by Elise Noble
“Don’t worry; I’ll get an Uber.”
The guy kept one hand around my waist, holding me up, as he tapped at his phone with the other.
Then I was torn away from him and lifted off the ground.
What the…?
“Who the hell are you?” my new friend asked, eyes wide as he gaped over my head.
My rescuer didn’t answer. He was a man of few words. He was also Emmy’s husband.
“Put me down!” I screeched at him.
“No.”
I beat on his back, but it was pointless. The man was a mountain, huge and solid as rock.
He’d parked his Porsche Cayenne in the service alley at the side of the club, and I soon found myself dumped in the front seat.
“Stay,” he instructed, then walked around to the driver’s side.
There was no point in trying to run. I’d break an ankle in my stilettos, and Black was faster than he looked. I stared out the window as he backed into traffic. The man he’d taken me from still stood at the kerb, on the phone, and I didn’t know whether he was reporting my kidnapping or trying to find a replacement model.
“Why did you do that?” I asked Black.
“To stop you from making another mistake.”
“I already made a mistake today. I was trying to fix it.”
“With a meaningless fuck?”
“It helps.”
“You’d have hated yourself in the morning.”
What I hated even more was that he was right. I wiped at my eyes with my fingers, not caring whether my mascara smudged.
We drove back to Riverley in silence, with one brief stop for me to throw up the drinks I’d knocked back. My mouth tasted like an armpit when Black lifted me out of the car and carried me up to bed.
“Want me to get one of the girls for you?”
I shook my head. Another witness to my inadequacy? No thanks.
He told Emmy, though. I knew he would. They didn’t keep secrets from each other. She knocked on my door just after eight with a glass of juice and some headache pills.
“How are you feeling?”
“Like shit.”
“Same as usual, then. Swallow these and drink this. Georgia, Lara, and Mack are gonna be here in half an hour, and we need to have a meeting.”
Suddenly, I was awake. “Did they find something?”
“Yeah. Get dressed.”
When I got to the conference room, Ethan was already seated at the far end of the table next to Lara. He glanced over at me then quickly looked away. Great. I took the seat closest to the door and pretended to make notes. Anything to avoid eye contact.
Emmy sauntered in and peered at my legal pad.
“Why have you written ‘strawberry cheesecake’ six times?” she asked, sliding a cup of coffee in front of me.
“I’m just hungry.”
“At least the strawberries are good for you.”
Georgia and Mack hurried in with their laptops, and I could tell from Georgia’s grin that they’d found something good. I sat up a little straighter, and cheesecake didn’t seem quite so interesting anymore.
“Okay, so we pulled apart the accounting system,” Georgia explained, “and looked in the most likely places for fraud. Journals, suspense accounts, fictitious employees, false supplier invoices. I think you can get a better deal on your office rent, by the way,” she told Ethan. “Your landlord’s screwing you over.”
Trivial, in the great scheme of things.
“Did you find anything else?” I asked.
Why couldn’t people get to the point?
“Yes, we did. It’s actually quite clever. Every time a royalty payment comes in, it’s followed by a separate invoice for twenty percent withholding tax, which the purchase ledger clerk dutifully pays at the end of every month after Harold authorises the payments.”
Three blank faces stared at her—mine, Emmy’s, and Ethan’s.
She rolled her eyes. “The whole point of withholding tax is that it’s withheld? Like, by the person who pays the royalty? They don’t pay the whole lot then invoice for it separately. In this case, Spectre’s ended up paying it twice.”
“So Harry was doing the invoicing?” I guessed.
“The money goes to an offshore account in the Cayman Islands,” Mack said. “He’s the sole signatory.”
“And what’s the overall impact so far?”
Lara looked down at the papers in front of her. “It’s been going on for almost ten years, so twenty percent on all the royalties paid through Spectre in that time, which comes to about $17 million.”
“Fuck,” Ethan whispered.
“Surely Ethan has tax advisors?” Emmy asked. “Why didn’t they spot this?”
“Ah, now here’s the clever bit,” Mack said. “Every month, ten percent of the net transfers into the Cayman account get wired out to Puerto Rico. The receiving account is controlled by one Roland Harding.”
Ethan turned pale. “Roland’s the tax partner at the accounting firm I use.”
“You’ve got to hand it to Harry,” Emmy said. “It was a good little scam. Simple, elegant, easy money.”
We all stared at her.
“Just saying. We’re still going to fuck him over, obviously.”
“Before what happened, I was thinking of changing accountants,” Ethan said. “I thought Harding’s fees were too high, and Ronan had met with a couple of other firms. Harold was trying to persuade me to stick with Harding. I guess now I know why.”
“That’s a good motive for somebody wanting you out of the way, don’t you think?” I suggested.
He sagged back in his chair. “I can’t believe he would do this to me. I trusted him.”
“Shitty people do shitty things to good people,” Emmy said. “The question is, did he just steal money, or did he add murder to his repertoire?”
“We haven’t been able to find an alibi for him on the night of Christina’s death,” Mack said. “His wife was at the opening of an art gallery, but he wasn’t with her.”
