Mystery Writers of America Presents the Rich and the Dead

by Inc. Mystery Writers of America

  Two solid-looking men emerged from alcoves on either side of the elevator doors. They wore loosely fitted suits that Cavanaugh had no doubt concealed firearms. Their shoes were sturdy, presumably with steel caps. Their belt buckles had a design that Cavanaugh recognized, hiding knives.

  “ID,” the man on the right said, curtly adding, “please.”

  While the man on the left stood back a careful distance, Cavanaugh and Jamie complied.

  “Are you armed?” the man on the right asked.

  “Of course,” Jamie answered. “But you already knew that. The elevator has a scanner, doesn’t it?”

  The sentries looked uncertainly at one another.

  “You’ll have to surrender it,” the man on the right said.

  “Don’t think so,” Jamie told him.

  “No one gets in there with a weapon.”

  “I guess word didn’t reach you. We’re on the security team.”

  “Mr. Novak says there’s been a change of plan.”

  “Mr. Novak?” Cavanaugh frowned. “Who’s he? We’re here to see Mr. Dant.”

  “Let them in,” a voice said from a speaker next to the camera above the door.

  “Yes, Mr. Novak.”

  The sentry on the left pressed buttons on a keypad. A lock on the door made a metallic sound as it was released. Cavanaugh opened the door, revealing a spacious room with a magnificent view of the city.

  A tall, well-dressed man was silhouetted against the bright skyline. Cavanaugh took for granted that the wall-to-wall windows were bullet resistant and that the man’s position had been chosen for dramatic effect. Crossing the room, he noted metal and glass furniture with rigid lines that matched those in several modernistic paintings. A rough guess put the value of the room’s contents at ten million dollars.

  The man at the window made his own assessment, shifting his attention between Jamie and Cavanaugh, although it was Jamie he mostly looked at.

  “I’m Ben Novak, Mr. Dant’s security chief.” In his forties, Novak had a thin, stern face and short military-style hair. “I watched a monitor when you met with Mr. Dant yesterday, so I know who you are,” he told Cavanaugh. “But I don’t know who—”

  “Jamie Travers.”

  “Pleased to meet you.” Novak offered his hand.

  When they shook, Novak held Jamie’s hand a moment longer than necessary. “You have calluses on your thumb and your index finger.”

  “That’s awfully personal.”

  “There’s only one way to get calluses like that,” Novak said.

  “Definitely personal.”

  “How many rounds do you shoot a day?”

  “Two hundred,” she replied.

  Novak referred to the calluses that a habitual shooter develops from repeatedly thumbing ammunition into a magazine and pulling a trigger.

  He raised his eyebrows, reluctantly impressed.

  “Good.” Cavanaugh put a thick folder on a glass desk. “Now that we’ve gotten to know each other, here’s our threat assessment. We have an appointment to discuss it with Mr. Dant.”

  “Yes, well, there’s been a development,” Novak said. “Mr. Dant decided you won’t be needed.”

  “Oh?”

  “He asked me to give you this check for your trouble.” Novak indicated an envelope on the desk. “I think you’ll find the amount satisfactory.”

  “It’s hardly satisfactory if he gets himself killed.” Cavanaugh turned quickly, addressing a security camera in the upper left corner. “Mr. Dant, you’re making a mistake.”

  “I’ll escort you to the—”

  “Mr. Dant,” Cavanaugh said more loudly toward the camera. “When we spoke, I told you a man doesn’t acquire your power and wealth by being passive. I guess I was partly wrong. I didn’t realize your management technique was passive-aggressive. Is this how you do business? You don’t have the balls to deal face-to-face with an awkward situation, so you arrange for an employee to take care of it?”

  A door opened. Martin Dant stepped from a room filled with computers, monitors, printers, and other electronic equipment. Men were occupied in front of screens that provided financial statements and stock market information. One of several security displays showed Cavanaugh, Jamie, and Novak.

