Money To Burn (7 page)

Just in time, it seemed, since a tiny little guy at the far end of the table was turning several spectacular shades of blue. He’d lost all of the hair on the top of his head and had compensated by growing it long in back. It flowed to his shoulders in gray waves, making him look like a cross between Ben Franklin and a Smurf. His mouth was opening and closing like he’d just been gaffed.

“You okay?” I asked with feigned sincerity. Sometimes you had to confuse them to conquer them.

“Who the fuck are you?” he sputtered, waving his arms around as he searched for the properly corporate response.

“I believe I sent my card in a few moments ago.” I paused. “With the young vampire-in-training.”

Enraged, the short fellow—who I pegged as Donald Teasdale, Marketing Whiz—pointed a chubby finger at the door. “Get out!” he ordered me. “This is a confidential meeting. I’m calling Security.”

“This isn’t confidential. This is crap.” I pushed the rest of the comps down the table at him. “Do yourself a favor. Send these people back to the drawing board, give me fifteen minutes of your time and then I’ll be out of your life forever.”

Unless, of course, I thought to myself, you’re the one who torched Nash.

I suspected him because he was shorter than a lawn jockey, which is a shallow theory but not entirely without merit. It was been my experience that short corporate guys are, hands-down, the meanest of all the suit species. They can’t help it. Years of being put down for their height has warped them.

Teasdale stared at me in enraged silence, his blue-and-silver tie askew. His lackeys were gazing obediently out the large picture window with studied nonchalance. I waited
him out and, gradually, his normal color returned. He found his voice—and his wits.

“Give me half an hour,” he told the others. “And she’s right. These are crap. Come up with something better.” He flung the carefully executed ideas back toward his minions dismissively, taking out his frustration on those who depended on him for a paycheck. They gathered their rejected dreams and filed from the room, shooting me curious glances.

“I still ought to call Security,” he threatened primly once we were alone.

“Oh, cram it,” I said good-naturedly, pulling out the chair right next to him and flopping down in it. I’d crth=n it. Iowd him just to let him know that I was bigger and that I knew it.

“Have we met before?” he asked suddenly.

“No.” I shook my head innocently. “Don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure.” I grinned at him and winked.

“What is it you want?” he asked in a tone more poisonous than polite.

“I have a few questions about Thomas Nash.”

He was silent but his eyes flickered.

“I’m investigating his death,” I explained.

“I gathered.” His voice was high for a man, and had gone even higher. This was not a subject he enjoyed.

“You knew him?” I asked pleasantly.

“Of course I knew him,” he spit back. “He worked for me. What is it you want to know? I’m a very busy man.”

I knew that. Every man in a suit is busy. If they weren’t so busy, they’d have taken the time to take the damn things off.

“Nash came to see you the last Monday he was alive,” I said. “Why?”

“How did you know that?” he countered, shifting his body away from me like I had cooties crawling up my legs.

“You just told me,” I said with a smile. “I only knew he came to the tenth floor. But I figured it was someone high up.” I could have made a crack about his height, but didn’t. No sense being petty. I’d joke behind his back instead.

He fumed for a moment in silence.

“Just tell me,” I said finally. “And I’ll be out of your life forever.”

“Who are you working for?” he asked, flicking an imaginary piece of lint off his jacket as he stalled for time.

“Sorry, but I can’t tell you that.”

“Then I won’t cooperate.”

“I can tell you that thnt you the same name that figures prominently on my retainer check also figures prominently in T&T’s success.”

That did the trick. Teasdale was so in awe of Randolph Talbot that he walked around with his lips puckered, just waiting for Talbot to bend over. It never occurred to him that another Talbot might be my client.

“Why didn’t you say so in the first place?” he said. “I told Randolph we needed to clear our name. What do you want to know?”

“Why Nash came to see you.”

Teasdale puffed up with satisfaction. “He wanted to settle.”

“Settle what?”

