten some type of award.
“I really shouldn’t get involved. It’s not my place. R&P focuses on alternative investment options. I don’t think we can help you.”
My face fell. “I understand. I’m sorry I wasted your time.” I braced my hands on the edge of the table and pushed my chair backward, but Noah grabbed my hand before I could stand.
“Wait,” his golden brown eyes held a shimmer of hope, “don’t go. You have to stay for dessert. I reserved the chocolate souffle, and if you leave before it arrives, I’ll be stuck eating both of them. I’m not sure my arteries can handle it.”
I gave him a completely bewildered and confused look. This was part of his game. He should have been a car dealer. They tried the same tactics except they used the old schtick of let me see if my manager can give you a better deal rather than the bribe of a chocolate souffle. But it was the same con. Noah’s was just dressed nicer.
For the rest of the meal, we spoke on unrelated topics. Noah wanted to find out what made Alexandra Scott tick, so he asked about my passion for art. He wanted to know what it was like living in Europe for eighteen months, if I’d been to the Louvre, the National Gallery, the Guggenheim, the Musee d’Orsay, and the Vatican Museums, and who my favorite artist was. He’d done his research. I never mentioned those details during our first meeting, but I played the part, happy to talk about something Alexandra Scott loved. This might have been the first time someone paid attention since Conrad turned cold and elusive. And Noah took advantage.
When the chocolate souffles arrived in individual ramekins, Noah ordered a dessert wine. We finished the bottle of white and moved on to a Banyuls, which paired well with anything chocolate, at least according to Martin and several well-known sommeliers. Noah must have done his research on that too or spoke to the waiter before I arrived. Either way, he wanted to impress me with his refinement and knowledge. He also wanted to consume enough alcohol to make me think he was struggling with his decision to help me find ways to hide Conrad’s assets before the divorce proceedings.
“That was fantastic. I’m glad you convinced me to stick around.” I blotted my lips with the napkin.
Out of the blue, he said, “I have a sister, and I can’t help but think if she was in the position you’re in, I would want someone to do something to help her.” He sighed heavily. “We all make mistakes when we’re young and in love. And in this day in age, it isn’t wrong to want to find someone who can take care of you. It’s not right that Conrad can just pull the rug out from under your feet because he feels like it. You’ve spent six years with him. It’s not right,” he said again. “Listen,” he reached into his wallet and pulled out a stack of bills, leaving enough to cover our meal plus a hefty gratuity, “I have an idea, but it could get me in a lot of trouble.”
“I don’t want that to happen.” I eyed the cash. He wanted me to know he was generous and rich. For a moment, I considered asking about the expense account but figured he’d say he’d get reimbursed when he turned in the receipt. “You’re such a nice man. Maybe if you just point me in the right direction, I can figure it out on my own.”
“No, it’s okay. Just don’t tell my boss I told you this.” He leaned forward again as if sharing a secret. “An artist is showing at your gallery, right?”
“Soon.”
“Right, and those pieces should sell exceptionally well. How much do you expect to make?”
“We only get a small percentage. The artist actually makes the money.”
“I know, but how much do you think he’ll make?”
I pretended to do some quick calculations in my head. “Assuming most of it sells, probably close to seven hundred and fifty.”
“Thousand?” Noah asked.
“Give or take.”
He licked his lips, and I could practically see the dollar signs floating in front of his eyeballs. “How do you normally handle payment? Do you get paid? Or does the money go directly to the artist?”
“We handle the deliveries, so we take payment upon delivery, deduct our cut and expenses, and write the artist a check.”
“From a joint account?”
“From the gallery’s business account.”
Noah flipped through the pages again. “What I’m suggesting is you have Conrad’s business manager or accountant pay the artist from some other source. You can say there’s been a mix-up or a hold put on the checks. It doesn’t matter, just get it done. That way, no one is losing out, except the bastard you married.”
I snickered. “That’s a lovely thought, but he’ll kill me.”
“Serve him with papers before he can kill you.”
“But he owns the gallery. His name is also on the business account. How is this going to help me?”
“You’re not going to deposit the checks into that account. Instead, you’ll transfer them into something Conrad can’t touch. Something untraceable. Maybe an overseas account or cryptocurrency. Something that he’ll never know about or be able to find. Whatever you choose, it has to be something he can’t track.”
