Dangerous Benefits (The Ruby Danger Series Book 2)

by Rickie Blair

  “From a heart attack, leaving you—”

  “His sole heir.” Ruby nodded. “That’s good.”

  Leta leaned back with her hands on the table.

  “Maybe it’s too good. A story like that would have made the rounds.”

  “What if I’m not local? What if I’m from the Midwest, or the West coast, or somewhere else?”

  Leta snapped her fingers.

  “Seattle. Plenty of money there. Now, your father couldn’t have been in banking or insurance or the stock market because then you would know all about investing and you wouldn’t need Fulton. And it can’t be old money, either, or everyone would have heard of your family.”

  “So we need a self-made man in a mundane industry that doesn’t attract attention but generates solid profits.”

  “Exactly.”

  Ruby drummed her fingers on the table and stared across the room, watching women file in and out of the washroom at the back of the restaurant. She grinned and turned triumphantly to Leta.

  “Bathroom fixtures. High end. They call him … the Ceramics King. It’s on all the company trucks—”

  “With a caricature of him wearing a crown and sitting—”

  “—on the throne!” they said in unison. They laughed until tears fell.

  “Okay, but still,” said Leta, wiping her face with one hand and trying to look solemn, “how will you keep Fulton from recognizing Ruby Delaney? You’re pretty high profile.”

  “Leave that to me. You just get me the appointment.”

  Chapter Forty-One

  Olivia Walters strolled into the fancy Manhattan restaurant, flipped her dyed brown braids over her shoulders and unzipped her heavy Nordic wool sweater. The booths that lined the walls overflowed with soberly suited young men thumbing smartphones, and thin women with full lips and bored expressions. Waiters dressed in black dipped in and out with bottles of wine and platters of salad and pasta, pausing to brush crumbs from the white linen tablecloths.

  “Can I help you?” A young woman in a tight black dress approached, carrying a stack of menus. She pursed blood-red lips and studied the tabloid star standing before her with not a hint of recognition.

  “Yes, thank you. I’m meeting Raymond Fulton.”

  The woman’s expression changed instantly to a broad smile.

  “Of course, Miss Walters. Follow me.”

  As they passed the booths, the women stared at Olivia’s freckled face, her long cotton skirt, and her cowboy boots. She noted with satisfaction that a few even rolled their eyes. A man rose from a table on a dais along the back, grinning, and extended his hand as they approached. His stark-white hair was trimmed in a brush cut that matched his white mustache.

  “Miss Walters. I’m glad you could join me.”

  She shook his hand as the hostess pulled out her chair.

  “Me, too. This place is so cool.” She hung her fringed suede shoulder bag over the pink leather chair and shrugged off her sweater.

  “You must be hot in that. Let me ask the hostess to hang it up for you.” Fulton gave a slight wave and the nearest black-clad woman smiled and reached for Olivia’s sweater.

  Olivia grabbed it, shaking her head.

  “Oh, no. I never check my stuff. I like to keep an eye on it at all times.” She hung her sweater over her chair back before sitting down.

  Fulton nodded at a waiter, who filled their glasses with sparkling mineral water and handed them menus. Fulton laid his on the table, unopened, and turned to Olivia.

  “Perhaps the fish of the day, with a salad?”

  “Oh no. I eat fish so often at home and let’s face it, it’s so much fresher in Seattle.”

  Fulton’s left eyebrow quivered.

  “Of course it is. Edward, we’ll have the pasta.” The waiter nodded, his lips pursed, took their menus and turned to the kitchen. “Wait,” Fulton called after him.

  The waiter turned back. Fulton winked at Olivia.

  “Let’s have a little treat first, shall we, Miss Walters?” He raised a finger. “Edward, bring us some of the beluga.”

  Olivia’s jaw dropped.

  “Whale meat?”

  The waiter’s eyes widened and he cleared his throat. Fulton laughed.

  “No, no, Miss Walters. Caviar.”

