Tattoo Thief (BOOK 1) (20 page)

Responsible me. Careful me. Dotting-I’s-and-crossing-T’s me.

That
kind of Beryl wouldn’t be stupid enough to jump into a stranger’s car. I berate myself for the millionth time for letting the night with Peter unfold the way it did.

Then again,
that
Beryl also wouldn’t have dared to have cybersex with a rock star. Did that seriously happen? I must have replayed our sexting a million times over in my head yesterday.

I follow up on an email from new clients Phillip and Rebecca James. They’re both trial attorneys and away in different cities to try cases for a few weeks at least. Their address is a Trump property I’ve walked by several times with Jasper and I’m looking forward to scoping out what’s behind its smoked-glass doors.

Dan hasn’t arrived at the office yet but I decide to head out, leaving him a note about the new client.

I notice a peculiar thing about the sidewalk as I approach the Trump apartment tower’s doors—while most New York sidewalks are pockmarked with gum and debris, this sidewalk glows pale gray, as if it is pressure-washed every evening.

It probably is.

I do the ritual identification process with the doorman, which is complicated by the fact that Peter has my driver’s license. Instead, I show the guard my old student ID and the emergency credit card that wasn’t in my clutch Saturday night.

After inspecting these carefully, the guard finally nods and tucks my business card into a binder.

“I’ll keep this in case another resident needs a referral,” he says, and I thank him, making a mental note to get more cards in the hands of doormen. Referral genius! I hope Dan will be proud.

The lobby is ridiculously overdone with vast slabs of pink marble on floors and walls. The elevators are obsessively polished, not a fingerprint to be found on any brass or mirrored surface.

Which is practically everything.

I watch the buttons light in turn on my way to an upper floor—not the penthouse, but better than halfway to the top. The Jameses will have to climb another twenty stories to truly keep up with the Joneses.

I’d thought I was getting inured to flagrant displays of wealth, but the Jameses prove me wrong—their apartment is a treasure trove of gaudy ostentation.

Everything’s big—a larger-than-life dining room table that seats twelve, its surface polished to a mirror shine. A massive sectional in the living room could host a dozen of my friends for movie night. A folding oriental screen partially hides a television so big it probably required a special freight elevator to move it in.

The walls are covered with art and artifacts, modern and traditional. It seems like Phillip and Rebecca whip out their credit cards whenever the mood strikes.

I look at my list—collect mail, feed and water plants, swap out their DVR for a new one with the cable company, put away deliveries, and organize the baby’s room.

I wonder which of them is traveling with the baby and whether they have a nanny.

The plants are tucked throughout the house on virtually every flat surface, including rock gardens, succulent wreaths, African violets and trailing plants that hang down from the tops of high bookcases.

I get a footstool from the kitchen to reach the plants on the bookcase and glance at the James’s reading material.

Bestsellers. Crime thrillers. Legal reference books. And scads and scads of parenting manuals.

From
What to Expect When You’re Expecting
to Jenny McCarthy’s
Belly Laughs,
from hefty manuals on breastfeeding to
The No-Cry Sleep Solution
, it looks like they’ve got enough reading material to navigate every second of Junior’s first few years.

I’m no stranger to over-analyzing how to parent—my mom put me through the wringer with each counseling class she took. But at some point, I think you’ve just got to put down the instruction manual and
try it.

At that thought, I snort. I’m the pot calling the kettle black.

Most of my life has been spent reading the instructions and the safety warnings and the fine print—all of it before I dared to do something.

Before I came to New York, I was stuck perpetually on
ready, aim.
Then I tried to pull the trigger, to be spontaneous with Peter, and look where I got with
fire:
burned.

I find the DVR in a cabinet and before I disconnect it for a trip to the cable company, I flip on the television and scroll through their shows.

Extra mile,
as Dan says. I’ll figure out what they like to record and reprogram everything on their new DVR. I pull a notepad out of my purse and start jotting down titles.

Jersey Shore. Real Housewives. The Bachelor. Storage Wars
.

What the heck?

