Helborg Benson & Co had offices in London, Paris, New York, and Hong Kong. Cash had started out in New York before one too many indiscretions saw him exiled across the Atlantic, and when I’d expressed surprise that he hadn’t been fired outright, he’d drunkenly confessed that blackmail might have been involved somewhere along the line.
These days, he and his small team of ethically challenged colleagues occupied a third-floor office that overlooked a statue of some British politician, a view made worse by the fact that the statue was permanently covered in pigeon crap. A lady with grey-and-purple hair came every day to feed the birds, and Cash’s colleague Lewis told me that Cash gave her fifty quid a week to spend on birdseed.
“Alexa, I’d say it was good to hear from you, but I have a feeling I’d regret that. What do you want?”
“Who says I want anything?”
“You always want something.”
“Okay, fine, I have a proposal for you. Are you familiar with Cranston Asset Management? It’s a hedge fund headquartered in Sacramento.”
“Can’t say that I am.”
“The guy who runs it is a scheming bastard.”
“Sweetheart, every guy who runs a hedge fund is a scheming bastard.”
“Well, this scheming bastard tried to steal from me, well, from my boyfriend actually, but that’s practically the same thing.”
“You have a boyfriend?”
“No need to sound so surprised.”
“You’d better tell me his name so I can send a sympathy gift.”
“Ha-ha, very fucking funny. Anyhow, Cranston Asset Management is run by Everett Cranston, and among other things, his wife tried to set fire to a friend of mine because my beloved was dragging his feet over selling them a piece of land. Obviously, I want to prevent any similar incidents from happening in the future, and it seems to me that the easiest way to do that is to remove their purchasing ability.”
No money, no land. Simple.
Cash chuckled. “So, you want to bring down a hedge fund?”
“Exactly.”
“And you want me to help you?”
“Yes.”
I pictured him with his feet propped up on his desk, smiling. “Okay, I like it. Where do we start?”
After I’d given Cash an outline briefing on Cranston Asset Management—the investments they held, the main players, and where I thought the weak points might be—I checked my messages and saw Noah Weekes had called. Just what I needed at six a.m.
I’d tried to get him replaced by a more experienced agent, but Branning said Weekes had an edge when it came to an investigation in Roxboro, North Carolina. He’d spent part of his childhood there. He knew some of the people, and he could nose around without spooking GutterMuse into moving on to another state right away.
Please, say he hasn’t blown it already.
I made myself a double espresso—appropriately caffeinated this time—then sat at the kitchen counter and dialled.
“Tell me you have good news?”
“I guess that depends on your definition of good news.”
“Well? I’m waiting.”
“There’s a dead guy.”
“A dead…guy? Not another girl?”
“Sure looked like a guy, and the ME concurs.”