  Dant wore designer loafers, khaki pants, a blue linen shirt, a gold bracelet on one wrist, and a Patek Philippe watch on the other. He wasn’t tall, but he exuded a power that gave him presence. His silver hair, healthily thick, contrasted with the golden tan that enhanced his television good looks. A square face, distinctive features, penetrating blue eyes. Even the half-dozen scabs from the flying glass that had cut his face reinforced the masculinity he projected.

  His gaze rested on Jamie, then focused on Cavanaugh.

  “If this is a question of ego,” he told Cavanaugh, “remember you haven’t actually been fired. After all, you never really had the opportunity to start the job. Nothing personal. I merely changed my mind.”

  “But we did start the job,” Cavanaugh responded, “and you might as well receive some value for that check you want to give us. We found some interesting items.”

  “We? If you mean Ms. Travers, I wish you’d brought her to yesterday’s meeting.”

  “I was preparing your threat assessment,” Jamie told him.

  “The thing is, I already know there’s a threat,” Dant emphasized. “I confess I was nervous, but then I reminded myself that risk is a fact of life. It’s just a question of keeping it away from me. So the answer is to increase my protection. Isn’t that right, Mr. Novak?”

  “Well, yes, sir, I think there’s—”

  “It’s the control issue,” Cavanaugh interrupted.

  “Excuse me?” Dant asked.

  “Yesterday, I wondered if you were willing to take orders from someone who worked for you. Now I have your answer.”

  “None of this concerns you any longer.”

  “Please look at the threat assessment,” Jamie requested. “If it doesn’t convince you, we’ll gladly leave. After we tear up the check.”

  Dant paused. He glanced at the folder. He looked at Jamie. He considered Cavanaugh.

  Absently, he scratched one of the scabs on his face, where the bullet through the Grand Cayman window had sprayed glass shards at him. When he lowered his hand from his cheek, blood was on his finger.

  “Maybe I was wrong. Maybe we should begin again.”

  CAVANAUGH TOOK A page from the folder and showed it to Dant. “In the past five years, you had a seventy percent turnover on your protective detail. Mr. Novak is your fifth security chief in that same period.”

  Dant looked surprised.

  “Surely you knew this,” Cavanaugh said.

  “Yes, but that’s confidential.”

  “Apparently not, or else we wouldn’t be discussing it with you.”

  “How did you learn this information?”

  “I hacked into your computer system,” Jamie answered matter-of-factly.

  Dant looked more surprised.

  “We have a lot of resources,” she told him.

  “The district attorney will want to know all about them.”

  Cavanaugh pointed at the file. “Here’s the agreement you signed, authorizing us to use any means necessary to prepare a threat assessment.”

  “I’ll plug the holes,” Jamie assured him. “Then I’ll hire a friend who’s better than me to try to hack in. Meanwhile, the flaws in your computer security might have been how the person who’s trying to kill you learned your schedule. Teterboro Airport. Cape Cod. Grand Cayman. You can’t be followed easily, so that means somebody’s ahead of you.”

  “Another thing that stands out,” Cavanaugh said, pointing at the file, “is the absence of any female personnel on your security team. There hasn’t been any in the past three years.”

  “I don’t know why you think that’s significant,” Dant replied. “Men are obviously more suited for dangerous work. Besides, it’s difficult to find properly t
rained female bodyguards, given that almost everyone in that business is a former member of a special-operations military unit. Isn’t that right, Mr. Novak?”

  “Not exactly, Mr. Dant. There’s a female special-ops unit that—”

  Dant cut him off, asking Cavanaugh, “Why do you think women should be on my security team?”

  “The men in the lobby and outside your door showed more interest in Jamie than they did in me. So did Mr. Novak. So did you. In your case, that’s a function of your fondness for female companionship.”

  “Which is none of your business.”

  “It is if your protectors need to accommodate that fondness. The team might be more objective if some of them are women. It’s not that Mr. Novak or the men outside stopped being professional. On the contrary, I got the impression they were worried that a woman could be a greater threat than a man and that they weren’t sure how to deal with that. A female protector would know how to handle the situation.”

  “I won’t give up my social life.”

