Out of the Past: A Reed Ferguson Mystery Part 2

"That's three times what you normally charge."

My rates weren't publicized, so where did he get that information? "My rates go up when I'm accosted and then blackmailed," I said.

McMahon allowed himself a short laugh. "Fair enough."

He started to hold out his hand, then stopped. "Stephanie is coming over tomorrow at noon. I shall propose this arrangement to her then. Be here a few minutes before that. When you arrive, give the guard at the gatehouse your name. He'll be expecting you. Tyrone will take you home."

With that, he strolled out of the library, followed by Oscar.

As Tyrone drove me back downtown, I sat in the pa.s.senger seat, wondering what I'd just agreed to.

CHAPTER FOUR.

It was close to three in the morning when Tyrone dropped me off in front of my building. I own a third-story condo in the Uptown neighborhood east of downtown, an area with a charming mix of older houses and newer buildings like mine. I stood in the cold and watched the SUV drive off, its red taillights disappearing around the corner. Then I dragged myself up the porch and walked its length to the left side of the building, where a metal staircase led up to my condo. The Goofball Brothers lived below me, and since no lights were on there, I a.s.sumed they were already home and in bed.

I climbed the stairs, and as I reached my landing, I noticed my coat hanging from the doork.n.o.b. That was thoughtful of the Brothers. I let myself inside, tossed the coat on the couch, and since I was wound up, I grabbed a beer from the frig and headed to my home office.

Like Forrest McMahon's office, mine also has one wall with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, but I've filled mine with my favorite books, mostly mysteries and a collection of rare first edition detective novels. Against another wall is a DVD case full of film noir and detective movies that I love, along with the "best of Alfred Hitchc.o.c.k". In the corner, a gla.s.s case displays a first edition of A Study in Scarlet, by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, and I've recently added a first edition of Raymond Chandler's The Long Goodbye.

I'd recently given up my office, located near the 16th Street Mall, a pedestrian mall in central downtown, because I was hardly there. I had an online presence with a website and various social media accounts, and that seemed to do the trick. It also meant the framed movie posters from The Big Sleep, starring Humphrey Bogart and Lauren Bacall, and The Maltese Falcon, one of Bogie's most famous movies, that had been hanging in my downtown office were now here in my home office. The latter poster was rare, a gift from a previous client. All in all, my office was cozy, inviting and personal, whereas McMahon's office felt cold, dark and distant.

I sat down at my small mahogany desk, opened a drawer and pulled out a folder labeled "Chancellor Finance". I hadn't looked at it in years.

Chancellor Finance was a company I started with a few guys I met at Harvard. They were all young, ambitious, moneyed, and full of themselves. I had less money than the others, but was no less full of myself. I think they asked me to be a part of Chancellor because I was c.o.c.ky, and because, like them, I had connections to wealthy individuals and firms. We started an investment firm and built a small clientele. Things were going well, and we were creating a lot of wealth, or so I thought.

One day I overhead my partners talking about the inflated rates of returns on some of the investments. I became suspicious and started digging, and I found that I was involved in a cla.s.sic Ponzi scheme, where Chancellor Finance was paying off returns with deposits of new investors. I confronted my colleagues, but it went nowhere. And I stayed silent when I should've turned them all in. Eventually, one of the investors, a powerful man named Allen Brubaker, who knew the father of one of my partners, discovered what was going on. He chose not to turn us in, but to keep things quiet, we had to shut down the firm and pay off everyone. In order to do this, we had to pool our money, and for me, that meant using a big chunk of my inheritance. As far as I knew, very few of our investors had any idea what Chancellor had done, but Brubaker did.

I opened the folder and scanned through the doc.u.mentation, but nothing signaled a connection between Brubaker and McMahon. I sat back and looked at the time. I could spend hours researching this, but I knew one person who would be up and willing to do the research for me. I picked up the phone and put it on speaker.

"Oh Great Detective," my best friend Cal Whitmore answered in what had become his standard greeting. "You must be on a case, otherwise you wouldn't be calling at this time of night. Or morning." I'd known Cal since we were kids, and he's my sidekick, Doctor Watson to my Sherlock Holmes. He's a genius and an IT whiz, and seems to know everything about everything. And yet, I'd once seen him try to eat an orange without peeling it. He's brilliant but has little common sense. He was also known to work late into the night.

