by Rickie Blair
Dangerous Benefits
The Ruby Danger Series, Book 2
Rickie Blair
Contents
Copyright
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Other Books by Rickie Blair
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Copyright © 2015 by Rickie Blair. All rights reserved.
Published in Canada in 2015 by Barkley Books.
ISBN: 978-0-9936417-1-8
Cover design by Alex Saskalidis aka 187designz.
The use of any part of this publication reproduced, transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise stored in a retrieval system, without the express written consent of the publisher, is an infringement of the copyright law.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Prologue
Jersey City
Benjamin Levitt shuddered as he stared at the warning on his laptop.
We live in a dangerous world, where crime is an everyday event.
From outside came muffled shouts and the rumble of skateboards, but inside his tiny living room the windows were locked and the air was dry and stuffy. Dust motes floated through the few slivers of light able to penetrate the tightly drawn curtains. Benjamin gnawed on his thumb as he read the next sentences.
Robbery, rape, even murder can happen to you at any time. What about angry gangsters? Or a gang of hoodlums? Will your home’s security deter a gang?
With a shaky finger, he scrolled down to the website’s accompanying checklist. No. 1: Find the weak spots in your security.
That would be his front and back doors, still flimsy despite the unbreakable Plexiglas panels he’d attached over their windows. He nodded at No. 2: Instal steel doors with multi-lock mechanisms.
Benjamin glanced at his padlocked front door. If only he had left Capital Street Management the hell alone. What made him think he could take on Raymond Fulton’s legendary Wall Street company by himself? He had been armed with only his computer, his algorithms, and the memory of his mother urging him to ‘Go get ’em.’ She had always supported his crusades and he owed it to her to carry on.
Wincing, he studied his thumb where his gnaws had drawn a drop of blood. Even when he had finally nailed that Wall Street jackass, no one had believed him. Not his colleagues, not the stock market regulators, not even old Mrs. Murphy next door, who agreed completely with his theories about Princess Diana’s death.
A knock sounded on the front door. Benjamin froze.
He slid his laptop under the sofa’s skirt and walked over to part the curtain covering the window. On the porch stood a small boy with a clipboard. Benjamin cracked open the door to glare at him.
“Who sent you?”
The boy checked his clipboard without looking up.
“The New Courier, like always, Mr. Levitt. You owe eight dollars and seventy-five cents.”
Benjamin narrowed his eyes. The New Courier had had their chance.
“If they want to talk to me, they’ll have to come here themselves.” After slamming the door he stood silently in the hall, arms crossed.
“Mr. Levitt? I’m leaving an envelope by the door. You can mail in your payment if you want.”
Benjamin parted the curtain again to watch the boy cross the street. The Courier was missing out on a big story. He should try the New York Times again. Something flicked at his head and he swept a hand over his hair with a frown. There were flies everywhere this time of year. A second flick tapped his head. Before he could swat it, it turned into a shove that slammed his forehead against the window and held it there, squashing his nose against the plastic. Cold metal prodded his temple.
“Don’t move,” a man said. “I’d hate to cause brain damage, seeing as you’re supposed to be such a clever guy.”
Benjamin’s knees went limp and he struggled to breathe.
“W-w-who are you? Did Fulton send you?”
“Never heard of him.”
“Then who—”
Pain exploded behind his eyes as a blow sent him crashing to the floor. He lay there with his eyes screwed shut, gasping for breath, while objects shattered around him, doors and drawers slammed, and footsteps raced up and down the stairs. His assailant returned and yanked him off the floor, one hand clutching a fistful of shirt and another tangled in his hair, tearing at the roots.
“You’re coming with me,” he said.
A cloth tightened around Benjamin’s head, digging into his eyes, and a rough hand on his shoulder shoved him to the back door.
Chapter One
Manhattan
Hari Bhatt looked up from his lecture on money laundering to see a man with unruly gray hair racing down the auditorium aisle toward him. Before Hari could scramble out of the way, the man rushed the stage, grabbed his ankles, and yanked him off his feet.
“Fraud!” the man screamed, clambering over the footlights and heading for Hari, who had landed on his rear and was trying to regain the breath that had been knocked out of him. “Swindler!”
Hari scuttled backward on his elbows as the overwrought heckler dove for his foot and clasped it to his chest with both hands. A few flailing kicks weren’t enough to dislodge his assailant, but they did free his foot from the shoe and allow him to scramble to his feet. With a garbled cry, his attacker rose to his knees and heaved the footwear at his head. Hari ducked and the black leather dress shoe smacked against the lectern, which toppled with a crash.
