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Brody Carp might look like a successful businessman. He wore Armani, head to toe, and had his hair styled, not cut like a real man. But underneath the veneer, at the center of the man, was nothing more than a common criminal. A thug. All the world’s a thug. Yes, it was. What chance did a well-bred man like Vance have anymore?
“Since it’s not yet time for me to repay the amount we agreed upon, Mr. Carp, I fail to see how anything I do is of any concern of yours at all. You think I’m looking for an heiress? That’s absurd of course, but thinking about it just now, I understand how you’d come to such a conclusion.” He sat back and let the man see the contempt he felt. “Sometimes a bottom-feeding piece of scum—the investigator I hired comes to mind and not present company, of course—needs the incentive of the possibility of a bonus payout in order to get the job done.” Vance chuckled. “I had no idea the bastard was one of your minions. That’s very unfortunate.” Holding Carp’s gaze, he pulled out his cell phone and dialed a number.
“Mr. Kendrin, Douglas Vance here. Do you have any progress to report?” Vance listened as the man gave him a long, rambling excuse as to why he allegedly had nothing to report. He definitely believed the man had discovered something, and that information had been sold to Carp. Mad as hell, Vance held on to his temper. “I see. Well, then, since you’ve nothing to report, and have made no progress, you’re fired. Effective immediately. The cash you’ve already been advanced is the only money you’ll get out of me.” He didn’t bother with a polite good-bye. He simply ended the call, set his phone down, and returned his attention to his lunch.
He had no appetite and the food tasted like sawdust, but he kept eating. As he chewed, he looked Brody Carp in the eyes, determined not to blink. He likely would have caved, he would have been the one to look away first, but a fine and fiery rage now burned within him. This rage was the most empowering force Doulas Vance had ever felt. First that decrepit old bitch had pulled a fast one over on him by changing her will, and now this thug was trying to do the same by insinuating himself into Vance’s business. He was damned fed up with others trying to cheat him out of what was his due.
Carp flicked a glance at whoever was behind Vance. When the criminal’s gaze was on him again, Vance gave him the smallest of nods and returned his attention to his food.
The waiter delivered a cup of coffee and set it before Carp. The man ignored it and got to his feet. “I guess I’ll see you at the end of the month, then. Enjoy your lunch.”
Vance counted off three minutes. He continued to eat and to sip his water. He paused and sat back. If Brody Carp knew for certain that Vance wasn’t going to be getting the size of inheritance he’d expected, the thug would have let him know just that. But he hadn’t, so that was a point in his favor.
Brody Carp had a long reach into the city’s crime-riddled underbelly but not much influence when it came to the upper echelons of power, Vance would bet. So, he wouldn’t necessarily know the terms of Amanda Featherstone’s will. Of course, that would change as soon as probate was complete. Once a will was probated, it generally became available to the public.
Doug Vance had maybe a couple of days before Amanda’s final wishes became public knowledge. Since he would have enough cash to pay Carp, he wondered what the bastard’s game could possibly be.
In the meantime, he’d fired the only man he could afford to hire to find Amanda Featherstone’s granddaughter. Now, he’d have to do the job himself. The rage returned, this time with a will of its own. The rage brought a calm and a clarity of thought Vance hadn’t felt in years. And, ah, yes, he knew just where to start on his search for dear Cousin Mandy’s little bastard baby.
A little night-time breaking and entering at that P.I.’s office—a grimy office in a not very prosperous part of town—was definitely going to be step number one.
* * * *
Brody Carp walked from The Cache to the opened back door of his limo, pausing only long enough to slip the doorman a folded twenty, a courtesy for allowing him in.