"You are correct." I sipped my beer and told him about being hired as a bodyguard.

"That's odd, being hired as a bodyguard, and odd the way McMahon approached you with this," he said when I'd finished.

"It gets worse."

"How so?"

"McMahon knew about Chancellor Finance," I said. I heard him take in a breath, surprised. "I never told anyone about it, except you."

"I've never said a word to anyone," he said.

"I know, I trust you."

He sighed. "Yeah, it just felt like I needed to say it."

"Everyone involved agreed not to say a word about Chancellor," I said.

"McMahon either has an incredible team that was able to dig it up, or he heard about it from one of the players involved in Chancellor."

"I scanned through my doc.u.mentation but I didn't find any connection." I groaned in frustration. "There are plenty of other people he could've hired, so why blackmail me?"

"Your curiosity will get the best of you."

"You should've heard him. You came from money," I said, imitating McMahon's refined tone.

"Huh," Cal said. "If he did his research on you and Chancellor, he'd know you don't have that much money anymore."

"I know." What inheritance was left after Chancellor I'd mostly frittered away as I'd jumped from job to job, trying to figure out what I wanted to do. What was left I was trying to keep for my retirement. "What's his angle? He's not telling me everything."

"You get the feeling he handpicked you very carefully?"

"I do." I yawned. "Besides Chancellor, he knew way too much about my business, how much I charge, and how I helped that friend of Dad's. But he's been sneaky about it because I didn't have any idea someone was checking me out. Which leads me to why I called you."

"And that is?"

"Forrest McMahon. I need to know everything about him and I need it fast. I've got to be back at his house at noon tomorrow, and I need to get some sleep. Can you research the guy for me?"

"You want the dirt that's not out in the open, right? And see if I can find a connection with Chancellor?" Cal was a recluse who rarely went out, and he lived on the edge of the law. He specialized in computer viruses and virus protection, and he could hack into almost any system and find just about anything. The man could uncover the Pope's secrets, if he wanted to.

"Yes," I said. "I'll bet there's something on McMahon. You don't find yourself with enemies, and needing bodyguards, without doing some shady things."

"You want this before your meeting?"

"Is that too soon?" I asked.

"Not a problem. Call me when you get up."

As I hung up, I thought about Bodyguard, starring Lawrence Tierney. He played an ex-cop who's hired to guard a rich woman who happened to be the owner of a meat packing plant. It was a B-grade film noir, full of action and violence, but it has largely been forgotten. It had just been released on DVD, and I wondered if I should buy it maybe I'd get some tips on how to be a bodyguard. I let out a cynical laugh, then finished my beer and went to bed.

CHAPTER FIVE.

I called Cal the next morning as I drove back to Cherry Hills.

"You get some sleep?" he asked. Cal was not one for small talk on the phone, and he had a difficult time conversing with others, especially women.

"Yeah. Were you up all night?"

"Uh huh. I've got a client who wants me to chase down some guys who broke through their firewall." I almost felt sorry for those guys because Cal would definitely find them.

"What'd you find out about Forrest McMahon?" I asked.

"He's an interesting guy," Cal said. "Graduated magna c.u.m laude from Brown. Family money that goes as far back as granddad, Franklin McMahon, who made a killing in stocks in the 1920s. It's rumored that Franklin was involved in some illegal schemes, possible bootlegging with mob connections. His net worth was in the hundreds of millions."

"Sounds like the Kennedys."

"That's what I thought. Anyway, old granddad pa.s.sed along his money to his son, Charles McMahon, Forrest's dad. Charles did well, too, in the stock market, and he managed hedge funds. Forrest followed in Daddy's footsteps, and created his own hedge fund, mostly with the old man's connections."

"Okay, they're a Who's Who of bluebloods," I said. "Any dirt on Forrest?"

"He's well-connected, knows a lot of politicians and Wall Street types. He runs a foundation that donates millions to various charities. As for dirt, there doesn't seem to be much, other than he knows every tax loophole around, but that's not really dirt. I didn't find much else. He's surrounded by the best legal and accounting minds available, and he looks pretty clean."