  “Yuck!” She wrinkled her nose. “Not for me.” She turned to the waiter. “Do you have any of those nice cheese straws?”

  The waiter stared at her. Fulton turned to him and smiled.

  “Well, do you, Edward?”

  “Sadly, no. But we have poblano-asiago soup shooters with smoked tomato foam. That’s a nice starter.”

  Olivia gave a snort of amusement and the waiter moved off.

  “Honestly,” she said, “you can buy cheese straws in any decent supermarket. You’d think they would have them on the menu, they’re very popular.” Leaning back, she glanced around the room and sighed. “I don’t think this place is going to last long.”

  Fulton’s mouth moved strangely for a moment. Then he leaned closer, his expression grave.

  “Please let me say how sorry I am for your loss. Your father was a remarkable man.”

  Her lower lip trembled and she bent her head.

  “Thank you. We miss him.”

  He reached over and patted her hand.

  “Of course you do.”

  “They called him the Ceramics King in Seattle. He was famous.”

  “My assistant, Leta Vaughn, told me about your father. She said you and he had only recently become acquainted?”

  “That’s right. It’s a very inspirational story. I’m writing a book about it.”

  “Are you really? Good for you.”

  “I’ll let you know when it’s published. You’ll want to buy some copies for your clients.”

  Fulton was doing that thing with his mouth again. The waiter returned with a wine bottle and showed him the label. When Fulton nodded, the waiter filled their glasses and walked away.

  Olivia turned, hooking an arm over the back of her chair, and called after him.

  “Excuse me, waiter? Can I have a diet Coke, please?” He turned and she pointed a finger at him. “And no ice, either.” She twisted around to look at Fulton. “I hate when they fill it up with ice,” she said in a loud stage whisper, “it waters it down.”

  Fulton gave her a tight smile, sliding his wine glass to one side.

  “Miss Vaughn said you need our investment expertise?”

  “Yeah, that’s right.” Olivia sat up straight. “My dad left me a lot of money. I’d like most of it to go to charity, stuff for kids, you know. And maybe environmental causes like, I don’t know, Greenpeace? But in the meantime I guess somebody should look after it. And when I met Leta and she told me about you I thought, hey, maybe that’s the way to go.”

  “How much money are we talking about?”

  “I don’t exactly know, to be honest. I haven’t checked for a while. But somewhere north of fifty million. I spent a little, obviously.” She stuck one foot out from under the table. “How do you like my boots? Real lizard.”

  “They’re very … striking. So, you need someone to look after that money while you decide what to do with it. Certainly leaving it in the bank is not a good idea. Interest rates are terrible at the moment.”

  “Aren’t they, though? I was shocked when the bank told me what they were paying on my account. It doesn’t seem right. So, how do you do it, then? Make all that interest, I mean?”

  “It’s not interest, exactly. It’s return on investment. We have a proprietary trading model that—”

  She waved a hand. “Oh, I don’t understand any of that. Word of mouth. That’s the thing.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “My dad made all his money through word of mouth. Customers recommended his company to other people and they recommended it to other people, and so on.” She nodded vigorously. “Word of mouth. That’s the thing.”

  “So you want to talk to some of our other cu
stomers?”

  “Well, sure, but you’d have to set that up because I don’t know any of them, obviously. Nobody in Seattle has even heard of you.”

  He pursed his lips. “Really?”

  “Yeah, nobody.” She looked up as the waiter placed a diet Coke in front of her. “Can I have a straw, please?” Wordlessly, he stepped into the kitchen and returned a few moments later with a paper-wrapped plastic straw. He stepped away again and returned with two plates of linguine alle noci, placing them on the table.

  “Pecorino?” he asked, brandishing a cheese grater.

  Olivia tilted her head. “Is that the same as Parmesan?”

  “Our pecorino is imported from Italy and made from sheep’s milk.”

  “Oh. I don’t think so, thanks.” She waved him away, twirled her fork in the linguine and chewed thoughtfully. “This is really good.” She pointed at her plate. “Are those walnuts?”

