by Rickie Blair
“Shifted? How is that possible? It’s been here for over a century. It never shifted before.” Hari looked up at the ceiling, hoping for clues.
“Renovation. Iceberg basement,” Adrian jerked a thumb at the wall, “next door.”
Hari followed his gesture. His forehead furrowed.
“How could a reno next door—” he turned to look at Adrian. “Wait. Did you say iceberg?”
Adrian walked to the shared wall and ran his hands along it, peering closely.
“It’s been a while since you’ve been in London, hasn’t it?”
“Yes, but—”
The carpenter slapped his palm against the plaster.
“See those cracks?”
Hari walked over and bent to peer at the hairline fractures.
“How did a renovation next door cause that?”
“Not just any renovation. Billionaires have been buying up houses around here. They’re not allowed to change the exterior, so they go down, into the basement, and add more floors.”
“How many floors?”
“Three, four, even more sometimes. Then the contractors extend those floors to the property line. The house you see from the street is only the tip of the iceberg, so to speak.”
“And they did that next door?”
“I heard they even put in a swimming pool. It was a full year of excavating, drilling, concreting, and underpinning.”
Hari ran his fingers along the cracks in the wall, picturing the noise and dust. No wonder his parents hadn’t been able to rent out the family home when they returned to Mumbai, despite its location in one of London’s most desirable neighborhoods.
“But what does that have to do with our doors?”
“The excavations next door made this house sink, which shifted the door frames. And everything else.”
Hari thumped his fist against the wall in disgust.
“How the hell could they get away with that?”
Adrian shrugged. “No one was in this house to complain, I guess.”
“Can you fix it?”
“Not me, bruv. You need a foundation specialist.” Adrian gathered his tools, snapped his toolbox shut and got to his feet. “Listen, these problems are your neighbor’s fault. Make him fix it.” He walked to the front door and held out his hand. “Nice to see you again, Hari.”
After they shook hands, Hari closed the door behind Adrian. Or tried to. He had to step back and give it a kick before it would latch. Bloody hell. How was he supposed to sell a sunken house? What the hell was a foundation specialist? And how many months would it take to find one?
All because some billionaire needed an indoor swimming pool.
Hari squared his shoulders. Tomorrow morning, first thing, he would meet the neighbors.
Chapter Four
At nine the next morning, Hari marched up to his neighbor’s front door, past two stone urns overflowing with ivy, and slammed the knocker three times. He narrowed his eyes, assessing the black wooden door. It was perfectly perpendicular. Utterly undeviating. Aligned in every possible way. He gave a snort of annoyance.
Since this was only a reconnaissance mission, he had not changed out of the sweat pants and rumpled T-shirt he had worn for the past three days, nor had he bothered to shave. His appearance was good enough for whoever might answer the door. A billionaire with an indoor swimming pool in South Kensington wouldn’t do that himself. He probably didn’t even live here.
No, Hari would simply introduce himself and pass along a message. Would Mr. Billionaire make himself available to discuss the damages that his iceberg had inflicted on the Bhatts’ house? And imply that Hari would be happy to involve the Bhatts’ lawyer, should it be necessary. Preferably lawyers. Plural.
He was about to lift the knocker again when the door opened. The man who stood in the entranceway had a neatly trimmed short white beard and sideburns which merged into long white hair combed straight back off his forehead. He wore a puzzled expression on his famous face.
“Guid morning. What can I do for you?”
Hari’s jaw dropped. Apparently, multibillionaire William Watson did answer his own door.
Watson, dressed in a black cashmere turtleneck and gray slacks whose sharply pressed creases broke over gray stocking feet, ran his eyes over Hari’s rumpled T-shirt, track pants, and scuffed, sockless running shoes.
“Yes?”
“Mr. Watson.” Hari blinked. Why was he shouting? He tried again. “Mr. Watson, I live next door.” He pointed.