“The lawsuit he filed, hoping to get a bigger share of the Clean Smoke royalties.”

“Why would he want to settle?” I asked.

Teasdale shrugged. “Maybe he knew he was outgunned and out of line,” he suggested. “He created that process while in the employ of T&T. It was ours to keep. He should have been grateful for the bonus he received.”

I understood then that the little weasel sitting in front of me had been the one to parcel out that meager bonus, probably keeping most of it for himself. “What reason did he give for wanting to settle?” I asked.

Teasdale shrugged again. “He said all the legal mumbo jumbo was taking up too much of his time and energy, that he had better things to do. That he wanted it settled so he could get on with his work.”

“What did you tell him?” I asked.

“Precisely this, and you may quote me: ‘Tough titty said the kitty, but the milk’s still good.’” Teasdale smiled thinly.

“That was mature,” I remarked. Like I said, it’s all a big sandbox so far as guys are concerned. They’re either flinging it, digging it or pissing in it.

He didn’t care what I thought. “I told him to talk to our legal department if he didn’t like my answer. He’d get the same response. No way we were settling. We don’t owe him a dime. He walked out on us with three years left on his contract. He’s lucky we never came after him on the basis of the no-compete clause.”

“He’d signed a no-compete clause?” I asked, surprised.

Teasdale’s smile faded. “Not exactly. But it was in his contract.”

“Then he signed it,” I said.

“Well,” he hedged, tapping his fingernails on the table surface.

“He never signed the contract at all, did he?” I guessed. “It got plowed under all that other crap on his desk and forgotten.” Nash had been absent-minded, not stupid. He’d used the system to his advantage.

My correct guess pissed Teasdale off. “Look, Nash is dead,” he said. “What does it matter why he came to see us or why he wanted to settle?” He eyed me curiously, his gaze lingering on my black high-tops. “So why did Talbot hire you?” he asked. Then, just to make sure I understood how very important he was, he repeated, “I told him it might be a good idea to clear our name.”

“Clear T&T’s name?” I asked. “Do people think T&T killed him?”

Teasdale looked appropriately shocked. “I meant clear our name of having harassed him.”

“You knew about the harassment?” I asked.

“Of course I did.” He stared at me, wondering why, if I had been hired by Randolph Talbot, I didn’t know the inside scoop. “Everyone knew Nash was being harassed and that he thought it was us. He called me, you know, when it first started. Accused me of it in his typically roundabout way.”

“What did you tell him?” I asked.

“I told him there was no way T&T was behind it. That’s petty stuff. Believe me, Randolph Talbot and T&T Tobacco are above that kind of crap.” He adjusted his necktie again. “Besides, it’s too risky. You get caught pulling penny ante stunts like that and a jury could sock you with millions in damages. It wouldn’t be worth the risk. I told him to look somewhere else.”

In other words, he’d have gone that route but was afraid he would get caught. Honest to God, sometimes I think dollar signs have replaced our consciences in this country. God help us when inflation hits.

“If it wasn’t T&T, who do you think was harassing Nash?” I asked.

He shrugged. “Same person that killed him?”

“Could you be a little bit more helpful than that?”

He shrugged again. “If I were you, I’d talk to Cosgrove.”

“Cosgrove?”

“Yeah. Franklin Cosgrove. His partner. The guy’s a smug bastard. I wouldn’t put it past him.” Teasdale glanced impatiently at his watch. “They were arguing over the division of royalties from the new curing process Nash had come up with. Probably invented it on our dime, but I can’t prove it.”

“How do you know all this?” I asked.

“Listen, everyone knows everything when it comes to this business. Except for you, apparently.”

Apparently. But I’d squeezed the little squirt for all the juice I could get. And I needed to get the hell out of there before he figured out I hadn’t been hired by Randolph Talbot. Time to throw him off Lydia’s trail.

“Thanks for your help,” I told him, heading for the door without bothering to shake his sweaty little hand. “Nash’s family will really appreciate it.”

