Latte Trouble - By Cleo Coyle Page 0,38

On its monitor, a screen saver with the stylized logo of TB Investments flickered. Tad smiled at us both and leaned forward.

“So, Mrs. Dubois, you’re interested in purchasing a large block of Lottie Harmon shares?”

“That’s right, Mr. Benedict,” Madame replied, quite convincingly I thought. “I own shares in several large concerns, most of which I patronize in my daily life. You see, I believe in that old adage—one should only invest in businesses and products one would patronize or understand. I do purchase high-end fashions, so when I heard the Lottie Harmon name…”

“Of course,” Tad said smoothly. “But I must warn you that this is a special offering. Shares in Lottie Harmon are in great demand.”

“I was not aware Lottie Harmon was a publicly traded label.”

Tad shifted in his seat. “TB Investments is the only firm authorized to trade Lottie Harmon shares, and only in limited amounts.”

Madame feigned excitement. “An exclusive offer! Now I am enthusiastic…I do hope the amounts are not too limited.”

“Well…”

“Oh, I don’t want to be selfish. I’m not interested in taking over controlling shares in the company. I just want to make a substantial investment in the concern—perhaps thirty percent…”

Tad didn’t even blink. “I’m sure that amount could be secured, unless some of the other investors have beaten you to the punch.”

Then Tad shifted his eyes to me.

“So, Ms. Gray? Has any facet of TB Investment’s prospectus piqued your interest?”

I adjusted my tinted, tortoiseshell, Jackie O glasses and sighed theatrically. Up to this point I’d kept my conversation to a minimum in front of Tad, fearing the sound or cadence of my voice would somehow reveal my identity. I knew my disguise had been effective so far—I didn’t even recognize myself in the reflection on the plate glass window. Behind the wig even the shape of my face was obscured, and no one could see my eyes because in anything less than a brilliantly lit room like this one, the tinted glasses rendered me nearly blind, so who could see in? But as much as I wanted to pump Tad Benedict for more information, I was forced to remain silent due to my fear of exposure. Instead, I sighed, shook my head solemnly as I waved my hand in a dismissive gesture.

Tad put his arms on the desk, leaned closer. “Surely there’s something here to entice even you, Ms. Gray?”

I felt him watching me, waiting for a reply. I cleared my throat, preparing to unleash the nasal drone I’d used on Clipboard Lady.

“Well—”

Suddenly the door burst open without a knock. Clipboard Lady was there, hair windblown, face flushed.

“You’ve got to come…” she stammered. “Trouble on the deck.”

We heard the voices a moment later. Loud, angry voices—one of them familiar—Matteo.

Tad was on his feet and out the door. This time he didn’t even excuse himself. I rose and followed him into the hall, Madame close behind. A blast of cool night air was streaming into the passageway, the dank river smell potent. I noticed another door was ajar. Through it I spied a large stateroom were several men and women milled around in various states of shock or surprise. All wore Wall Street attire, their pie charts, graphs and Power Point machines at the ready. In the middle of that room, a table had been upset. A chair, a broken laptop computer, and a shattered pitcher of water lay on the floor.

The draft was pouring in from the bulkhead door, now flung wide. From outside, on the deck, the angry voices continued.

“Don’t they teach you the alphabet in Europe?” Matteo was barking. “I thought your educational system was supposed to be better than ours. Or did they do the ABCs backwards, like everything else in the Old World?!”

As I hurried to the door, I could hear Tad Benedict trying to restore calm. “Listen, gentlemen, this can be resolved—”

“Perhaps after you toss this…this cowboy over the side.”

The voice that interrupted Tad was dripping with arrogance, sarcasm, and contempt—so much so that I recognized the speaker even before I stumbled onto the chilly deck.

Eduardo Lebreaux.

In his late fifties, Lebreaux was the kind of oily Continental who would have been at home in Casablanca, angling how to cheat at cards in Rick’s Café American. He had dark brown hair, thinning on the top and a little too long at the back, a mustache, and a pensive look to his pale green eyes. No wrinkles but the sort of blotchy skin acquired from drinking and smoking to excess. His evening clothes

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