It gets worse: Reruns from
The Girls Next Door
and
Fear Factor.
I’m appalled by their awful taste. Could reality TV get any more mindless? Suddenly, I feel a little bit superior to two highly educated attorneys.

I scroll through recorded shows and find some hilariously crappy porn. It was recorded free off Skinimax and features a silicone-enhanced Barbie and a dude in need of serious manscaping. Yuck.

I glance at the art on their walls, expecting it to morph into dogs playing poker. Maybe their fridge is stocked with Coors.

I check.

Close. Budweiser. And their pantry has pork rinds and every kind of processed food your Home Ec teacher warned you about. Even Easy Cheese.

Really.

OK, so these people aren’t the pillars of good taste and refinement. To each their own. I’ve still got to sort out the baby’s room, but I decide to leave that for another day and I head back to the office.

When I finally see Dan, his expression is stern.

“You’re in a heap of trouble, young lady.” Dan chides me. “I thought you were going to text me to say you made it home safely on Saturday?”

“I lost my phone.” The memory of Saturday night hits me again and my face crumples. Dan’s posture changes instantly, concern replacing rebuke.

“Beryl, it’s not the end of the world,” Dan says. “I’ll bet you wanted an excuse to upgrade, right?”

His cheerfulness buoys my mood, but I can’t bring myself to tell him
how
I lost my phone.

“Thanks for taking me to the charity gala,” I say, working out how to ask Dan for details about Peter. “I gave out a ton of cards, but I didn’t collect that many. How do I follow up with people?”

“You don’t need to,” Dan says. “I told you, it’s a soft sell. When they need something, they’ll call us.”

His wait-and-see attitude might work for business, but I’m running around New York City with only my emergency credit card.

Then Dan drops a clue without realizing it. “You should check out the photos in the
Post
today, there’s a great one of you dancing.”

I find the picture online, Peter and I looking more than friendly as we dance. Unfortunately, the caption gives me nothing more than the name of the charity, venue and date.

I screen-capture the image but it’s not good enough. I want Peter’s last name so I can find that bastard and get my stuff back. Shelling out for a new phone and ID would be hell on my bank account.

Then I remember his mother, the statuesque redhead whom he said was on all the boards.

I open the Manhattan Children’s Literacy website and scroll through a tab that lists the board of directors—virtually all of them are women and every one looks astoundingly beautiful in her headshot. Peter’s mom is there: Veronica Fischer.

I Google Peter Fischer and get nothing. Then I remember dancing with his stepfather and retrace my steps, Googling Veronica Fischer and finding several entries for Veronica Todd Fischer. Pre-2002, she’s just Veronica Todd.

Guess what this Nancy Drew gets when she Googles Peter Todd? Oh, hell yes.

Got him.

It’s an hour before any normal person would take lunch, which makes it a perfect time for me to tell Dan I’m taking an early lunch to do a personal errand. I catch a cab downtown to Wall Street, where Peter Todd is supposed to work at Cartwright Collier Finch as a fund manager.

Confidence gets me past the lobby guard to the elevator. More confidence gets his receptionist’s attention and she doesn’t make me take a seat as she dials his office and alerts him that his eleven o’clock is here.

After a little back-and-forth in which I supply my full name—Beryl Katherine Sutton—the receptionist promises that he’ll be out to greet me momentarily.

I steel myself for the meeting, glad I’m in one of Lulu’s dresses, a severe black shift with white piping, plus killer red patent shoes that Stella approved on our recent shopping trip.

Peter bursts through a door etched with the CCF insignia on the glass. He’s in a spectacular bespoke suit and tiny wire glasses that make him look studious and safe.

Looks can be deceiving. I know that now.

“Beryl. How nice to see you.” He delivers the chilling pleasantry with a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.

“I was looking forward to it,” I tell him as he gestures for me to follow him to a small, private conference room around the corner from the lobby. The brass and leather coasters in a mahogany holder also bear the CCF logo. This place screams money.

He doesn’t offer me coffee or invite me to sit. He knows this will be a short conversation.

“I’ve come for a few things,” I say, and his mouth twists with annoyance. “My keys, my phone, my wallet, my shoes—and an apology.”