“You know what, normally I’m not a fan of the press or the police, but I vote we dump this back in their laps,” said Emmy. “We give the cops the information on the theft, then we tip off the reporters, and that way the investigation can’t be swept under the carpet. Let Harold’s reputation get dragged through the mud. It might go some way to making Ethan’s halo shine again.”
She was right. The Virginia PD could do some proper work for a change. “It’s trial by media nowadays. The courtroom part is almost incidental. I say we go for it.”
“Ethan?” Emmy asked.
“I hate the thought of my face being everywhere.”
“It already is, honey. This way, it just looks a little prettier.”
If he kept biting his lip like that, there wouldn’t be a lot left of it. Finally, he came to a decision.
“I’ll go with whatever you think.”
The sight of Harold being led from Spectre’s offices did indeed make a compelling picture. Front page, above the fold. Officer Tenlow had been to the barber before he made the arrest and even ironed his uniform.
And in the scribblings underneath, the tide was indeed beginning to turn. A week after Georgia’s discovery, the waters around Christina’s murder were being muddied, and thanks to some well-placed leaks from Blackwood, doubt started to creep in over Ethan’s guilt.
“This is good,” I said to him, waving the paper.
“Is it? Now people see me as a victim again. Poor little Ethan, couldn’t look after himself.”
What did he mean by “again?” I had a horrible feeling he wasn’t talking about recent events, but I didn’t dare to press him on it. He’d begun speaking to me once more, small talk and careful, measured words, his eyes shuttered and his secrets safely locked away. Strained. I missed the carefree smiles from the music room. Ethan had another court appearance at ten tomorrow morning too, some preliminary motion, which added more stress to an already heavy load.
“I suppose that’s not such a great thing, either.”
That got me a tiny smile.
“Do you want me to come with you tomorrow?”
A nod.
Yes, we still had a way to go, but I counted that as progress.
But the day got worse after lunch when Tenlow called.
“Your man’s singing like a canary about the fraud, but he’s got an alibi for the murder.”
I groaned. “What is it?”
“It’s a she. Madame Felice. At the time your hooker was being stabbed, Styles was apparently…” Tenlow paused while he cleared his throat, “scrubbing Madame Felice’s kitchen floor with a toothbrush. She knows this for sure because she was holding the other end of the leash he was wearing. And the squeaking from his rubber pants on the tile was really getting on her nerves.”
I covered the mouthpiece while I burst into laughter. When I’d recovered enough to speak, I heard Tenlow chuckling away on the other end.
“Thought you might find that amusing. She supplied photos. Want me to send them over?”
“Oh jeez, yeah, why not?” Emmy would appreciate a laugh too. “But if Styles didn’t actually kill Christina, maybe he hired someone?”
“We’re working on that angle at the moment. He sure had enough money, but he’s not admitting anything.”
“Keep trying.”
Tenlow’s news wasn’t the answer I’d been hoping for. It meant Ethan wouldn’t get ripped off by that piece of pond slime anymore, but there was still a killer on the loose.
Ethan and Stefanie still weren’t safe.
And my job wasn’t over.
CHAPTER 39
“YOU KNOW YOU’RE going to court, right?” Emmy asked me the next morning. “Not a fashion show?”
Well, yes, of course I knew that. But I’d done my hair and chosen a suit that showcased my *ahem* assets because Jay would be there. And I also knew that would piss him off.
Ethan wore a suit too. Bradley had ordered it for him and put the screws on the designer to skip the wait for custom tailoring. I firmly believed that every man should own a made-to-measure suit, if only for the pleasure a woman got from peeling him out of it. I shoved my hands into my jacket pockets because they itched to reach for Ethan’s buttons.
My phone buzzed in my hand, and I glanced at the screen. Trick? Guess Emmy wasn’t answering right now, so he’d decided to try another option. Well, he’d have to wait.
“Ready to go?” Oliver asked.
He had an entire closet full of suits. Saville Row, mainly. He flew a tailor in once a year to measure up. Save for the occasional pair of shorts when he went running, Oliver never wore anything else.
Had I ever done the peeling thing with Oliver? No. Not because he wasn’t hot—he was—but because he was fucked in the head, perhaps even worse than me. And then he became a work associate, placing him firmly off-limits. Dancing the horizontal tango had the potential to end in disaster for both of us. Above all, I valued his friendship, and I’d never jeopardise that.
Today, he’d offered to come with us for moral support. He wasn’t co-counsel, but I knew that even having him in the public gallery would bolster Lyle’s confidence.
The plan called for us to arrive in the same car—Ethan, Lyle, Oliver, and I—run the gauntlet of fans and paparazzi waiting outside, walk in through the front door of the courthouse, and promise to answer questions afterwards. Except when the hearing was over, Oliver and Lyle would go out the way we came in while Ethan and I snuck out the back to a spare vehicle, thereby avoiding the press and their cameras. I’d used the tactic before with a degree of success.
Jay gave me a look of contempt when I walked in at Ethan’s side, but his eyes widened when he saw Oliver behind us. Whoops, had I forgot to mention to Jay that his old nemesis was assisting us? Shame.
My plan to spring Oliver on him obviously worked because he wasn’t his usual, smooth self while he tried to make his points. He stumbled over his words a couple of times and made so many objections that even the judge looked pissed off with him.