  “No one’s asking for that,” Cavanaugh emphasized. “But you can have patience enough to wait until background checks are made. Three years ago, you had female protectors. What happened? The unusually high turnover in your security staff? What do you suppose is the problem?”

  Dant shrugged. “Maybe they find better money somewhere else. How would I know?”

  “You pay higher than the standard rate. No, the problem is you treat them like bodyguards instead of protectors.”

  “Back to that again. I refuse to allow anyone to tell me how to run my life.”

  “Even if that’s what’s necessary to save it?” Jamie pointed at his face. “By the way, one of your scabs is bleeding again.”

  This time, Dant didn’t touch it. “Whoever’s trying to kill me won’t have the satisfaction of making me cower. Tonight, I’m going to attend a charity benefit at Lincoln Center.”

  “But that gives us hardly any time to plan the security arrangements,” Jamie objected.

  “Mr. Novak has already taken care of that.”

  AT NIGHT, LINCOLN Center was one of Cavanaugh’s favorite places in Manhattan. Its brilliantly lit, elegant buildings, spacious plaza, and spectacular fountain represented what the city could be at its best, never failing to impress him.

  Except when Cavanaugh was working. Then all he saw were unlimited vantage points and uncontrollable crowds.

  Dant’s limousine arrived by an indirect route that might have fooled someone into thinking he’d changed his mind about going to the charity benefit. It was one of four that had left the basement parking area of Dant’s Fifth Avenue building, their tinted windows making it impossible for surveillance to detect which of the limousines Dant had chosen to use. Near Lincoln Center, the vehicles had separated and approached all four entrances: Columbus Avenue, West Sixty-fifth Street, West Sixty-second Street, and Amsterdam Avenue.

  Dant rode in the second limousine, sipping Armand de Brignac champagne. Cavanaugh sat in back with him while Novak sat in the front, using a scrambler-equipped two-way radio to communicate with the rest of the security team and coordinate Dant’s arrival. Jamie had gone ahead.

  The black of Dant’s Brioni tuxedo made his thick silver hair seem more lustrous, emphasizing his photogenic features. Expertly applied makeup disguised the scabs on his face.

  “Have you ever been shot at when you protected someone?” he asked Cavanaugh.

  “A couple of times.”

  “Were you hit?”

  “Once.”

  “Let me ask you something. It’s obvious you don’t like me, and yet you’re willing to risk your life for me. Is the money that important to you?”

  “I barely know you, so how can I have an opinion about whether you’re likable or not? If it matters, I admire how hard you worked to build your empire. Not many people have your determination.”

  “I got that from my father.” Dant didn’t say it happily. He glanced toward the glow of traffic. “Would you risk your life for someone you absolutely couldn’t stand?”

  “Drug dealers have tried to hire me. Mob bosses. Corporate CEOs who aren’t any better than con men, looting pension accounts. Financial advisers who cheat the investors who trusted them. Sometimes evil is obvious. Otherwise, it’s not my place to judge. Most people muddle through their lives. All I can do is hope that if I keep them from dying a while longer, maybe they’ll find a way to justify being alive. The truth is, I’m less interested in the people I protect than the bullies I protect them from.”

  “Bullies? Do I detect anger?”

  “My father beat my mother.”

  “Ah, yes, fathers.” Dant pointed through the window toward Lincoln Center. “Did you ever see the movie The Producers?”

  “Sure.”

  “You remember the plot? Zero Mostel and Gene Wilder embezzle money from widows by getting them to invest in a Broadway play that they do everything to guarantee is a flop. The widows invest more than the play cost to produce, so Mostel and Wilder are guaranteed a profit.”

  “Yes, Wilder’s an accountant as I recall.”

  “They dream up that plan at Lincoln Center. At night at the fountain. When the idea comes to them, the fountain gushes. I couldn’t stop laughing when I was a kid and I saw that fountain gush. The first time I came to New York, the only place I wanted to see was Lincoln Center and that fountain.” Dant looked amused. “I donated five million dollars for tonight’s fund-raiser. It underwrites cultural events at the center.”

  “Nice to have culture.”

