Deadly Assets Read online

  What were they mixed up in this time?

  Allison had to think, despite the haze of exhaustion. She combed through her purse until she found a notebook and a pen. “Let’s go through what we know so far.”

  “What we know? Jack shit.”

  Allison flinched. She could feel her blood pressure rising. Not because Vaughn wasn’t right, but because this wasn’t productive. He needed to focus. And she needed to stay calm. She thought about the questions Jamie would ask, his rational way of dissecting a situation, getting to the crux of what was important.

  “One,” Allison said, voice firm. “Francesca Benini contacted us because her brother had a stroke and she’s next in line to run the business. Two, we learned she hadn’t left the house in decades. Three, her family doesn’t want her taking over Benini Enterprises.”

  “Four,” Vaughn said, with only the slightest eye roll, “Tammy Edwards’ manager calls days after Francesca signs on.”

  “Which could be totally unrelated,” Allison said.

  “You said we’re just reviewing the facts. And that’s a fact.”

  “Okay, true. Let’s go through Francesca first, then Tammy.” Allison said, relieved that Vaughn was at least humoring her. She finished writing the first four points in her notebook. “Five, Francesca hinted at family strife and maybe even conflict with shareholders abroad. She referred to ‘vultures’ on several occasions. She seemed to like, or at least respect, Maria. She was less positive about Dom. I sensed mixed feelings when it came to Alex.”

  Vaughn nodded. “Six, when I arrived to pick up Francesca, I was late. And I spotted Maria in the woods, spying on me as I drove up the driveway. Francesca didn’t like Simone, but seemed okay with Maria.” He paused, unraveling his paper napkin from the fork, knife and spoon around which it was wrapped. “How about you? Did you notice anything strange between Maria, Simone, and Francesca?”

  Allison thought back to the dinner at the Benini estate. “There was definitely something going on between them.” She toyed with the edge of the butter knife, running a finger alongside the dull blade. “And Simone seemed overly...seductive. She gave Alex the Chippendale once-over, was dressed pretty provocatively for a family dinner.”

  “Think there could be something to that? Maybe an affair?”

  “Maybe, but Simone seems to be the one person whose name doesn’t keep cropping up.”

  “That doesn’t mean anything.”

  The waitress arrived. Allison eyed the whipped cream overflowing the mug of hot chocolate and decided that calories didn’t count when you were in the midst of a murder investigation. Because suddenly this had become a murder investigation.

  When the waitress was gone, Allison said, “Seven, Francesca disappeared from a truck stop near Wilkes-Barre. She gave no indication to you beforehand that she was scared or upset. And she didn’t have a mobile phone.”

  “Right,” Vaughn said between mouthfuls of minestrone soup. “And no one we spoke to admitted seeing a woman who fit Francesca’s description.”

  Allison glanced down at her notes. She was bothered by Francesca’s disappearance for a number of reasons, but one thing really stuck out to her. “You never discussed stopping at that particular truck stop beforehand? No one at the house knew you were going there?”

  “We didn’t even know we were going there until we did.”

  “And you don’t think you were followed?”

  Vaughn put down his spoon. “I wasn’t expecting any problems, so I suppose we could have had a tail and I didn’t realize it.”

  “Do you remember seeing a white Honda?”

  Vaughn shook his head. “Even if I had been followed, whoever was following me would have to be pretty savvy. The truck stop was crowded, and Francesca is small and nondescript. Unless there was a tracking device on my car, like Maria said. Or on Francesca.”

  “Or in her bags. What if someone had put a tracking device in her purse or her suitcase. Did she have a bag with her when she went into that rest area?”

  Vaughn considered this. “I think she took her purse.”

  “Can you describe it?”

  “Square. Black, plain. Not too big.” He gestured with his hands. “And stuffed. She kept it by her feet in the car.”

  “Something that could hold papers?” Including whatever papers Alex had been looking for.

  Vaughn shrugged. “You think she was bringing more stuff?”