A second heckler ran up the steps to the stage, followed by a security guard and the frazzled conference organizer. The second heckler skidded to a stop within inches of Hari’s face and poked a finger into his chest.
“You, sir, are a crook,” he declared.
Hari winced as spit dotted his glasses.<
br />
“That’s enough,” he said, shoving the man’s hand away. “Stop this or—”
“Or what?” His assailant thrust out his chin, glaring through wire-rimmed glasses that skewed sideways on his nose. A shoving match broke out between the first heckler and one of the audience members who were flooding the stage. When the second heckler turned to watch, Hari pivoted on his shoeless foot and scanned for the exit.
“Over here.” A balding man in a gray suit beckoned, holding open a fire exit door. Hari hustled over, turning at the door for a last look. His stomach sank as he watched the milling crowd.
The security guard wrestled the original heckler onto the floor, face down, forcing his arm up in a standard take-down pose.
“Sir, you need to calm down.”
“Leave him alone,” an elderly woman yelled, thwacking the guard with her lecture handouts.
Hari closed the door with a heavy sigh. The infamous Hari Bhatt had turned yet another routine accounting conference into a melee. Would he always be the villain? He turned to face the man in the gray suit, who held up a black dress shoe.
“I believe this is yours?” A smile twitched the corner of his mouth and he extended his other hand. “Mark Weber. I’m a lawyer with Comber & Mitchell.”
Hari shook his hand and took the shoe.
“Thanks.” He pointed to a bench in the hallway. The two men sat and Hari untied his shoe, slipped it on and bent to re-tie it.
“Does this happen at all your lectures?” Weber asked.
“Not all. A few Carvon shareholders think I should be in jail and they show up occasionally.”
“Former shareholders, I think you mean.”
Hari straightened up to wipe the spit off his glasses with a corner of his now-untucked shirt. Replacing his glasses, he launched into his standard heckler response.
“I’m not in jail because I co-operated with the authorities and testified against Antony Carver, the former CEO of Carvon, at his trial for insider trading. I didn’t take any money, but I covered up for Antony longer than I should have.”
Weber nodded. “I knew that.”
“Were you in the audience?”
“Not intentionally. I’m here to request your services on behalf of a client. An import export firm, Global TradeFair, in Jersey City. A whistleblower tipped them off to an internal fraud and they need someone to investigate.”
“Why don’t they do it themselves?”
“They tried, but there were … problems.” Weber pulled a leather card case from his jacket’s inside breast pocket, extracted a card and held it out. “Here’s their number.”
“I haven’t said I’ll take the case yet.”
“I’d owe you one.”
Hari took the card and put it on the bench beside him, stood up and tucked in his shirttails.
“What have they done so far?”
“They set up a committee to find the whistleblower.”
“Before they looked at the books?”
Weber shrugged and gave a dismissive wave.
“You know how people are, always looking for a shortcut.”
“Did they find him, or her?”
“Yes. It was a contract accountant, Benjamin Levitt.”
“Benjamin Levitt?” Hari shook his head. “Oh, no. Forget it.”
“Come on, Hari. I have to wrap this up before the quarter ends. You’d be doing me a big favor.”
“What you mean is everyone else turned you down.”
“Well, that too. But it’s a simple case, it won’t take you long. Just check out the irregularities Levitt found—”
“Ben’s always finding irregularities. Does your client do any business with the government?”
Weber cleared his throat.
“A little.”
“So Ben’s trying to bring a whistleblower lawsuit, as usual. The False Claims Act allows a private citizen to sue any company he or she believes has broken the law with regards to a government contract. It’s called a qui tam action—”
“I know that, but—”
“—and if the government recovers money as a result, the whistleblower gets a generous share. I’ve seen some as high as twenty-five per cent.” The fire exit door opened and Hari jerked his head around with a frown, his muscles tensing.
A portly man in a blue suit and wrinkled shirt stepped through the door. He walked up to them, waving a clipboard and puffing.
“Hari, there you are. Everything’s settled down now, so if you’re willing to come back…”
“I’ll be right there.” Hari turned to Weber. “I’m sorry, I don’t think—”
The lawyer interrupted him with a sharp wave of his hand.
“There’s more. Levitt was concerned about his safety—”
“Ben’s always been paranoid.”
“—and now he’s missing. Global TradeFair hasn’t been able to contact him for days. Levitt’s voice mail is full, he’s not responding to emails or texts, and his next-door neighbor says he’s not at home.”
