Beating Ruby (22 page)

TWENTY-THREE

The Toblerone

“And remember that in a couple’s darkest hour, there’s always a light at the end of the tunnel: divorce.”

—Aurelia Nichols & Jillie Bean,
101 Tips to Catch Mr. Right

“That was weird,” I announced as we exited the building.

Alex shrugged. “I think he’s a pretty nice guy.”

“It’s the bromance talking.”

He laughed. “Maybe. What do you say we call Mr. November to see if he’s found anything interesting?” As he said this, he pulled out his phone and started dialing. March picked up.

There were no pleasantries exchanged; Alex went to the point immediately. “Anything new?”

I scooted closer to listen as, on the other end of the line, March spoke. “Based on Mr. Hendry’s map, I played tourist on the mountain roads surrounding Vaduz. I’m almost certain that they took Roth to Gaflei, a charming hamlet northeast of the city. There’s a closed trail leading to a manor higher in the woods. It’s a private property owned by Platt Paradise Limited, a Bahamas holding, and quite obviously a shell company.”

“Good, I’ll have my colleagues do a search to find out who’s hiding behind it,” Alex replied.

I performed a fist pump. Now we were getting somewhere! One thing nagged at me, though: March didn’t like his partner much, that I knew already, but there was an edge to his voice that I didn’t think had anything to do with their feud. “March? Is there anything else? You sound a little preoccupied.”

He remained silent for a couple of seconds before answering. “I believe I’ve seen faces I know, guarding the access to that trail.”

Alex’s jaw tensed. “Can you elaborate?”

“No. Not until I’ve figured what it means myself. I’ll see you in Vaduz, Mr. Morgan,” March concluded in a cutting tone.

I grabbed the phone. “Wait a second!”

All I got in response was a beeping sound. He had hung up on us, reminding me of just how frustrating he could get when he switched to his secretive douche mode.

I sighed and looked at Alex. “Sorry about that.”

“I’m getting used to it. He’ll tell us when we get there.” Alex pulled out his car keys. “L
ooks like we’ll be spending the night in Liechtenstein after all. Let’s go get our bags.”

My shoulders slumped. “That hotel had such a nice breakfast, though.”

“Be careful, there’s a speed limit.”

I thought Alex was exaggerating. We had already covered more than thirty miles on the freeway in the direction of Vaduz, I was in the driver’s seat, and we were still alive. So, did his hand really need to hover around the steering wheel like that?

“Oh, come on! This car is magic! It’s even following the white lines—I don’t even have to do anything!”

I pulled my hands off the Tesla’s wheel to demonstrate; Alex’s immediately moved to replace them. “I should have never let you drive. You’re a road hazard, Island.”

I rolled my eyes. “You can’t be serious. I never raced with anyone the way you did with March. I haven’t driven since I got my license!”

His breath caught in his throat. “You
wha
t
?
”

“Well, not exactly. My dad has this old Plymouth he keeps at his Hamptons house, and sometimes, when we go there for the weekend, he lets me drive it in the alley.”

Alex performed a slow facepalm with his right hand; the left one never left the wheel. “You told me you knew exactly what you were doing!”

“Theoretically.”

“You said—and I quote you—‘Electric cars have no secrets for me.
’
”

“I read Wikipedia a lot.” I hit the blinker as I said this, watching with an ecstatic grin as the car did a lane change on its own.

“Well, enjoy it while it lasts,” Alex announced in an ominous voice. “Because you are
never
touching this wheel again after today.”

“You’re sounding like March.”

“It’s because you need discipline.” He sighed.

On my right, the large touch screen serving as a dashboard started beeping. “You have an incoming call.”

Alex tapped the screen. “It’s Murrell.”

Indeed, as soon as he had accepted the call, Agent Murrell’s face appeared on screen. He was sitting at a desk, and I could see computers and people behind him. I realized it was the first time I was seeing him without his trench coat.

Possibly even more exciting, the hint of a smile danced on his lips. “Good morning, Morgan. How’s the weather in Switzerland?”

“Lovely. Do you have anything for me?”

“Don’t I always?” Murrell smirked as a secondary window appeared on screen, displaying several pictures of a middle-aged guy with short
sandy-blond hair and deep bags under his eyes. “Our analysts traced Platt Paradise back to an Austrian investment advisor named Niklas Van Kreft.
Born in 1967 in Vienna, graduated from the London School of Economics
in 1981, joined J. P. Morgan and married Nancy Lyles, a British dermatologist, that same year. Divorced three years later, no children.

“In 2009, following an investigation for insider trading, he left his position in the firm as a partner to fund his own investment company based in Vaduz: Adventia AG. It’s mostly been a succession of shady but profitable deals and long-simmering lawsuits, since. He’s banned from operating a business in most of the United States and in three European countries.”

Alex nodded. “Okay, and beyond that? What’s your feeling about him?”

Murrell leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. “I’d say Van Kreft doesn’t fit the profile. He’s made some exceptional deals, also sold a lot of junk to his clients. Still, he was never really big enough or connected enough to interest us.

