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“You certainly know how to get right to the point.”
“Then let me do it again. You have to tell her.”
“I told her I was a member, with graphic detail,” I say, and, aware Chris has a bit of a history himself, I add, “She knows the world. It’s not been kind to her.”
“And living the lifestyle versus owning a club that says you can’t live without the lifestyle are two different things.”
“Exactly. And I never really wanted the damn thing. Mark owned it. Mark was a client and a friend, and I picked it up.”
“You’re known. Someone could tell her you owned it, and even if that never happens, you really don’t want that unspoken truth between you.”
“I’ll tell her at the same time that I tell her I dumped the damn thing.”
“Smart move in my book,” he says. “Do you have a buyer?”
“You interested?”
“Not a chance in hell, my man. But we both know money isn’t an issue to you. Kurt Seaver runs that place from sunup to sundown. Give it to him.”
“You read my mind. That’s exactly what I plan to do.”
“Good move. Good move.” There’s a voice in the background. “I’m actually walking into a meeting with a donor for my charity. Sara’s with me. I’ll fill in the holes she missed.” He ends the call.
I pull up my texts and Kurt Seaver’s contact information, shooting him a message:Ten o’clock in my office tomorrow.
I move on to the next situation. I remove the money clip from my pocket, set it on the dark wood of the rectangular coffee table, and shoot a photo I then text to Beck. My superhero PI, who had better start acting like a superhero. I punch his autodial, and he answers on the first ring. “How’s the black widow?”
“Since you’re supposed to be an ex-CIA agent/hacker, who I now pay one hell of a lot of money to do PI work, I’d think you’d know how to google ‘black widow’ and find the meaning. She’s never been married. She hasn’t killed her nonexistent husband or any lovers.”
“Unless she was fucking your father right along with her mother.”
My teeth clench. “Don’t push me, Beck. You might be in high demand, but I’m paying you a hell of a lot of money to do your job. And that job now includes protecting Faith, not attacking her.”
“Relax, man. I was just pushing your buttons. Faith isn’t a killer, but considering that note you found, she was clearly fucking with your father’s head. And I sent a gift to your inbox.”
“Which is what?”
“That attorney she hired to go after her mother had a file on her that included correspondence with your father.”
“How did you get that?”
“Don’t ask what you don’t want to deny later.”
My jaw clenches. “Save me time. Summarize the findings.”
“Validation of her story. She went after her mother. Your father nickel-and-dimed her into giving up. The interesting part of this to me is that your father was paying Meredith Winter while acting as her attorney. If he wasn’t fucking her, I’d swear she was blackmailing him.”
“I told you. My father wouldn’t tolerate blackmail. He’d act on his own behalf and viciously. He was after the winery.”
“Here’s the thing. There are no dots connecting. I can’t find Meredith’s money. I can’t find your father’s money. This tells me that someone as good as me made it go away. I need to put feelers out in my underground circles and find out who, but that means two things: We need to offer cash in exchange for information. And we risk spooking someone into doing something we might regret.”
“Do we have other options?”
“They’re running out.”
“Exhaust them,” I say. “I don’t want to spook the bank before I have time to steal the winery out from underneath them.”
“If you do that,” he says, “the net outcome could be the same as me going underground. You end up stealing someone’s thunder, and they come after you. Or Faith.”
