Erica Orloff - The Golden Girl

“It’s that guy…from the FBI,” he whispered.

Madison rubbed her eyes. “Let him in.” Her body ached, and she felt as if she’d been sucker punched in the gut.

Troy nodded at John, shook his hand and identified himself, and entered with another agent he introduced as Mark Layton.

“I brought the briefcase, Madison, but before we go over all that, we want to get you to a safe house. Right now, we were able to talk to the M.E. He’s saying two people were blown up in the limo—you and Charlie. That way we can keep you safe—no one’s looking for you—until this is all straightened out.”

“How long will that be?”

“I hope not long at all. But I can’t make you any promises. All I do know is at this point, someone is very, very determined to see you very, very dead.”

“What about John?”

“He’s a material witness. We can hide him, too, but I think sticking a detail on him for a few days will be enough. We’ll say he saw nothing. Honestly, with you dead, they probably think they’re home free.”

“Can you catch whoever did this? Charlie was…he was a really good man.”

“We’re working on it, Madison. We’ll get them. How quickly depends on what’s in this briefcase you had me bring.”

“Okay. So when would I go to this safe house?”

“Now, Madison. There isn’t a lot of time to second-guess this whole thing.”

Madison’s gut twisted some more. She had gone from the height of being in love, dancing at the Waldorf, to death, grief, and now life on the run, all in the space of one night.

She turned to face John. “I have to go with them. I can’t let anyone else die because of me. They’ll watch you for a few days. But promise me you’ll be careful.”

“Forget about me, Madison. You’re the one who’s in danger. How can I get in touch with you?”

Madison looked at Troy.

“You can’t. Not directly.” He took out his wallet and handed John a card. “You can call my cell and relay messages. And I can relay them to you. But until this blows over, your best bet is just to act the role of the grieving boyfriend.”

Madison rushed over to John and kissed him on the lips. “I’m going to get these guys. I’ll see you soon.”

Looking every bit the part of the grieving boyfriend, John nodded. “Love you.”

“Love you, too.”

Then, with an equally grieving heart, Madison nodded at Troy and left John’s apartment, not quite sure of when—or if—she would see him again.

Chapter 20

The safe house turned out to be a nondescript motel in southern New Jersey. When they arrived at the room, Madison crashed for an hour or two on the very lumpy mattress, exhaustion overtaking her. When she awoke, Troy and two other agents—Layton and an agent named Lawson—were there, eating from a platter of cold cuts and catching some of the news coverage of her “death” on CNN.

Stock in Pruitt & Pruitt plummeted with this latest twist, but the board quickly announced the succession of Madison’s uncle Bing, and Wall Street analysts thought there was the possibility of a rebound based on rumors of an acquisition of a cereal and sports-drink company.

“Frankly, Jim,” one analyst said, staring at the camera, “Pruitt & Pruitt has a long history stemming from early in the last century. They invest wisely, diversify intelligently, and have had good leadership. I think they can rebound from this.”

Madison padded into the bathroom and rubbed cold water on her face. In her mind, she could picture Charlie offering to go into the store for them. Then the car being blown to bits. Her only consolation was he hadn’t suffered—and it was very, very small consolation.

Madison squeezed her eyes shut. When she opened them again, she sighed, rinsed her face again, then opened the toothbrush and toothpaste the agents had picked up for her—along with a hairbrush and mouthwash. She guessed they’d also go shop for some clothes for her. Though she doubted she’d be dressed in Ralph Lauren. More like whatever was on sale at the local department store. She brushed her teeth and ran the brush through her hair, then resolutely left the bathroom, ready to lay out her suspicions for the FBI.

“Guys…I’m ready to go over my theory now.”

“Great,” Troy said.

The motel room was shabby, and included a kitchenette with an ugly, brown Formica table and four uncomfortable chairs. Commandeering the table, Madison opened the briefcase and asked the agents to each take a seat.

“Okay, gentlemen, see if you can follow all this…. Many years ago, my uncle, the infant William Charles Pruitt III, was kidnapped and murdered. He was the second child of my paternal grandparents. My father hadn’t been born yet. The case created a frenzy. Even the president of the United States at the time called the local police, as well as the head of the FBI, asking them to put all their manpower into solving the crime. It looked like an inside job. Eventually, suspicion pointed to Victor Karaspov, a Russian immigrant employed by the household as a caretaker.”

Madison pulled out old photos and a couple of books from the library on the kidnapping. She had paper clips marking pages of photos. Most were in black and white.

“Victor claimed a lot of things. First, that he had no interpreter, so he didn’t understand the charges. Then that he was framed.”

“Aren’t they all?” Lawson, a solidly built agent with black hair and an olive complexion, said, rolling his eyes.

“I thought so, too,” Madison said. “But there’s more than meets the eye. Eventually, he changed his story, saying that he had kidnapped the baby—but not murdered him—by then the body had turned up, burned beyond recognition. He said he had a child, and he could never do anything so cruel, that he was the fall guy for a larger group of men. Later, they said a botched rescue attempt—a police raid—may have hastened the murder.”

“Was he framed?”

“Well, no one believed him. But in his interviews he came across as anything but a criminal mastermind. Eventually, Victor died in prison, still professing his innocence. That’s where the story ended, except for some enterprising journalists. One of them, a man named Harrison, was originally from the town where the body was discovered. He had grown up fascinated by the case and did his own investigation. He found evidence that Victor’s family received a payoff—no one knows from whom. They took the money, moved away, and changed their name. Victor spent the rest of his years in prison with no visitors from his family. But his wife remarried eventually, and his daughter was apparently quite well provided for.”

“Okay, so how does this intersect with you?” Troy asked. “Other than the attack at the cemetery in Venetian Lake and a false social-security number for a long-dead baby.”

“Ask me the last name of the man Mrs. Karaspov married.”

“I’ll bite.”

“Gould.”

“Is that supposed to mean something to me?” Mark Layton asked.

“Christ…” Troy said, “that’s the name of Bing Pruitt’s assistant. Katherine Gould.”

“You got it…. And there’s more. Okay…so the reason—aside from the incident at Venetian Lake—that I looked at this, was that the papers Katherine gave me don’t match the ones I got from Claire’s safe-deposit box.”

“What do you mean…don’t match? They’re both cooked books.”

“Yeah. But Claire’s cooked books all point to Bing approving the payments to the nonexistent William Pruitt. His signature is on a lot of the papers. And Katherine’s cooked books all point to my father.”

“I don’t get it,” Troy said, leaning over as Madison spread out both sets of false papers.