  “Maybe,” Allison said. “And maybe someone didn’t want her to pass papers along. Someone who put a tracking device on your car or one in her bag.”

  Vaughn’s brow creased. “That would mean someone in the Benini family is involved.”

  “Not necessarily. That’s a big property, and it abuts state game lands. It’s possible someone could have hiked in and put a device on the BMW.”

  “But what about her purse? That would have to be an inside job.”

  “A device in her purse is just a hypothetical. If one had been on your car, whoever was tracking you could have followed Francesca to the bathroom.”

  “Especially if they already knew what she looked like,” Vaughn said. “Like a family member.”

  “You seem stuck on the family.”

  “My dad was an abusive alcoholic, Allison. I know dysfunctional. But the Beninis are weird. Yes, I’m stuck on the family.”

  Allison thought of Alex and his innocent-sounding questions. She thought of Dom and his demeaning personality. She thought of seductive Simone and cantankerous Maria. What a cast of characters. “Yeah,” she sighed. “Me, too.”

  Vaughn ate a French fry, chewing slowly, clearly thinking about something. He snapped his fingers. “There was one more thing about the day I picked up Francesca. She had that purse and the three large suitcases—the suitcases we dropped off when we came here last time.”

  Allison looked at him questioningly over a spoonful of soup. “So?”

  “So I forgot about the fourth bag. It was small, probably a toiletries case. Black, unlike those red bags—which is why it stood out. I don’t remember seeing it when we pulled the big cases from the car.”

  “Could Francesca have taken it with her?”

  “It’s possible. She brought it out to the car. I’m not sure what she did with it after that.”

  “Worth checking your car again. Maybe you missed it.”

  Vaughn nodded, still looking pensive. The waitress returned to check on them. When she was gone, he said, “And then there’s Gina, Dom and Alex’s mother. Her name scrawled in that bathroom. You never told the Benini boys about that.”

  “No, and I won’t. If someone in the family is involved, that will set off an alarm. Francesca—if it was Francesca—wrote that for a reason. Although I wish we knew what the other words were.”

  “Here you go.” The waitress returned with Vaughn’s pie. He stuffed a few French fries in his mouth and, without waiting for the waitress to leave, said, “And you didn’t even list the white Honda, Maria’s call, or Paolo’s death.”

  Allison jotted them in her notebook. “And Reginald Burr, the PI.”

  “Him, too.”

  Allison considered what she’d written. “I can’t shake this feeling that the present situation was linked to the family’s past. Gina’s name has come up multiple times. Why? And who are these vultures Francesca was talking about? We need to understand the history of not just the company, but the family.”

  Vaughn stared down at his now-empty plate. “You want Jamie to do it.” It was a statement, not a question, and Allison could hear the pain in his voice. Her resolve softened.

  “Not if you don’t want him to get any more involved, Vaughn.”

  Vaughn nodded, but didn’t commit. “And what about Tammy?”

  What about Tammy? Events of the last few days were catching up with her, and her whole body lo
nged for bed. Allison put cash on the table next to her notebook, then forked a bite of Vaughn’s blueberry pie. “That’s the million dollar question. Is Tammy Edwards connected at all?”

  Twenty-Three

  Benjamin Gretchko was listed on Middletown University’s website as the Department Head of Biomedical Engineering. When Mia called to obtain his summer teaching schedule, she chose not to mention the real reason for her call, preferring to insinuate that she was a benefactor with a desire to help out the Engineering Department. With that as her altruistic goal, Mr. Gretchko’s administrative assistant was only too happy to accommodate her request.

  And so Mia found herself at the University on Wednesday morning waiting outside of a lecture hall amidst a sprinkling of young men and women in wrinkled cotton clothes and athletic shoes. For her part, she’d dressed for the role.

  She took a certain pride in the fact her black Gucci pantsuit, long forgotten in the back of her closet, still fit. If anything, it was a little loose around the waistline.