“I don’t know,” I sounded hesitant. “Isn’t that like embezzlement?”
“Not exactly. As long as the artist gets paid and the customers receive their art, no one gets hurt.” Noah shook his head as if dismissing the thought. “Never mind, you probably stand to make more in your divorce settlement.”
“You and I both know that isn’t true. Honestly, $750,000 is just a drop in the bucket for a man like Conrad. I don’t know. I feel like I should be entitled to something. I don’t want much, just a little something to fall back on so I can start fresh somewhere else.” I flopped back in my chair, as if overwhelmed by the possibility. “Wow. This could really happen.”
“It’s up to you.” Noah glanced at his watch. “But it gives you something to think about.”
“Conrad knows people in all sorts of banks. I’d be afraid his banker friends would figure out I opened a new account.”
“Like I said, there are alternative options.”
“But I don’t know anything about cryptocurrency.”
He thought for a moment. “Actually, I might have some additional information on it in my car. Why don’t we go check before we call it a night?”
“Noah,” I pressed my lips together tightly, hoping to fake a slight chin quiver, “thank you.”
“I haven’t done anything yet.” He offered me his arm and led the way to his car.
It was the same vehicle he had driven to the gallery. He leased the black, luxury sedan from a local dealership. I happened to notice the agreement as he dug through an attaché case for additional details on cryptocurrency. While he was occupied, I circled the car, making a mental note of the plate.
“Here it is.” He held out the same pamphlet he’d given me the last time we met.
“Unless that’s written in a different language, I don’t think I’m going to understand this one any better than the last one.”
“Oh,” he looked sheepish, “sorry about that. It can be complicated. It’s an entirely different monetary system. It isn’t backed by any one country, so it’s protected from things like stock market crashes and economic downturns. A government collapse would probably wipe out the banking system, but this would be safe.” He grabbed a pen and scribbled a number on the pamphlet. “That’s my personal cell. Why don’t you look this over and think about it? If you have any questions, call me. Since my bosses wouldn’t be happy with the advice I’m giving you, it’d probably be best if we discuss these things away from the office. Is that okay?”
“Sure. The last thing I want is to get you in trouble. Are you sure you want to help with this? I can probably find stuff on the internet.”
He rolled his eyes. “The internet’s full of scam artists and trolls.”
Takes one to know one. “All right. Let me think about it.”
“Oh, wait. I actually have just the thing.” He opened the back door and pulled out a beginner’s guide to cryptocurrency. “This should help.”
I flipped through the pages. “Looks like I know what I’ll be doing tonight.”
“I’m busy the next couple of days, but if you want to move ahead with this plan, I’ll be around this weekend.”
“Thanks.” I gave him a friendly hug and turned to leave.
“Can I give you a ride?”
“That’s okay. My hotel isn’t far.” I pointed to a tall building a block away. Cross made sure the hotel’s computer had a room reservation in Alexandra Scott’s name that began three weeks ago and ran until after the alleged art opening. “Oh, and Noah, thanks for dinner. I was getting really sick of eating alone.”
“You’re welcome.”
He waited until I was out of sight before driving away. Even though I felt confident he trusted me, he was careful. He didn’t want to risk being followed. I repeated his license plate number a few times on my walk to the hotel parking garage where my car was actually parked. When I got inside, I wrote it down on the notepad in my purse, glanced around, and drove to the office, keeping one eye on my mirrors to make sure I wasn’t tailed.
The plate was the same, and I ran it again and identified the dealership where he leased the vehicle. They must have done a credit check, so they should have a home address. I knew the info on his driver’s license was bogus, but surely, he’d have to hand over legitimate information to someone at some point. I just had to find the right someone. Leaving the computer search running, I took a deep breath and headed upstairs.
I knocked against Cross’s door. His assistant told me he was inside, but he didn’t pick up the phone to notify Cross of my impending arrival.
“Enter,” Cross called. He looked up from the paperwork. “Alex, how did it go?”
“Perfectly.”
“Good.” He didn’t stop what he was doing. “We still have the matter of James Martin to discuss.”
“My personal life is none of your business.”
