Erica Orloff - The Golden Girl

Madison wasn’t sure she believed in this phantom “Governess.” In fact, she definitely didn’t. But figuring out who was the mystery person pulling strings behind the Gotham Roses was a far lower priority, behind catching Claire’s killer.

“She was born for this,” Troy said. He looked at his watch. “Time to grab our limo, Claire.”

Madison froze imperceptibly at the name, but then, without missing a beat, said, “Great. Let’s go.”

Leaving through a side entrance where a sleek, black, dark-tinted limo waited, Madison and Troy climbed in the back while Renee’s chauffeur put their overnight bags in the trunk. Madison’s was a Louis Vuitton and Troy’s a black duffel bag—what a mismatched pair, Madison thought. The chauffeur climbed behind the wheel, pulled into traffic and headed toward the United Nations area and then onward to Long Island and LaGuardia Airport.

With the privacy glass up between them and the driver, Madison said, “Can I ask you something…? Who is the Governess, anyway?”

“No one knows.”

“Renee told me that, but I figured she was just keeping me in the dark. You know, until I proved myself.”

“Hell, you’ve already proved yourself. I can tell you’re determined to see this through to the end, no matter who turns out to be behind it. No…Renee doesn’t know who the Governess is. And neither do I.”

“You have any hunches?”

“No. I mean, sometimes I think it might be Attorney General Cleghorn. Other times I guess someone from the president’s cabinet, other times the second-in-command at the bureau. Bottom line? I haven’t a clue.”

“Don’t you find all this cloak-and-dagger stuff a little weird?”

“I used to. But then I realized there was a whole shadow realm to the government, to law enforcement, to the world, that most don’t know about—and to catch the really bad guys, you need all the weapons you can muster in your arsenal. Hence the Gotham Roses. Just a prettier, classier weapon, but a weapon nonetheless. You know, people used to think that white-collar crime wasn’t so bad, wasn’t worth going after. The Savings and Loan scandals, the junk-bond kings, insider trading. But now that so many ordinary citizens have money in mutual funds, company stocks, IRAs, retirement accounts…so they can send their kids to college, people realize a few bad apples can literally wipe out whole families’ meager savings, decimate the confidence of investors. The administration knows this is bad for politics. It’s bad for the country.”

“Well, I also didn’t give my heart and soul to my company to watch some unseen bastard destroy it. Let’s go catch some bad guys,” Madison said as they crossed into Long Island. She didn’t care who the Governess was. Hell, it could be her grandmother for all she cared. She just wanted whoever was responsible for Claire’s death—and the big lump on the back of her head—to pay.

“Ms. Shipley,” the bank manager said, sweeping his head down to kiss her hand, “a pleasure to see you again.”

“Thank you. Lovely to see you, as well.”

“And what can we do for you today?”

“I’d like to visit my safe-deposit box.”

“But of course. Follow me.”

Madison and Troy had arrived the night before on the small island, a territory of the United Kingdom. Madison walked behind the bank manager. He had on a crisp blue blazer and a tie reminiscent of the sort worn at Eton. Gray slacks, expensive loafers. Very preppie. He had an uppercrust British accent, no doubt sent to boarding school, Madison imagined.

He led her into the vault area, and she produced her key.

“Excellent,” he said. He pulled out some papers. “A formality, but sign here, as always.”

Madison had practiced Claire’s signature over and over again all the previous night. She took a breath to calm herself. Troy had told her on the plane flight over that the manager would accept her at face value. Three visits hardly meant he knew Claire intimately. Relax, she told herself as she lifted the Mark Cross pen. He hasn’t an idea you’re not Claire.

Indeed, the manager didn’t even look at her signature. He pulled out a large safe-deposit box, gave her a gracious half bow and said, “Simply press the button when you’re through.”

“Merci,” Madison said. Claire had always used that…and her standard goodbye was Au revoir. She wasn’t French—just a silly habit, Claire used to tell her. Her French tutor had ingrained it into her as a child.

Once the manager left the vault, Madison opened the box. Inside were papers, neatly bundled with rubber bands, sheaves of them nestled against each other. She pulled one out and took off the rubber band. They were copies of ledger pages and computer printouts of accounts. Shell companies. There was no way Madison could make sense of it immediately, but she assumed this was the evidence she needed—the evidence Claire died for. Troy told her that the agency had forensics accountants ready to pore over anything on the waterfront-tower property at a moment’s notice.

Madison put every single paper into the alligator-skin briefcase she’d brought with her, pressed the button to exit the vault, and proceeded to the bank lobby, her heels clicking on the pink marble. Troy was waiting, and they took a cab back to their hotel.

They were staying on the beach, in rooms opposite each other. Both had ocean views from their balcony, and the Caymans at this time of year were magnificent—the waters bluer than ever, the temperature perfect, without humidity.

Once inside the hotel, they went to Madison’s room and spread all the papers out on the bed.

“Does any of this make sense to you?” Troy asked.

“Not really. Not yet. But give me a couple of hours.”

“We have five hours until we have to leave for the airport. In the meantime, I’m going to place a few calls to get the accountants ready for us at Renee’s.”

Troy let himself out, and Madison called room service and asked for a club sandwich and a Diet Coke to be sent up. Then she settled in to pore over the papers.

It was like entering a maze. She couldn’t believe that her own company could have so many accounts for, at least on the surface of things, bogus subsidiaries. She felt sick to her stomach. The S.E.C. implications alone would be enough to send shock waves through the stock exchange.

She massaged her temples. What a mess!

And then she took the rubber bands off a sheaf of papers that looked like canceled payroll checks. Madison felt even sicker. Because there was the signature of a William Charles Pruitt III. The little baby buried in the family vault. He had a social security number, and apparently, he’d been drawing several different salaries over the years at Pruitt & Pruitt.

A dead person on the payroll.

With the title of senior vice president.

Maddie leaped from the bed and went to run across the hall to tell Troy. His hotel-room door was ever so slightly ajar. From inside she could hear sounds of a struggle.

Panic swept over her. Troy had declared to security that he was an agent before the flight, and he had been allowed to check his sidearm, unloaded, through customs and security. But the Gotham Roses undercover agency was, ostensibly, a shadow one. Renee had explained to her on her orientation day that in some situations, this secretive nature would operate against them. For instance, she couldn’t identify herself as an agent on the flight. So she had no weapon. This hadn’t seemed like a problem with Troy along at the bank, but it sure as hell was a problem now.

Well, Madison thought, time to see if what Jimmy Valentine taught me works in a real situation.

She inhaled deeply, gathered her energy into her solar plexus, the way she’d been taught, and kicked the door open, surprising the man who was choking Troy. With a flying sidekick, she kicked the man as hard as she could in the side, knocking him over. Troy fell to the floor, looking, at least to Madison, as if he was dead.