Watson leaned over the threshold, inclining his head to the Bhatts’ house. He drew back.
“Ah. Always good to meet the neighbors. You must drop by for tea.”
As he started to close the door, Hari slapped a hand on it to stop him. Watson looked sideways at Hari’s outstretched arm and raised his eyebrows.
“This isn’t a social call,” Hari said. “I’m here about our doors.”
“Your doors?”
“Yes. Your renovations have made our house sink. And our doors won’t close.”
Watson tilted his head. “My renovations?”
“Yes. At least, that’s what our carpenter says. He says we have foundation damage.”
“And you are—”
“Hari Bhatt.” Hari took his hand from the door and sheepishly shrugged. “Actually, we’ve spoken on the phone. Although not about this.”
Watson’s mouth twitched.
“Aye. I remember.” He pulled the door open and stepped back. “You better come in.” Watson stood aside as Hari crossed the threshold, then he shut the door and pointed to the living room off the main hall. “We can talk in here.”
The room was furnished with Oriental rugs, heavy leather chairs, and swing arm metal lamps. Hari’s determination to be blasé evaporated as soon as he entered. A massive, three-toned painting hung on one wall. His mouth went slack as he stared at it.
“Is that a real—”
“Rothko? Aye, it is. One of my favorites.” Watson eyed the painting with affection, then turned back to Hari. “Sit down while I organize tea.” Watson disappeared down the hall. Hari sat in an armchair, contemplated the painting and wondered what it cost to insure an original Rothko.
Watson reappeared and settled into an armchair.
“Tea is on its way. Now, be so good as to explain the whole thing to me.”
It took only a few minutes to relate Adrian’s comments, and Hari realized he should have ordered an engineering assessment before confronting Watson. When he finished, he sat back and waited.
“Hmmm,” Watson said. “That’s not good.”
“So you’ll fix it?”
“Well…” Watson looked up when a man entered the room with a tray. “Ah, here’s young Jayden with our tea.”
Hari studied the newcomer as he settled the tray on the brass coffee table. Young Jayden wasn’t all that young. Early forties, probably. He was thin and slight with blond-tipped hair and black eyeliner circled around bright blue eyes.
Jayden turned to Hari.
“Milk and sugar?”
“Please.”
Jayden handed him a cup and saucer and then handed another, clear with lemon, to Watson. Jayden surveyed them both with pursed lips, turned, and left the room. Watson sipped his tea, put the cup down and leaned in.
“Hari—you don’t mind if I call you Hari?”
“Of course not.”
“And call me William, please. But before we discuss your … doors, there is something you could do for me.”
Hari put his cup on the table and added milk and sugar, careful to hide his irritation. Not this again. He picked up his cup and leaned back.
“I’m sorry, but, as I told you on the phone, I’m not accepting new cases at the moment.”
“By new cases, I assume you mean no cases at all?”
“I’m working on a few things.”
“No, you’re not.”
Hari opened his mouth to speak, but Watson stopped him with a br
ief wave.
“Are you reticent because your partner is not currently available? Miss—?”
Hari’s scalp prickled.
“Delaney. Ruby Delaney. How do you know she’s not available?”
Watson leaned back in his chair with a slight shrug, sipping his tea.
“Can’t you at least listen to my proposition?”
Hari raised his cup to his mouth and took a swallow, then settled the cup into its saucer.
“William,” he said in an even tone. “My family’s home has been damaged. I don’t think this is the time—”
Watson broke in with an impatient wave.
“Someone’s stealing information about our customers. At my hotel in Las Vegas, the Starlight—”
“I don’t see how that concerns—”
“—and we think it’s an inside job, so we can’t use local investigators.”
Hari cocked his head, intrigued by the challenge despite his misgivings.
“Stealing what, exactly?”
“Everything from credit card and social security numbers to addresses and passwords.”
“Identity theft.”
“Exactly.”