Hari’s scalp prickled.
“That’s odd.”
“They thought so, too.”
“Doesn’t he have a sister—”
“She doesn’t know where he is, either. Look, I know Levitt’s reputation, but he’s a good accountant. He could be on to something. He only wants to do the right thing. Isn’t that what you try to do?”
Hari pursed his lips and decided to ignore the implication.
“C’mon, Hari. I know you need the work.”
“Says who?”
“I did my due diligence. Starting a business that relies on trust, with two principals as notorious as you and your partner, that takes balls. But Wall Street isn’t beating a path to your door.”
“We’re just starting out. Things will pick up.”
“Of course. My wife and I are big fans of your partner, by the way. Ruby Danger? My wife’s been nagging me to take her to that play she’s in.”
“It’s Delaney, not Danger. That was something the tabloids dreamed up.”
“Well, you would know, the two of you being a couple and all.” Weber waggled his eyebrows.
Hari looked away.
“We’re not a couple.”
“No?” Weber looked disappointed. “I thought I read that somewhere.”
Hari pulled out his card case, slid the business card into it and extracted one of his own. He glanced at it.
Bhatt & Delaney.
Forensic accounting.
Fraud investigations.
Maybe they should add another line.
Not a couple.
He handed the card to Weber.
“I’ll call them. But I’m not promising to take the case.” Hari shook his head as he walked back into the conference hall. Benjamin Levitt. God help us.
Chapter Two
“The observed of all observers, quite, quite down! And I, of ladies most deject and wretched—”
“You don’t look wretched. You look like you have indigestion.”
Ruby Delaney glared at her acting coach, cleared her throat and continued.
“—now see that noble and most sovereign reason. Like sweet bells jangled, out of tune and blah-blah-blah. Oh woe is me, t’have seen what I have seen, see what I see!”
Silence.
“Well, as Ophelia, you make a passable Marge Simpson.”
Ruby collapsed onto her mentor’s shawl-draped sofa, pulled one of the paisley wraps over herself, and stared at the pressed tin ceiling.
“Natalia, why are we still hammering away on Ophelia’s soliloquy?”
“I suppose you’d prefer something from Osage County?”
Ruby flung the shawl to one side and sat up straight.
“Yes! Let’s do that!”
Natalia Wolff pressed a hand to her throat and tightened her lips.
“My dear girl, there is no better workout for an actor than Shakespeare.” She plucked a shawl from the sofa, tossed it over one shoulder and gracef
ully extended an age-spotted hand laden with gold and silver rings.
“Speak the speech, I pray you, as I pronounced it to you, trippingly on the tongue—”
Ruby smiled and picked up the line.
“—but if you mouth it, as many of your players do, I had as lief the town crier spoke my lines. It offends me to hear a robustious periwig-pated fellow…”
Ruby clasped a hand over her mouth, trying not to giggle. Natalia glared at her over her crystal-encrusted glasses.
“Oh, don’t scowl, Natalia. ‘A robustious periwig-pated fellow’? Really?” Ruby stretched a hand toward the window. “Look, anon! What flies so robustiously through the air? Could it be a periwig-pated fellow-bird, come to mock us?” She made a face. “No wonder Ophelia drowned herself.”
Natalia shook a finger at her.
“So now you want to re-write Shakespeare?”
Ruby drummed her feet on the floor, smiling broadly.
“You know I’m joking. I’d love to play Ophelia, of course I would. But the closest I’ll ever get to Hamlet’s Mousetrap Play is the one I’m in right now. And it’s stunt casting at best. ‘Come see the notorious Ruby Danger! Can she stay sober for two entire acts? Six performances a week!’” She lowered her voice to a mock baritone. “‘Good tickets still available.’”
“People love The Mousetrap. It’s been continuously performed—”
“For over sixty years, I know,” Ruby interrupted.
“—and it’s an honor to be part of it. I don’t know what’s gotten into you today.”
“I’m sorry.” Ruby picked at the shawl’s fringe, separating the strands with her fingers. She sighed, remembering her once promising career. No point dwelling on the past, especially not today.
Natalia took off her own shawl, flung it over the sofa and smoothed out the folds.
“If this is a waste of time,” she said stiffly, without looking up, “perhaps we shouldn’t meet every Saturday.”
Ruby jumped up, wrapped her arms around Natalia and rested her head on her shoulder, inhaling the comforting fragrance of sandalwood, herbs, and face powder.
“You are the best acting coach ever,” she whispered. “I’m so sorry.”