  Mia sat on a wooden bench in the solarium, next to a bespectacled teen wearing micro shorts, a fuchsia tank top and flowered flip-flops. The girl gave her only a cursory glance before returning to the e-reader she’d been staring at.

  Within seconds, Mia flashed to thoughts of her own daughter, Bridget, and felt anger wash over her. Who decided this girl should have a future, that she should graduate and go on to work and have kids, when her Bridget was denied all of that? The cruel die cast by a random universe? Or the act of a higher being, made even crueler because it was intended?

  Damn it, Mia, she thought. This girl is someone’s daughter. And here you are thinking thoughts that you should be ashamed of. Mia looked at the kid again. She noticed a baseball-size bruise on her calf, the way her foot shook up and down as she read, a pimple next to her left ear. And like that, Mia’s anger was gone.

  But not the ache. The ache, she was sure, would never go away.

  She didn’t have time to dwell, though, because in the next second, Professor Gretchko’s class let out. Mia waited until the thin crowd of students had disbanded before walking into the lecture hall. It was set up stadium style, and one lone student was still collecting his notebooks, an eye on the teacher. For his part, the teacher seemed lost in thought, a binder in front of him, a frown on his face.

  “I don’t know, Jacob,” Gretchko called to the student. “I don’t think your equation will work. Maybe if you replace—” He stopped when he saw Mia standing there. His face registered surprise, then wariness.

  He wouldn’t know who I am, Mia thought. But I know he is Katerina’s son.

  He looks just like her.

  “So how did you say you knew my mother?”

  “I didn’t,” Mia responded. She’d dropped the façade when she noticed the look of distrust that immediately clouded Benjamin’s open face. He had his mother’s thin, blonde hair and hooked nose, but his eyes were kind, lacking the squint of spitefulness that, to Mia, had been Katerina’s trademark. Mia asked to treat him to coffee. He said no at first, but, perhaps sensing her resolve, eventually nodded and said he could spare fifteen minutes.

  Mia took a sip of tea—a lukewarm Earl Grey that required an extra packet of sugar to give it any flavor at all—and glanced around the cafeteria. Other than a few students and one pot-bellied man who was wolfing a Hot Pocket down with fervor, they were alone.

  “Katerina was my client. In a former life, I was an image consultant.” Mia looked up from her tea and found Benjamin studying her intently with a mix of curiosity and guardedness. “Your mother went through a mid-life crisis. Your father hired me to help her. He thought she needed a job. That perhaps she was bored.”

  Some unwelcome emotion flashed in Benjamin’s eyes. He half-smiled wistfully, looked away in the direction of two Asian students across the room. “That was my mother. Nothing was ever enough. When life was its most peaceful, she would create a problem. Just to add some drama.” He took a swallow of coffee and wiped his mouth daintily with a white paper napkin. “She never did get a job.”

  “No, she didn’t. For three months, your father paid a driver to bring her to me. Every week. My office was near Philadelphia, so it was a hike for her. At first she was excited about the possibilities. She especially loved the fashion consultations. Back then, much of my business was about fashion. How to dress more glamorously, that kind of thing.”

  “My mother was always fashionable.”

  “Indeed, she was. But I think she liked being able to tell her friends that she was working with a professional, someone from the big city. It made her feel different. Special. Wealthy.” Mia regarded him, to see if she’d caused offense. “I don’t mean to disparage your mother, Benjamin—”

  He waved her concern away with a flourish of his hand. “Please. I know how my mother was.”

  Mia nodded, took a sip of tea. Maybe this man had perspective on his parents. Not everyone did.

  “You said ‘at first.’ I’m assuming that eventually my mother became bored, even with you.”

  Mia sighed. “Don’t be too tough on her. Making over your image, and I think deep down that’s what your mother wanted, can be hard. Very hard. It’s not about putting lipstick on a pig, as my son used to joke, but rather about digging deep, identifying the beauty inside and bringing that forward.”

  “My mother wanted to slap lipstick on the pig?”