“Never been linked to any homicide before, no significant ties to any government, and the amounts he lost or swindled from his clients remain within an acceptable range for a financial advisor: less than twenty million worldwide in six years, for a ninety-seven million net benefit over the same period. The guy is sketchy, but he’s solvent, and he doesn’t play in the big leagues.”

“Well, maybe he decided to up his game. All our evidence points to him, so far.”

“Or maybe he’s not acting alone,” I suggested. “Maybe he’s doing the thinking, and someone else is handling the killing.”

On the screen, Murrell’s lips pursed. “Would make sense, Miss Chaptal. Van Kreft lives in the manor most of the time. Are you planning on paying him a visit, Morgan?”

“I certainly am.”

“What about—” Murrell paused, his eyes darted to me. “Mr. November? He’s not with you?”

“He’s in Vaduz already. He had some input of his own regarding Van Kreft’s crib, which I have yet to hear,” Alex said, his tone cooler.

“All right, just be careful.”

With this, the call window turned black, indicating that Murrell had hung up.

I drove for a while in silence afterward—yes,
the autopilot
was driving, shut up—pondering our conversation with Murrell. Alex seemed just as deep in thought. We were entering a tunnel when I had an idea. “Alex, what sort of stuff do you need to make someone think you’re rich? Would it work if someone showed up with, say, really expensive jewelry and a suitcase full of cash?”

He shifted to look at me in the darkness, the tunnel’s lighting casting golden flashes of light across his face. “I’m not sure where you’re going with this.”

“Well, I was thinking that breaking into that manor would be difficult and maybe even dangerous if it’s well guarded. So maybe one of us could pretend to be a potential client, you know, to get invited there.”

“Island, the CIA doesn’t send us undercover with millions of dollars to blow as we please. That’s in
James Bond
.”

“But what if someone used their own money?” I risked.

He chuckled and shook his head. “It’s a terrible idea, and I don’t think your savings account will be enough for that. Were you planning on asking March?”

No, I was actually planning on using my own money—just some real estate here and there, and a few million euros my mom had hidden in various offshore bank accounts before her death, and which I had inherited from her at the same time I discovered the Cullinan’s existence. Not much, really. It dawned on me, though, that Alex’s lack of reaction suggested that this was not in the CIA’s files, maybe because I had been so uncomfortable with all that money until now that I hadn’t dared touch it, or even contact those banks, for that matter. I decided against telling him.

My fingers tightened on the wheel. “No, I meant . . . Sorry, I guess that was a stupid idea.”

He chuckled. “Infiltration is a bit more difficult than you imagine, but don’t worry, we’ll find a way to meet Van Kreft. For now . . . how about we take a lunch break, baby?”

I flinched upon hearing the b-word. Carried away by our investigation, I had allowed myself to once again postpone the inevitable. “I’ll take the next exit, Walenstadt. We can probably grab a sandwich there.”

Alex stretched in his seat. “Sounds great!”

After we had bought cheese sandwiches and some Toblerone in a bakery, we both leaned against the car on the side of the road and ate in silence. Alex had confiscated the car keys from me—because I was apparently undeserving of my driver’s license—and gazed at the grandiose scenery of the Swiss Alps surrounding us as he finished his chocolate bar.

I was nibbling on the last bite of my Toblerone as well. The sound of his voice startled me. “What’s the deal between you and March?”

I breathed deeply.
Here we are. Breakup talk in three, two, one . . .
“Alex, listen—”

He shifted to face me, perusing me with a sudden intensity that raised goose bumps on my forearms. “Did you lie to me? When you said you hadn’t slept with him?”

“No!”

I was taken aback not so much by his blunt approach but by the lack of emotion in his voice. As if it didn’t matter either way. When he spoke again, I could no longer meet his eyes. “So? I’m all ears, Island.”

“He helped me find the Ghost Cullinan that my mother had stolen. I’m sure you already know that. We gave it back to . . . the person who wanted it.” One more word and we’d have to discuss the Board, or Dries’s implication in the theft. I chose to stop there.

A bitter smile appeared on Alex’s lips. “He came to help you, just like that? Out of nowhere? And as soon as Erwin strikes a deal with you, he’s back in the picture. I suppose that’s a coincidence as well?”

My fingers dug into the cotton of my dress. “Alex, it’s a little complicated, even for me. There are . . . things from the past tying me to him. And when we were looking for the Cullinan—” I tried to ruffle my hair so it’d conceal my ears. I could tell they were on fire and that the rest of my face would follow soon.

“He’s the ex you told me about.”

There was no questioning in voice, just a calm certainty. His tone was light, conversational. He wasn’t even looking at me anymore; his gaze focused on a point in the horizon, far beyond me. His eyes had never been so cold, not even when he had questioned me back at EMT.

I managed to get the words out of my throat, struggling to form each syllable. “Alex, I’m sorry. I don’t think we’re good for each other. I want to stop . . . I want to stop for good.”