Julian was thirty-nine, possessing the sharp, angular jawline of an athlete and the predatory, calculating gaze of a man who spent fifteen years tearing through corporate shell games. He was an elite forensic accountant and partner at one of the country’s most formidable corporate law firms. More importantly, he was the boy who used to split cheap sandwiches with me on the curb behind my father’s first motel twenty-five years ago.
“It’s bad, Nina,” Julian said, sliding a sleek titanium pen between his long fingers. He pointed to an intricate spreadsheet sprawling across his monitor. “It’s significantly worse than Conrad Ellis blubbered about in the lobby.”
I wrapped both hands around a mug of black coffee, still wearing a clean silk robe while my mother’s coat dried in the bedroom after being carefully hand-washed by our master housekeeper.
“Give it to me straight,” I said.
“Conrad didn’t just wire four point two million for wedding flowers and designer dresses,” Julian stated, his voice tight with suppressed anger. “That was just the final tranche to keep Blythe happy. Over the past seven months, Conrad has systematically funneled a total of fourteen point six million dollars out of your capital reserve accounts into a labyrinth of limited liability companies based in Delaware and the Cayman Islands.”
I set my coffee mug down with a sharp *clack*. “Fourteen million? Where did it end up?”
“All roads lead back to Vance Holdings,” Julian replied, clicking a key to reveal a web of financial flowcharts. “Richard Vance isn’t a billionaire, Nina. He isn’t even a multimillionaire anymore. His firm made catastrophic bets on commercial real estate bonds during the market dip last year. His accounts are underwater by nearly ninety million dollars. He’s been running a high-stakes shell game, using fresh infusions of cash from whoever he could con to pay off his most aggressive short-term debt collectors.”
I rubbed my temples, feeling a sharp ache throb behind my eyes. “And Conrad was his golden goose.”
“Conrad was an idiot who fell in love with a predator,” Julian countered bluntly. “Or rather, he fell in love with the illusion of high society. Blythe Vance targeted him. We pulled Conrad’s private calendar and hotel keycard logs from the past year. Blythe booked a suite here eight months ago under a false name, ran into Conrad at the rooftop lounge, and had him wrapped around her finger within two weeks. By month two, Richard Vance was taking Conrad out to exclusive private clubs, introducing him to governors and senators, whispering promises of making him a partner in Vance Holdings.”
“And then came the hook,” I murmured.
“Exactly. Richard Vance convinced Conrad that Ashcroft Grand had lazy capital sitting in reserve accounts doing nothing. He convinced Conrad to ‘invest’ it into Vance Holdings short-term paper for massive returns. Conrad thought he was playing Gordon Gekko. But the moment the first wire went through, Richard turned around and threatened to send the transaction logs to you and the FBI unless Conrad kept the taps running.”
A soft knock interrupted us.
Marcus Vance opened the heavy oak door. “Ms. Ashcroft? Mr. Ellis is downstairs at the private service entrance. Security detained him. He’s hysterical. He says he has physical proof that can exonerate him, and he’s begging for five minutes with you.”
Julian looked up at me, his eyes questioning. “Do you want me to have the police take him in now?”
I stood up, cinching the belt of my robe tighter. “No. Let him up. But leave two guards outside the door.”
Three minutes later, Conrad Ellis stumbled into the room.
The polished, dashing general manager who had walked the corridors of the hotel for eighteen months was gone. His tie was undone, his collar frayed, his hair disheveled, and his eyes bloodshot from relentless crying.
“Nina,” he gasped, his voice breaking. He fell onto the Persian rug, clutching a thick manila folder against his chest. “Nina, please. Don’t send me to federal prison. You don’t know what they did to me.”
“Get up off the floor, Conrad,” I said coldly. “Show some shred of dignity.”