“Nash’s family?” He jumped up from his chair and scurried after me. “You said Randolph Talbot had hired you.”

“No I didn’t. You did.”

He glared at me, the angry flush returning,

“Hey,” I consoled him, patting him on the back. “Every Napoleon has his Waterloo. I guess I’m yours.” 

Tracking down Nash’s partner was a cinch. The phone may have gone up in smoke, but the line had been rerouted to King Buffalo’s new offices. I called from a pay phone in the T&T lobby and hit pay dirt on the second ring.

“King Buffalo Tobacco,” an ultra-polite feminine voice answered.

I asked to speak to Franklin Cosgrove and, after assuring the woman that I was not a member of the press and, in fact, believed in shooting the media on sight, was put through to the big man himself. I guess with a third of their employees burnt to a crisp, King Buffalo didn’t have the manpower to sustain a bureaucracy. After hearing who I was and what I was after, Cosgrove agreed to see me at once. He even gave me directions to their new temporary offices on Main Street in downtown Durham.

I got caught in the insane traffic loop that strangles downtown and passed the damn building twice, but finally managed to park my ancient Porsche without mishap. I tracked down Franklin faown Fra Cosgrove in a small office on the fourth floor. The secretary was AWOL, but the main office door was open. I considered it an invitation to march right in.

My, my. Franklin Cosgrove was enough to make me change my evil mind about red-haired men. Don’t get me wrong, I’m sure the world is full of fabulous carrot-tops. I just don’t want any of them in my bed, with the possible exception of Eric Stoltz. I was willing to consider another exception for Nash’s business partner. He was in his late thirties, tall and trim, but definitely not skinny. A third baseman’s body if ever I saw one. He had a thin mouth and nose, beautiful high cheekbones and his eyes were goldish tan. His hair was dark copper and there was plenty of it. He was wearing a white cotton shirt that had been ironed to pass inspection by a general and it was tucked into tight black jeans. A tingle passed between us when we shook hands.

He knew I was attracted to him and he worked it. “Nice dress,” he said, taking my hand and leading me to a chair that was just a little too close to his. “I knew Tom had hired a private investigator. I didn’t realize detectives looked like you. I’d have insisted on being tailed by you if I’d known.”

Uh-oh. A silver tongue to go with all that red hair. I made a mental note to keep my mind on my work. I’ve gotten myself in trouble enough times in the past to know that when all of my blood starts running south, my brain is left high and dry.

“You’re pretty cute yourself,” I admitted, but I inched the chair away as I spoke. It’s not that I lack self-esteem. God knows I could do with a little more self-restraint and a little less self-confidence. It’s just that warning bells go off when a potential suspect gets too chummy too quickly. Especially one who doesn’t seem all that broken up about the loss of his crucially talented partner.

“Too bad about Tom Nash,” I offered.

“Tell me about it.” He ran a hand through his hair and sighed, as if I had no idea of the depths of despair and self-sacrifice Nash’s death had caused him. “It was terrible timing.”

“Mighty damn inconsiderate of him to get murdered,” I wanted to say, but kept my mouth shut. No sense provoking an asshole into acting like one before the spirit moves him.

Cosgrove smiled, revealing expensive teeth. “I bet you thought Tom was hot stuff. Women loved him. Even more than they love me. I don’t know what his secret was.”

“Modesty,” I told him. “He was completely unaware of his appeal. Humility is such an underrated virtue.” He didn’t get the hint, so I got down to business. “Thanks for seeing me,” I said. “I just have a couple of questions.”

“Who’s paying your bill now that Tom’s dead?” he asked suddenly.

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“No one,” I lied. “He has a lot left on the retainer he gave me. I feel like I owe it to him. Besides, like you said, I liked the guy.”

“Oh.” He stared at his desktop. “I thought maybe Lydia had hired you.”

“Lydia?” I asked innocently. Scary how well I can lie.