  “I certainly hope so,” Fulton said.

  She ate silently for a few minutes before glancing at his untouched plate.

  “Not hungry?”

  He shrugged, smiled thinly, and picked up his wine glass.

  “You should get a doggy bag.” Olivia scraped her spoon across the plate to scoop up the last of the pasta, then picked up her soft drink and stuck the straw in her mouth.

  Fulton studied her a moment before speaking.

  “Miss Walters. My wife and I are entertaining guests at our summer place in Southhampton this weekend. We do it every year for Memorial Day. Several are long-time Castlebar Fund clients. Perhaps you’d like to join us? You could solicit your word-of-mouth recommendations.”

  She released the straw, smacked her lips, and put down her glass.

  “Well, I don’t know. I don’t want to be a nuisance.”

  “I insist. We’d be delighted to have you.” He pulled out a silver card case, extracted a card, and placed it on the table. “Call my executive assistant and she’ll tell you where to board our company helicopter. You can join us tomorrow.” He gestured the waiter over. “Please see that Miss Walters has everything she wants.” Fulton turned to her and winked. “Make sure Edward shows you the dessert cart. I think you’ll find it amusing.” He rose to his feet and held out a hand. “Until tomorrow?”

  She shook his hand without getting up.

  “Does anybody ever say no to you?”

  “Never.” He grinned and walked out.

  Olivia’s lips twitched into a small smile as she watched him leave. Phase one accomplished. She pushed her plate away and turned to Edward.

  “Do you have any cheesecake on that dessert cart?”

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Raymond Fulton stood with his hands behind his back and stared at the building across from his office at Capital Street Management, trying to remember the last time everything was under control. Crunching on an antacid tablet, he mentally totaled the pending withdrawal requests for the Castlebar Fund. No matter how he massaged the numbers, it came to more than one hundred million dollars.

  At least seventy-five million more than they had.

  Fulton frowned at his reflection in the window. Usually he ignored the sagging chin, the receding hairline, and the wrinkles. He had always believed his aging face projected the maturity, the gravitas, required of a money manager to whom people would entrust their life’s savings. But today he simply looked old and tired. He remembered Jourdain’s words.

  When does it end? Must we do this forever?

  He sighed. The answer, mon ami, is that it doesn’t end, because it can’t. Damage control, not self-pity, was the answer. They simply needed to find a new source of funds. He had one fish on the hook, and maybe this weekend he could reel her in. Fulton swallowed the shards of the antacid tablet. Why must he do everything himself?

  There was a double tap on the door and Irene entered, followed by Terrell Oakes. Fulton nodded at Irene in the glass, then returned his gaze to the offices across the street. Irene stepped out, closing the door behind her.

  “Did you deal with Keller?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And?”

  “There was a complication.”

  “What do you mean by a—” Fulton turned and his jaw dropped. Instead of his usual track pants and hoodie, Oakes wore a pinstriped suit, black shirt, and white tie. He looked like a cartoon-image Mafioso, except for his stupid baseball cap. What would it take to get that off his head? An act of God?

  “What the hell are you wearing?”

  Oakes spread his hands and looked at his suit.

  “Nice, huh? I thought now I’m on the way up I should dress more appropriate-like. More like you.” He looked up. “So when I’m working in the office…” He trailed off at Fulton’s scowl.

  “You look ridiculous.”

  Oakes’ face fell. “What’s wrong with it?”

  “And who said you’d be working in the office?” Fulton snorted. “That won’t be happening, I assure you.”

  “Whad’ya mean?”

  “I mean, you won’t be working in the office. Not now, not ever.”

  “But you said—”

  “What complication?” Fulton broke in. “There better not be any goddamned complications. I told you to scare Keller and escort him out of town. That was a week ago. He hasn’t been back, so what’s the problem?”

  Oakes glowered at him a moment before replying.

  “I did like you told me. It’s not my fault Keller was a dick.”

  “Was?” Fulton stared at him.