“So if they’re not defrauding the hotel itself, I don’t see—”
“Are ye daft?” Watson said, his voice rising. “Whether they defraud the hotel or our customers, it’s all the same. Can’t you see that we have to put a stop to it?”
Hari’s breath caught in his throat and he stared at Watson. What the hell was that about? The last thing he needed was a lecture on fraud from some obnoxious billionaire. Crossing his arms, he glared at his host.
“That’s not my problem. What about our foundation?”
Watson rose and paced to the window where he stood, arms clasped behind his back.
“I’m sorry,” he said without turning around, “that was a wee bit rude. Everyone thinks owning a casino in Las Vegas is a license to print money. It’s not. Our margins are wafer thin.” With a shake of his head, he returned and eased back into his chair. “It’s starting to leak out that our systems have been compromised. Travel agencies are reluctant to book vacations with us. One major story in the media is all it would take to shut us down.”
Hari doubted the Starlight’s margins were ‘wafer thin,’ but he tried to look sympathetic.
“I’m sorry to hear about your difficulties at the hotel, but that’s not—”
Watson held up a hand. He ran his eyes over Hari’s T-shirt which, Hari recalled with a start, had a few mustard stains on it.
“You can’t hide in your parents’ house forever. Why not take on a job to keep you busy while the repair crews get to work?”
Hari’s nostrils flared.
“I’m not hiding.”
“Of course not.”
Hari pursed his lips, studying his host. Was that a hint of a smirk on his face?
“Repair crews? Does that mean you’ll fix our foundation?”
“Well,” Watson reached for his tea, “that will take time. There are engineering assessments to order, and permits to obtain, and so forth. But if you think our little fraud case in Las Vegas is beyond you…” He took a sip and replaced the cup on its saucer, carefully aligning the handle before looking up. “Perhaps your much-vaunted expertise is market specific?”
Hari sipped his tea, uncomfortable under Watson’s gaze. He knew what this was about. The trial of his notorious former boss, and Ruby’s ex-husband, Antony Carver. Why did Hari always have to prove himself? He hadn’t been the one who went to prison for insider trading. In fact, he had testified against Antony.
He replaced his cup on the coffee table and leaned back with a sigh. These days he was barely able to make it to the grocer’s without a panic attack, never mind Las Vegas. The idea was ridiculous. He closed his eyes, remembering his last text from Ruby.
r u evr coming back?
He straightened up. “Why don’t you fix our foundation first, and then I’ll see—”
With a wave, Watson slipped a cellphone from his pocket. After tapping in a short text, he placed the phone on the coffee table.
“No time, I’m afraid. We have to stop this before it gets worse. We can’t afford to lose customers. Our margins—”
“—are wafer thin.” Hari smiled tightly.
Watson nodded, the corners of his mouth twitching.
“Correct.” Watson looked up as a thin wiry man with a shaved head entered the room.
Hari tried not to gape. The new arrival was about the same age as Watson, although the resemblance ended there. His eyes glittered black, his nose was crooked, and one eyelid drooped. He looked like a scrapper, the type you wouldn’t want to meet in an alley. But his suit was hand tailored of soft gray flannel and his Ferragamo loafers gleamed.
“Hari Bhatt,” Watson said, “meet my security expert, Iain Oliver.”
Oliver gave Hari’s wardrobe a quick scan before extending his hand with a slight smirk.
“Pleased to meet you,” he said in a heavy Glasgow accent.
Hari shook Oliver’s hand, making a mental note to burn his T-shirt when he got home.
“Iain looks after my North American security,” Watson said, “but he’s checking on upgrades to my security system here at the house today.”
Oliver placed a USB drive on the coffee table, gave a curt nod and stepped back. Watson pointed to the thumb drive.
“Everything you need is on there. You can examine the data we’ve collected so far, but you won’t be able to copy it. I trust you, but,” he glanced up, “Iain insists on his security measures.”