"There's got to be something there," I said. "What about Chancellor?"

"Nothing so far. It's going to take a lot more digging. You want me to do some more?"

"No, I'll do some looking when I get a chance." I thought for a moment. "Right now I'm going to watch my back and see where this goes."

"Okay, I'm going to bed for a while," Cal said. "Have fun with McMahon's daughter."

I started to retort but he'd already hung up.

A few minutes later I parked in the McMahon mansion circle drive, arriving earlier than Stephanie, as requested. The sun was shining but it was frigid outside. I climbed the porch steps and rang the doorbell, then put my hands in my pockets as I waited.

"Good morning, sir," a man in a black suit opened the door. "Mr. McMahon is expecting you."

I followed him across the marble floors in the foyer and into the living room. It was posh, decorated in soft white tones, with an antique cream-colored Louis XVI settee and matching chairs. An ornate carved fireplace mantel made of marble took up the bulk of one wall. The room was beautiful, but had the feel of a museum. I was admiring a painting that I was sure was another Monet when McMahon came in.

"It's a Monet," he said, his tone implying he knew I was questioning the painting's authenticity.

"Nice," I murmured.

Even though it was Sat.u.r.day, he was still impeccably dressed in wool pants and dress shirt. Very formal.

"Stephanie should be here shortly," he said as he gestured at the settee.

I sat down on the edge, wary of damaging it. McMahon stood near the window, looking out.

"She's not going to be happy," he said, more to himself than me. "But it's what's best."

I shifted uncomfortably. "Tell me more about her."

He turned around and gazed at the ceiling. "She's my youngest. I have two boys as well. They work for me, and do quite well." He sighed. "She has always been a handful. No direction, no desire to do anything with her life. Her mother and I have tried. I've pulled strings to get her jobs, but she doesn't take it seriously and they let her go. What can one do?"

Before I could answer, the front door opened and Stephanie stormed into the foyer. She started toward the staircase, heels clicking angrily on the tile, and then she saw McMahon standing in the living room.

"What's with Tyrone and Oscar?" she snapped, pulling off dark sungla.s.ses. "I told you I don't want those two around." Her voice was low and tight, and she had a way of emphasizing words as if they were in italics.

As she talked, I got a good look at her. Last night she'd been drowning herself in martinis. This morning she looked like she'd just crawled out of the gla.s.s. The clothes were designer tight jeans, silk blouse, and brown leather jacket but her makeup couldn't disguise the tired face or the shadowy circles under her eyes.

McMahon held up his hands to shush her. "Stephanie."

"And this time they were with some idiot who..." she stopped when she saw me. "That's him! That's the guy with Tweedledum and Tweedledee."

"This is Reed Ferguson," McMahon introduced me. "He's going to be your bodyguard."

"What? I told you, I don't need a bodyguard."

"It's not negotiable. I need you protected."

Stephanie's eyes narrowed. "What have you gotten yourself into now, Father?"

"That's not your concern," he replied. "I've chosen Reed because he's not a 'goon', as you say. He's discreet, and he won't draw attention to you."

"I don't care if he's not a goon, I still don't need anyone watching over me."

McMahon's lips formed into a tight line. "If I have to, I will cut you off."

"Ha, go right ahead." Stephanie put her hands on her hips. "You can't touch my trust."

"I can and I will. I've met with my attorneys and we've found a way."

She opened her mouth to say something, then faltered. It was obvious she wanted to call his bluff, and yet wondered if he was really bluffing. "You wouldn't dare," she finally said.

"Try me."

She glared at him for at least ten seconds. "Fine. What's next?"

"I hope to have things resolved soon and then I'll leave you alone," McMahon said.

"Yeah, right. I said, what's next?"

"Reed will go with you now." McMahon pointed at me. "He'll be with you twenty-four hours a day."

"What?" both Stephanie and I said.

"No way," she said.

"Wait." I stood up. "I'll need some time to myself. I thought those goons would watch her some."

"Of course not," McMahon said.

Oh c.r.a.p. What was I thinking?

"This is soooo not cool," Stephanie said.