Deadly Assets Read online

  Alex stroked the handle of his beer mug and watched the waitress as she placed their food in front of them.”Anything else?” she said.

  “Another beer,” Alex said. “You, Allison?”

  “Another iced tea would be great. Thank you.”

  A few minutes later, the waitress arrived with their drinks. Alex waited while she placed the glasses in front of them. When she was out of earshot, he said, “Dom was always the golden child. I guess I didn’t want to compete with that. Maybe a psychologist would say I couldn’t compete, so I went a different way all together. But you can’t really escape Benini Enterprises, so I have my music, and I have a piece of the action, so to speak. Albeit a small piece.”

  Mulling this over, Allison asked, “And Francesca, was she involved, too?”

  “Francesca’s not directly involved in the business.”

  “Directly—or at all?”

  “She doesn’t participate in the decision making.”

  “Francesca told me that she often counseled your father.”

  Alex smiled. “There you have it, then. If she was counseling him, she had no more business savvy than he did. Or we wouldn’t be in the predicament we are today.” He leaned in closer to the table. “Which brings me to the reason I wanted to see you.”

  “And here I thought it was for the pleasure of my company,” Allison joked.

  Alex didn’t react. “Did my aunt give you anything at all, Allison? Anything that may give us some indication of her whereabouts?”

  “Such as?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “That’s a bit broad.”

  He sat back, gestured with open hands. “I’m sorry, but I’m being honest with you. I just don’t know. And if you do have something, and it’s something related to her disappearance, then you could be in danger, too.”

  “But I thought your family believes Francesca bolted.”

  Alex regarded Allison, as though deciding what to say next. “We don’t know what to think. We haven’t received a ransom note. And even you must admit that staying locked up in a house for forty years is very odd behavior. So no one would be surprised if she ran.”

  “But something is making you question that. And you have reason to believe there is information out there, information that could lead to finding her.” Allison met his stare with a direct one of her own. “Something you seem to believe I have.”

  The waitress returned with their check. She looked from Allison to Alex before tossing the check in front of Alex’s half-finished plate. She walked away without another word.

  Alex’s eyes followed the waitress before returning to Allison, his expression pained. Play acting? Allison wondered. What the hell did he think she had?

  Allison thought of the white Honda the night before. Maybe she wasn’t imagining things. Maybe she was being followed. And maybe things were worse than she’d considered. She studied the man in front of her. Should she tell him about the Accord, about Tammy? Could she trust him?

  She remembered her night in Ithaca, at the estate, and the odd family dynamics. While she had chalked it all up to the tension of the night and the haunting atmosphere of the Benini household, she decided to be her own best counsel and keep these details to herself.

  She said, “We brought you her suitcases. Maybe whatever you were looking for is inside?”

  “We searched. Clothes. Only clothes.” He gave Allison a sideways glance. “But I’m sure you know that already.”

  Allison took a drink of iced tea and tried to ignore the flush creeping up her neck. Of course they had looked through the bags. But she and Vaughn hadn’t found anything, either. “You must have some reason to believe there’s something else out there, or you wouldn’t have bothered driving down here.”

  “Her safe.”

  “Francesca had a safe?”

  Alex nodded, looking suddenly exhausted. “It was left open and empty. We noticed after you called last Friday night, after Francesca…left.”

  “Do you know what she kept in there?”

  Alex shook his head. “But if it had been locked in her safe, we’re assuming it was important.”

  “She didn’t give anything of importance to me.”

  “Check with your colleague, Vaughn, please?”

  “He’d have mentioned it, but I will. What about Maria? Or Simone? Could one of them have accessed the safe and taken its contents?”

  “No one at our home had access to that safe.”

  “The man you’ve hired to investigate Francesca’s disappearance? Reginald Burr. Has he had any luck?”

  “Not so far.” Alex speared a French fry with a fork, examined it, and put it back down on the plate. Eyebrows gathered, he said, “So you have nothing, Allison? I’m sorry, then, to have wasted your time.”

  Allison thought about the file folder of papers Francesca had handed her the day Allison left Ithaca. Francesca hadn’t said a word about safekeeping or privacy, and a cursory glance had shown some marketing brochures and Internet print-outs about the company. There were a lot of documents, but nothing that seemed controversial. Certainly nothing that would raise an eyebrow, much less cause a kidnapping.

  Allison said, “The things your aunt gave me were taken from the public domain. I don’t know what you think she may have had in her possession that would have triggered her disappearance, but whatever it was, she didn’t give it to me.”

  Alex didn’t try to hide the disappointment on his face. He picked up the check, pulled his wallet from his pocket.

  “So who will be CEO now, especially with Francesca missing? And your father…passed on.”

  Allison pulled open her purse, but Alex waved her away before she could get to her wallet. He placed a platinum American Express card in the faux leather folder with the bill.

  “I asked you to dinner, the least I can do is pay. And to answer your question, that remains to be seen.”

  “Is the succession plan defined after Francesca?”

  “No. It will be Dom, I suppose. But right now, we’re in limbo.”

  “And you?”

  “Would like my aunt to return.”