  “I don’t mind having that publicized. It isn’t self-serving. What I don’t publicize are the considerably greater amounts I donate to after-school programs, homeless shelters, food banks, day care centers, inner-city health clinics, and so on.”

  “You just gave me a lot of reasons to risk my life for you.”

  THEY USED THE garage entrance on West Sixty-second Street, proceeding past harsh underground lights to a guarded area that provided access to an elevator reserved for VIP donors. Cavanaugh and Novak got out first, joining six protective agents, three on each side, who shielded Dant as he moved from the vehicle to the elevator.

  The lobby doors opened, revealing tuxedos and evening gowns, the drone of hundreds of conversations, lights glinting off champagne and cocktail glasses—and diamonds, lots and lots of diamonds. Uniformed servers moved through the crowd, offering canapés from polished trays. A string quartet played in the background.

  For most attendees, the occasion seemed festive. For Cavanaugh, it was a nightmare. At the other entrances, security personnel presumably made sure that everyone who came through the various doors had an invitation, just as a guard now took Dant’s invitations and the ones he’d arranged for Cavanaugh and Novak. But invitations were easy to counterfeit. Plus, there weren’t any metal detectors. If Cavanaugh and Novak could enter with concealed firearms, so could someone with violent intentions. To add to the problem, while Cavanaugh wore a tuxedo, Novak did not. Nor did any of his security team. The rule was, Always match what your employer wore. Then not only did you blend with the environment, disguising your function, but also you might confuse a gunman’s aim, making it hard for him to distinguish his target from similarly dressed people around him.

  Dant merged with the crowd. Following, Cavanaugh watched him approach a woman whose blonde hair was combed above her head, emphasizing her statuesque figure. As she turned toward Dant and smiled, her movement had a dancer’s grace. He kissed her on the cheek, so low that his lips almost reached her neck.

  Cavanaugh stopped a discreet distance away.

  “Champagne?” a server asked.

  “No, thank you.”

  “Looking for a good time, lover?” a woman asked.

  It was Jamie, who shifted in front of him so that he seemed to be focusing on her while he actually concentrated on the people around Dant a dozen feet away. She wore an evening dress that emphasized her green eyes.

  “As l
ong as you’re with me, it’s always a good time,” he said, the murmur of nearby conversations floating over them.

  “Well, I’ll tell you one thing that’s not good.”

  “You mean, apart from the fact that Dant’s security team is wearing suits instead of tuxedos, so they can’t move into the crowd without attracting attention?”

  “Even if they did, their military haircuts would give them away.”

  Looking past Jamie’s shoulder, Cavanaugh watched Dant whisper into the woman’s ear. She nodded as if experiencing pleasure.

  “He certainly has a way with the ladies.”

  “With her, he’s had practice.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “She used to be his second wife.”

  “What?” Cavanaugh concealed his surprise. “But she doesn’t look like her photographs. She’s too young. She ought to be in her late fifties by now.”

  “The kind of alimony she gets from Dant, she can afford the Elixir of Youth. That’s the name of the office of her cosmetic surgeon. By the way, I got a look at the seating chart. Dant has a balcony seat. First row.”

  “Novak should have caught that. What else hasn’t he checked? We need to—”

  “I should have said Dant had a balcony seat. I arranged for him to sit behind you.”

  Cavanaugh’s feeling of relief lasted all too briefly. “Wait a minute, what’s he doing?”

  Dant and the woman left the crowd, moving toward an exit.

  Cavanaugh pressed a transmitter hidden under his cummerbund. Activating a microphone on his lapel, he warned the team that Dant was headed outside. He and Jamie followed, trying to disguise their urgency.

  “Mr. Dant.”

  Dant turned, looking annoyed.

  “Sorry to interrupt, but an old friend asked me to give you a message.”

  “Not now.”

  “He said the message was really important.”

  “It’s too loud in here. This lady and I want some fresh air. It’s been a while since we had a chance to talk.”

  Impatience with Cavanaugh’s interruption made the ex-wife’s features harden.

  “You know it is loud in here,” Jamie said. “I’d like some fresh air, too.”