“Forget it.”

“I’m prepared to wait.”

“Then you’ll be waiting a long time.”

I pull out a chair at the conference table, hoping to call his bluff. “You can’t just pretend this didn’t happen.”

“Of course I can. I’m too rich for this to matter.
You
don’t matter.” He turns on his heel and exits the conference room.

Shit. Now what do I do?

If my stuff is really gone, I might as well give up and go shop for a new phone with what’s left of my lunch break. But if there’s a chance he didn’t chuck it—and from his expression, I suspect there is—I wonder if I can win a game of chicken against someone who’s clearly accustomed to getting his way.

I put my messenger bag on the conference room table and pop my head out to the receptionist. I smile to put her at ease and ask for the guest Wi-Fi password and a cup of coffee.

And I get them.

I send an email to Dan to say I’m working on a project and then start Googling the heck out of Peter Todd. I compile a pretty impressive dossier on him in an hour, ranging from women he’s been pictured with at various charity galas to a list of all nine charities where his mother’s on the board.

The one piece of information I want pops up later—the full name and contact details for his stepfather. I hope Gerald Fischer will hear me out.

I place the call from the conference room phone and wonder if the caller ID will help me get through. Maybe it does—after three transfers, I hear the man’s deep baritone on the line.

“Mr. Fischer, I’m sorry to bother you today. This is Beryl Sutton—we danced at the Manhattan Children’s Literacy gala on Saturday night and you gave me some great advice about doing what I love.”

“Beryl, is it? Of course I remember you, and I’m sorry I didn’t introduce myself properly that night.”

“Sir, I wonder if I could speak with you confidentially? I’m here at Peter’s office and he’s been quite … unwilling to discuss a matter that came up on Saturday.”

“Don’t dance around it. What?”

“Well, he took me to a hotel and we had a … disagreement. I’m afraid I left in a rush and left behind my clutch, including my phone, keys and wallet.”

“What kind of disagreement?”

“Peter was trying to be, uh, romantic.”

“Forceful?”

“Yes. And I wasn’t interested.”

Gerald Fisher’s tone drops. “Beryl, did he hurt you?”

I swallow. “Not really. Scared me. Tore my dress. I ran. I had to borrow money for a cab back from Hoboken.”

The shame I feel about what happened is replaced by indignation and a growing anger. How
dare
he do this to me? And if he dared, isn’t it likely he’s done this to other women? And maybe gotten much further?

But maybe this isn’t typical for Peter. Maybe his money and his dimples and that ridiculous yellow car are enough to entice most women without a hint of force.

“Beryl, tell me what you want. Why are you at Peter’s office, and what have you said to him?”

“I asked him for my things back and I asked for an apology. He just walked out.”

I hear Fischer hiss on the other end of the line. Then he clears his throat. “Beryl, I will take care of this. Expect a messenger to deliver your things later today. Where would you like me to send them?”

I give him my work address, not trusting Gavin’s address with anyone associated with Peter. Then I pack up my things, thank Peter’s receptionist and leave, fingers crossed.

***

I don’t believe Gerald Fischer has magical powers to rewind time, grab my stuff from the hotel suite, and package the lot with a sharp-looking messenger—in a bow tie!—in less than three hours.

But he does. The man is a genius.

I take the messenger’s ridiculously long form and get a pen to sign it. Dan interrupts me.

“Beryl, what’s that?” Dan turns to the messenger. “What’s this? Who are you?”

Dan takes the clipboard from my hands before I can sign. He scans the page that I barely glanced at and his brows knit, a frown sharpening his gentle features.

“This isn’t about a package delivery. This is a legal document.” Dan reads it more closely and the messenger squirms. I’ve never signed for anything more serious than a FedEx package, but the messenger seemed like he warranted a fancy long form.

“Berry, this says you’re holding somebody named Peter Todd harmless and you’re agreeing to a gag—you can’t speak about him or any encounter with him to anyone, including the media. What the hell happened?”

I take a deep breath, knowing I’m going to have to tell Dan everything. Sensing I’m not going to sign, the messenger makes a move to leave with the package.