  Allison smiled. “But I thought you said the notion of her running Benini Enterprises was absurd. Ridiculous was your word, if I remember correctly.”

  “It is ridiculous. But until Francesca’s back, we have no leader...and that’s even worse.”

  “Who is acting CEO? Surely someone’s in charge.”

  “Dom. But only because he assumed the role. My sister and Simone also believe themselves to be in line for the throne, so to speak.”

  Alex handed her a card with several names and numbers scratched on it in blue ink. “That’s my hotel address and some additional contact information. If you find anything, or if you notice anything strange, or even if you just want to talk, please call me. Despite what you may think about my family, I want my aunt back.”

  Allison took the card. But she wouldn’t be calling.

  Eighteen

  Allison thought about her conversation later that night while she went through the materials Francesca had given her. It felt surreal. A saxophone-playing Italian businessman with a dead father and a missing aunt. But then, what about this arrangement hadn’t been strange?

  She was in her home office, comfortably dressed in cotton pajamas and the slippers Brutus most liked to steal. The dog was curled next to her, head on his paws, sights set on her feet. Allison reached down absentmindedly and scratched him behind the ears. His focus never wavered, but Allison’s mind kept drifting to Alex Benini and his amused smile. Pragmatic, grieving musician…or shyster? Damn if she knew.

  “You’re not getting them,” Allison mumbled to Brutus. “So stop with the pathetic face.”

  Brutus wiggled a little closer.

  “Nice.” If it hadn’t b
een for her last client fiasco—the former Congressman’s daughter, Maggie McBride—she wouldn’t have this canine beast living with her. She smiled. So good could come from tragedy. That damn dog tugged at heartstrings she hadn’t even known she had.

  Allison paged through the stack of photocopies Francesca had given her, reading through each piece of paper, deciphering its significance. She needed some order to the mess, so she began sorting: marketing materials in one pile, financial summaries in another, family-related articles in a third. She remembered the moment Francesca had handed her everything. She hadn’t seemed upset. But had Allison missed some cue, some hint that there was a hidden message? At the time, it had simply been another engagement. An unusual one, but an engagement nonetheless.

  When she was finished sorting, Allison counted five piles. In addition to marketing, finances and family, she’d added two categories: Italy and miscellaneous. Then she paged through each piece of information again. She stopped when she got to family. The first two articles were simply promotional pieces about the Benini family: photo ops of Paolo and Simone, snippets about each of the boys. Nothing about Maria other than a mention buried in a PR piece. Maria wasn’t even in the family photograph. And neither was Francesca.

  The third piece of information in the family category was an old newspaper clipping about Tommaso Benini, Francesca’s father, and his launch of Benini Enterprises. He was a small, dark-complexioned man with a thick head of white hair and a thin mustache. He had kind eyes, though, and Allison saw in the grainy photograph the same amused look Alex often wore. And she saw echoes of his frame in Dom: stout, short stature, broad shoulders.

  Allison scanned the remainder of the article. Tommaso credited his success to his mother, Antonia Benini, and her keen business prowess. Allison recalled Francesca’s description of her grandmother as a shrew, a woman who disliked other women. Including Francesca’s mother. Including Francesca.

  Francesca had been sent to boarding school when she was very young. And then she was sent to live in the United States. Had Antonia Benini disliked her granddaughter that much? And if so, why? Or had Francesca been escaping the limiting expectations of the family matriarch.

  But then why arrive in the States and live like a hermit? What freedom was there in that?

  Frustrated, Allison turned to the stack of papers about Italy. An article from Condé Nast about Calabria. A piece about Francesca’s hometown village printed off an Internet site that Allison didn’t recognize. Both were written from a travel perspective. One snippet about the Benini home town caught her attention. It was a veiled reference to family feuds and one family’s failed efforts to broker a truce.

  Francesca had mentioned that theirs was one of the prominent families in town.

  She’d also mentioned that Benini Enterprises had shareholders in Italy they needed to please.

  Could Francesca’s disappearance be related to a family feud? Could some of those rival family members be Benini shareholders? She made a note to ask Jamie to research Benini board members and large shareholders. Just in case.

  Quickly, Allison jotted down the name of the Internet site. Travel Suspense—“A dot com with a story.” Hmm, she thought. Again, she questioned Francesca’s reasons for including the article. Suddenly everything seemed ominous. Remember Al, she chided herself, small villages in Calabria are probably not the most sought after vacation destinations in Italy. So there could have been no reason other than availability of information for including this article. The feud reference could be meaningless.

  Curious, Allison ran a Google search. Besides Wikipedia, the search engine turned up forty-two references to Francesca’s home town, and thousands in Calabria. So there was plenty of material to choose from. Why this piece?

  Finally, Allison turned to the miscellaneous pile. In it was an article on wine-making, a piece on Ithaca vineyards and Gina Benini’s obituary. This she read with a heavy heart:

  Giovana (Gina) Benini, nee Pittaluga, beloved wife of Paolo Benini, died on January 8, 1976. She is survived by two sons, Dominic and Alessandro (Alex) Benini, her parents, Pietro and Rosalia Pittaluga, and nine brothers and sisters. Services will be held at St. Anthony’s Catholic Church in Ithaca. Mrs. Benini, a devout Catholic, was a long-time member and patron of St. Anthony’s.