  “I told you. There was a complication.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  Fury seared his chest as Oakes told him about Keller. Fulton walked over and poked his chest.

  “You. Stupid. Idiot. That’s not what I told you to do. Can’t you do anything—”

  A rough hand gripped Fulton’s neck so tightly he couldn’t breathe. Oakes’s eyes glittered inches from his face.

  “Don’t speak to me like that, old man. Ever.” He tightened his grip. “Are we clear?”

  Fulton tried to answer, but managed only a gurgle. He nodded, barely. Black spots clouded his vision, his knees went limp, and his lungs threatened to explode.

  The pressure on his neck eased abruptly and he stumbled forward, choking. He grabbed a corner of his desk and leaned over, gasping. Rubbing his neck with one hand, he glared up at Oakes.

  Oakes shrugged, walked to the conference area and sank into an armchair. He put his feet up on the coffee table.

  “I want another payment. Today.” He took off his baseball cap and scratched his head.

  Fulton stared. Oakes’s formerly ragged hair had been sheared into a brush cut identical to his own. Fulton exhaled, closed his eyes and counted to ten. Then he straightened up and strolled behind his desk.

  “How much do you need?”

  “Twenty thou. Cash. I can come out to your place in Southampton and get it from that safe in your office if you’d rather.”

  Fulton pressed a finger against his left eyebrow to stop it from quivering, then opened his desk drawer, took out a pad and scribbled on it. He ripped off the top sheet, walked over and handed it to Oakes.

  “That won’t be necessary. Give this to Irene and she’ll see that you get your money.”

  Oakes took the paper without comment, slipped it under the inner band of his baseball cap and replaced the cap on his head.

  Fulton walked back to his desk and sat down heavily.

  “Is there anything else?”

  “What do you want me to do with the … you know?”

  “Are you telling me it’s still—”

  “Yeah. And I can’t leave it where it is for much longer.”

  “Don’t say that out loud.”

  “Why?”

  “Listen to me. I had nothing to do with this. Nothing. Whatever you’ve done, I don’t want to know. You take that … problem and you deal with it yourself.” He glared at him.

  Oakes glowered back, then got
to his feet and ambled to the door.

  “Yeah, okay, I’ll deal with it.”

  “And don’t come back here.”

  Oakes opened the door and walked out.

  Fulton leaned his head back and looked at the ceiling. With a shaking hand, he opened his desk drawer, pulled out the bottle of antacid tablets, and opened it. Empty. He threw the plastic bottle across the room where it hit the wall, bounced off the bureau, and fell onto the floor.

  He stared at the bottle and thought about giving up. Just leave his office, make an announcement to the staff, go home, and wait for the inevitable. No more pressure, no more damage control, no more problems. Fulton lifted his head and snapped on the intercom.

  “Irene, come in here.”

  She entered with a notepad and pen.

  “Close the door and sit down.”

  Irene sat with her open notepad on her lap, raised her pen and looked at him.

  “What do we know about the investigation into Jourdain’s death?” he asked. “Did they find anything in his office?”

  “I’m not sure I know what you mean. Find what?”

  “Did he leave a note? Details of his recent deals? Anything?”

  “Nina found a letter, sealed, and addressed to Thérèse. Nothing else.”

  “Nothing on his computer? No last minute emails?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “Do we have those old documents he kept at home?”

  “Yes. Madame gave them to Leta. Although…” Irene tugged on her ear and looked away.

  “What?”

  “Well … to be honest, I don’t know why we’re bothering Madame. She’s still in shock and it seems—”

  “Intrusive?”

  “Yes. Can’t this wait, at least until after the funeral?”

  He rubbed a hand on his neck, which still throbbed from Oakes’s attack, and glared at her.

  “That’s none of your business—”

  “Excuse me?” She raised her eyebrows.

  Fulton held up a hand.

  “I mean, you don’t need to worry about it. And you’re right as usual. No more calls to Thérèse.” He shot her a forced smile. It was a stupid move to antagonize Irene.