  “Perhaps.”

  They sat in edgy silence for a moment. Mia was remembering Katerina, with her blond twists and her jealous streak. What would it have been like to grow up under her rule? She was probably as capricious and cruel a mother as she had been a client. More so. Mia could walk away. And walk away she had. When it had become clear that Katerina was no more interested in real change than she was in ending world hunger, Mia let her go.

  She’d tired of Katerina’s tart tongue and hellacious mood swings. Suggesting to Andrei Gretchko that Katerina needed a psychologist, not an image consultant, she’d quit. And for months she’d been nervous. It was never a good idea to piss off the Mob.

  Oh, Mia had known who she was dealing with. When Katerina was feeling mean, she’d often let Mia know of her connection to the Russian Mob. Mia looked at the man across from her now, wondering how much he knew.

  The sad tilt of his eyes, the defeated set of his mouth, the shoulders hunched by weight and worry...maybe he did know. Family could be a blessing—or a burden.

  Finally, Benjamin said, “So why are you here, image consultant from the Main Line?”

  “Former image consultant.”

  He smiled sadly. “Former image consultant. What could you possibly need from me twenty years later?”

  “Information.”

  “More specifically?”

  Mia toyed with how much to say. She’d been playing this in her mind all morning and half of the night before. Sleuthing was not her forte, but getting people to talk was. “Your family’s business.”

  “I don’t have any connection to the business.”

  “That’s fine, Benjamin. I don’t want to know about you. I want to know about them.”

  Benjamin sighed. “Look, if you want information on the landfill, call my brother or my father, I’m sure they’d be only too happy to talk to you.”

  Ignoring the sarcasm, Mia said, “I don’t want to talk to them. I don’t even know if the landfill is relevant.” She hesitated, then decided to trust her instinct, which said that Benjamin had no family loyalty left. “A friend’s daughter is missing. Her father works at the landfill. There are other connections to your parents’ business, too. I remember your mother telling me—”

  “That it was run by the Russian Mob.” His face had hardened, but it was fear, not cruelty, that narrowed his eyes and set his jaw. “That was then, Mrs. Campbell. Now it’s a legitimate business.”

  “Really?”<
br />
  Benjamin Gretchko stared right into Mia’s eyes and said, “Really.” But it was the defiant look of a little boy trying to fool a narcissistic mother. Mia was neither narcissistic nor easily fooled. And a man with eyes as kind as Benjamin’s could not readily lie.

  After the deed was done, Benjamin’s gaze shifted to the left. He squirmed in his seat, balled his napkin. “Is there anything else?”

  Mia didn’t move. “I got what I needed.”

  Without looking at her, Benjamin said, “I remember you, you know. I didn’t at first, but I do now.”

  Mia smiled. “Really?”

  He nodded. “I was off from school one day, sick with a bad cold. I was ten. Mother brought me with her to the appointment. You ordered me hot soup and gave me a couch to lie down on.”

  Ah, yes. Mia vaguely remembered the tow-headed boy, so beaten down by life already. She hadn’t realized it was this son. Those were Katerina’s early meetings, when she was still enthusiastic and on her best behavior. Still, she had dragged a sick child to Philadelphia to talk about dressing for a job she never intended to get.

  Mia smiled warmly. “I remember. You were a good boy.”

  Benjamin’s look was melancholy. He stood, turned to go, and then thought better of it. “Thomas Svengetti. Look him up. He lives in Gouldsboro now, in the Poconos. Don’t tell him I sent you. Don’t tell anyone.”

  Mia thanked him. “Will you be alright?” she said. Suddenly, he looked unsteady on his feet. She was worried he would topple over.

  “I’ll be fine, Mrs. Campbell. But take of yourself, okay?”

  Mia watched the man walk out of the cafeteria, the professorial air replaced by hunched shoulders and an awkward gait. Again she wondered at the vagaries of fate. How could such a good kid be born to a tyrant like Katerina Tarasoff?