  Allison found the last line interesting, especially considering the manner in which Gina died. Thou protest too much, she thought. Perhaps. Or perhaps Gina Benini was a depressed woman who took her own life—and she was also a devout Catholic. End of story.

  Allison clicked off the Internet and shut down her computer. It was well after midnight, and had been an incredibly long and exhausting day. She was ready to retire. Beside her, Brutus snored and his paws twitched, his fixation on her slippers traded for the unknown recesses of the canine dream world. She hoped his dreams were better now that he had a warm home and two square meals a day.

  Allison began clipping together the various piles of papers when she heard the sound of glass breaking and then the shriek of her alarm. Like a Greyhound after a rabbit, Brutus was up and running downstairs, barking furiously, before Allison could even stand.

  Allison yelled after him, grabbed her cell and dialed 9-1-1 as she chased her canine friend.

  Pulse racing so that it felt like her chest would explode, her eyes took in the shattered dining room window. A large white rock lay in the middle of the floor. She ran into the kitchen and grabbed a knife, then stood, back to the wall, so she could see all angles. Brutus continued barking, running from the broken window to the front door and back again. Afraid he was going to cut his paws, she called him to her and held his collar, her own jaw clenched to the point of pain.

  Fighting a rising sense of panic, Allison thought about the white Honda. About Alex’s admonitions to be careful. With a glance at her shattered window and the white rock that, she was certain, didn’t stand for truce, Allison was suddenly certain that two client disappearances were not a coincidence. Whoever had taken them was warning her away.

  She hoped the cops arrived quickly.

  “Pro’ly kids,” said the officer who took Allison’s report. His name was Bert Solomon. He and a back-up had walked around her property, looking under bushes and in the neighbors’ yards. Finding nothing, they stayed while Allison searched her house, Brutus by her side. She also turned up empty-handed.

  Officer Solomon was medium height, with a black uni-brow and a thick mustache. He seemed unconcerned about the rock until Allison mentioned the disappearance of her clients.

  “Huh,” he said. He looked at his colleague and then back at Allison. “I don’t like coincidences.”

  Allison said, “I don’t either.”

  “Could be some kind of warning,” Solomon said. His colleague nodded. “You live alone?”

  “Yes. Except for Brutus.”

  “That’s one ugly dog,” the other officer said.

  Allison scowled at him. Officer Solomon took another glance around the room, then at her left hand, before landing his gaze on Brutus. He chewed at his lip, causing the mustache to move like a fuzzy caterpillar along his face.

  “Any friends or family you can stay with?” Solomon asked.

  “I’ll be fine.”

  The officer looked around. “Maybe a boyfriend? Your father? I’m not so sure you should stay here alone, not with that window broken.” He spoke with an air of strained and practiced patience.

  Allison was quickly losing her own. “Look,” she said. “I’m fine. I told you about my client so you wouldn’t dismiss this as a silly kid prank.”

  “Prank or no prank, you really shouldn’t be alone,” Solomon said again.

  “I said I’ll be fine. Besides, I’m not alone.” Allison reached down and stroked Brutus. She hated the suggestion that she needed a man to be safe. She also hated the nervous energy that made her fingers shake and her mind whirl.


  She’d patch up the window, reset her alarm and let Brutus do what he did best—protect her. What else could she do? She’d be damned if she was going to call Jason. If he came over for this, he’d never let her out of his sight. No, it was better that he not know about the rock. She’d get the window pane replaced first thing in the morning.

  Anyway, maybe it had been a kid’s prank, she told herself.

  But no comfort came. Because she knew in her gut that it wasn’t.

  The next morning, Allison arrived at the office before eight o’clock. She’d spent the entire car ride looking over her shoulder for a white Honda—or any suspicious vehicles. Happy to get to work, she trudged into the building and up to First Impressions. She found Vaughn already in his office.

  Allison debated how much to tell him and finally decided on the whole truth.

  If the rock had been someone’s idea of funny, then no one had anything to worry about. If it was more, Vaughn could be in danger, too.

  Vaughn listened to the details of her dinner with Alex and the ordeal with the broken window without a trace of emotion. When Allison was finished, he stood up from his desk and disappeared into the kitchenette for a moment. He came back with two mugs of coffee and handed her the caramel-colored one.

  “You don’t drink coffee,” Allison said.

  “I do these days.” He reached in his top desk drawer, pulled out a file and handed it to Allison. “Look what Jamie pulled together last night.”

  “Already?” she replied, taking the packet.

  She wasn’t surprised, though. When she said Jamie could help, she meant it. Earlier that year, he’d been instrumental in solving two murders.

  His mind, not to mention his understanding of computers, was nothing short of amazing.

  Allison was staring at a rap sheet. Two pages worth of petty crimes spanning three decades. All for one Scott Berger.

  “Kai’s dad,” Allison said. “A criminal?”