Lyle was nervous, but he’d worn his lucky tie, his lucky socks, and apparently his lucky boxer shorts too, and his time with Oliver paid dividends. He got through the hearing with barely a mark from Jay’s claws. Bail was upheld. The case rumbled on.
But the court reporters waiting outside didn’t care about Lyle. They’d spotted Oliver, and while Ethan might have been a star in the music world, Oliver was the undisputed king of this one. Even though he hadn’t said a word inside, the instant he stepped out of the doors, they descended on him like the vultures they were.
Which gave me the perfect opportunity to flee for the rear exit with Ethan. And, as it turned out, Lyle.
“What are you doing here?” I asked him. “You’re supposed to be giving a press conference.”
“Did you see them?” He sucked in a breath. “No way am I going out there. They’ll eat me alive.”
“Oliver’s gonna be pissed.”
“I’d rather deal with Oliver than get knocked out by a microphone.”
“Fine, come with us, then.”
We seriously had to work on his resilience.
I went out first to check for reporters, and when there were none, I beckoned for the other two to follow me. Where was the damned car? One of the Blackwood drivers had dropped it off earlier, and I had the spare key in my purse.
“Black Ford Explorer guys. First one to spot it gets a cookie.”
Why hadn’t I got them to bring my Camaro instead? At least nobody could miss it.
A flight of steps led from the courthouse to the parking lot, and we’d just reached the bottom when a revving engine caught my attention. A black BMW, speeding towards us. What the…? Visions of Stefanie flew through my mind, and I backed up, pulling Ethan and Lyle with me.
Probably just me being paranoid. If someone wanted to run us over, they’d have waited until we were further from the steps, right?
Then the car slowed, and the rear window rolled down.
Oh fuck. Oh fuck!
The barrel of a gun poked out, and I had a fraction of a second to make a decision. Did I dive left or right?
Left. I went left.
I shoved Ethan behind a concrete planter and dove on top of him. As I looked back, I saw the confusion on Lyle’s face for an instant, right before the back of his head exploded.
The chatter of an automatic weapon reigned supreme while I held Ethan down. As I’d been in the courthouse, I’d had to leave my gun at home so I couldn’t even return fire. All I could do was lie there, helpless.
Glass shattered as the courthouse doors disintegrated, and concrete chips from the walls rained down on us. Splinters and leaves from the plants above filled the air.
The noise seemed to go on forever, but in reality, it could only have been seconds—the time it took to empty a magazine. Tyres squealed as the car took off.
Footsteps came running almost instantly, but it was too late. The shooter was gone, and Lyle was dead. And Ethan? Well, he wasn’t moving, either.
Oliver appeared at my side and helped me up. “Are you hurt?”
“No, but I think Ethan is. And Lyle… Fuck.”
Emmy insisted that every single person who worked for Blackwood took a first aid course, and Oliver was no exception. He crouched beside Ethan and checked his vital signs.
“He’s breathing, and I can’t see any bullet holes. There’s a bit of blood, but I’m not sure it’s his.”
“It’s not.”
It was Lyle’s, and I was covered in it too. I’d felt its warm stickiness spray over my back and smelled its distinctive tang.
“Ethan must have hit his head as he fell.” Oliver twisted around and shouted for help. “We need a medic over here.”
A crowd had gathered, court employees and passers-by hovering, unsure what to do. One woman retched into a bush, and I noticed even Jay lo
oked ashen. The only people moving were the reporters, clicking away with their cameras. They seemed to have beaten the courthouse’s own security officers to the scene.
Maybe not having my gun wasn’t such a bad thing. Getting arrested for murder would be a definite inconvenience.
Ethan let out a low groan, his eyes flickering open.
“Thank goodness,” I whispered.
He tried to sit up but flopped sideways instead. I put my hand behind his head so he wouldn’t hurt it again.
“What happened?”
“Don’t try to get up. We’ll talk about it later.”
“Dani, you’re bleeding.”
“I’m okay. Just stay still.”
Where were the fucking doctors? I tugged my bag towards me and rummaged through it, looking for my phone.
I only needed to make one call, and that was to the emergency number for the central control room at Blackwood’s headquarters. The one call I’d hoped I’d never have to make.
“Go ahead, Dan,” came the efficient voice of the shift supervisor.
“Man down. It’s Lyle.”
The Richmond branch office wasn’t far from the courtroom, and our team of first responders arrived before the ambulance did. More would follow from our main base, which lay half an hour outside the city. There wasn’t much they could do, but just having my own people beside me made me feel better.
“Did you see the shooter?” one of them asked.
“No. Just the gun, then I hit the deck. The car was a BMW 5-Series. Black.”
“We’ll put out an alert.”
I knew they would, but it was pointless. That car was long gone. Dumped, burned out, or hidden away in a backstreet garage. It had probably been stolen in the first place.
The medics had checked Ethan over, and now they tightened the straps securing him to the spinal board. I followed him into the ambulance in a daze.
“You can’t ride in here,” the doctor said.
“Then you’re gonna have to drag me out.”
He shrugged and closed the doors.