Hari reached for the USB drive and slipped it into his sweatpants pocket, certain that Iain Oliver insisted on nothing without direction from Watson. He was also certain that he could circumvent whatever security measures were on it.
“I’m not promising anything. Now, about our foundation—”
“Why don’t we meet back here at,” Watson checked his watch, “seven o’clock? You can have a proper tour of the house and drinks before dinner. And we can discuss your … problem then.”
Dinner? Hari opened his mouth to say no, but once again Watson beat him to it.
“Don’t worry,” he said, with another look at Hari’s T-shirt, and, this time, an outright smirk. “We don’t dress.”
* * *
After closing the door behind Hari, Watson walked back into the living room and sat in an armchair facing the Rothko. It was one of the artist’s later works, painted the year William was born. A good year, obviously.
Oliver crossed the room and leaned into the window well to catch a parting glimpse of the new neighbor.
“So that was the great Hari Bhatt,” he snorted. “Doesn’t look like much.”
“He and his partner shut down that massive Ponzi scheme in New York. Among other frauds. They say he’s brilliant.”
“Lucky, is what I heard.”
“Given your lack of progress on our case, maybe luck is what we need.”
“So now I’m a blunderer, after all these years?”
Watson grimaced. “Oh, keep yer head, Iain. That’s not what I said.”
Straightening up, Oliver turned from the window with a frown.
“I’ll tell you this, William. If you insist on sending that lad to Vegas, I’m going with him. Somebody needs to keep an eye on him.” He strode past Watson’s chair and into the hall. “I hope you know what you’re doing, bringing in an outsider like that,” he said over his shoulder as he disappeared down the corridor.
Watson gazed at the painting, a twinge of unease tamping his usual pleasure.
“So do I,” he muttered.
Chapter Five
Las Vegas
Ruby arose before dawn after tossing and turning all night in her bed at the Starlight Hotel, hoping that Philippe Fortier wouldn’t hear about her car accident and fire her from the cast of Secret Assassin.
She jammed a pod into the room’s coffee maker, waited for the cup to fill, dum
ped in cream and sugar and slurped without tasting. Then she made a second cup, black, and carried it to the door that connected her room with Felicity’s. She knocked.
“Wha…at?” a groggy voice answered.
“Get up,” Ruby called.
She heard muttering, which became gradually louder until the lock turned and the door opened. Felicity pushed a blackout mask higher on her forehead and squinted at Ruby. Her braided hair hung over the shoulder of her thigh-length red T-shirt. Ruby handed her the coffee.
“We have to visit Millie at the hospital, remember?”
Felicity groaned.
“Now? She won’t even be awake.” She sniffed the coffee, blew on the surface, and took a tentative sip.
“It’s a hospital, Felicity. They probably woke her at five a.m. for the forced calisthenics.”
Felicity didn’t laugh. She mumbled something inaudible, turned and headed back to her bed. Ruby plunged into the room after her.
“Oh, no, you don’t.” She steered Felicity into the bathroom and turned on the shower. “I’ll be back in fifteen minutes. Be ready.”
* * *
Millie sat up in bed, dressed in a blue flowered hospital gown. An IV drip trailed from her frail arm, and a tray held a bowl of something that might have been porridge. As they walked in, she looked up and extended an arm.
“Are you here to take more blood?”
Ruby sat on the bed and took Millie’s hand. The elderly woman wasn’t much older than her Great-aunt Dorothy, back in Toronto. But Aunt Dot would never be this confused. Ruby gently turned Millie’s hand to look at her inner elbow, already purple from the hospital’s blood tests. She placed Millie’s hand on the covers and patted it.
“No, Mrs. Havelock—Millie. We met yesterday, remember? I’m Ruby and this is my friend Felicity. We came to see how you are.”
“I’m sorry to be so much trouble.”
“I’m the one who should be sorry. I hit you with my car.”
Felicity cleared her throat. Ruby turned to see her agent mouthing No, with her eyes wide. Ruby ignored her.
