Erica Orloff: The Golden Girl

“So?”

Renee leaned forward. “It would be impossible for the FBI or law enforcement to penetrate the society pages, to blend in with us, to fall into step with our world, if they had to solve a crime in our midst. And with Enron, with the various scandals…Tyco…whomever…we’re talking some crimes that not only top the hundreds of millions of dollars, but also that trickle down to ordinary people who put their faith in the officers of the board. If they claim the company to be financially sound, the public believes it until a scandal breaks and sends the market tumbling, and suddenly Mr. and Mrs. John Q. Public lose their life savings.”

“So you’re saying these women have been working as…spies? Cops?”

“Agents. They’re able to blend in and solve major financial and banking cases, even drug dealing among the elite. They can do what the FBI can’t—namely, infiltrate the path of crime among mind-boggling wealth without being perceived as interlopers.”

“I’m…stunned.”

“Well, Madison, I always knew you had talents that would put even the best and brightest to shame, but I also knew the best agents have a passion, a reason, for joining. It’s a tremendous commitment, and it means a duplicitous life. And it’s not something anyone should undertake just because she’s an adrenaline junkie or thinks it might be a lark.”

“And then Claire was murdered,” Maddie whispered.

“Yes. And I wouldn’t wish this crisis on my worst enemy, not even on the bastards in the Sinclair family who framed my beloved Pres. But when I saw the news last night, so did the Governess. Madison, rumors are floating that Claire’s death is less personal than you may think.”

“What do you mean ‘less personal’?”

“She may have been murdered to stop her from revealing financial irregularities at Pruitt & Pruitt. And the administration would like to avoid seeing another Enron. The financial markets are unstable enough as they are.”

“So you think there is something illegal going on at our company and that Claire was murdered for being a whistle-blower? I can’t believe it.”

Renee nodded. “What I, or the FBI, think is immaterial. We need facts—and we need you to get them or we’ll assign the case to someone else.”

“Pruitt & Pruitt is my life. I’m not going to let it be destroyed. If elements in my company are trying to skirt the law, I will find out.”

“If you want to do this, Madison, you need to show up here tomorrow at 1:00 p.m. and meet your handler. If you don’t show, I’ll know that it wasn’t meant to be. Just as I know you will never speak of this to anyone. Ever. And if you show up, you will be trained even further than your father’s private security firm trained you. You’ll be pushed to your limit. And I know, of anyone, you’ll succeed.”

Maddie was still absorbing all Renee had told her. She looked at her watch. “Okay, Renee, I’ll think about it. I should go, though. The police want to interview me.”

“Of course. I hope I see you tomorrow. I learned a long time ago that we can live life in a gilded cage, or we can live life fully using our talents.”

They both stood. Renee clasped Maddie’s hand. Then Maddie left the sunroom and headed for her limo.

Charlie held open the door for her. She settled into the back seat and shut her eyes, her head spinning.

“You okay, Miss Madison?”

“Yeah, Charlie. Just have a lot on my mind.”

“Want to take a drive out to the country? Leaves are in full fall glory about now.”

“No, thanks. I have the police coming at six.”

“Right. Okay. Well, you just call my cell phone if you need anything.”

“Thanks, Charlie.” She smiled, remembering how he sometimes used to sneak her off after school to get ice cream if she’d had a bad day—a direct violation of her mother’s macrobiotic rules.

A short time later, Charlie eased the limo into the parking garage. Maddie got out, leaning over the front seat to give him a peck on the cheek first. Once in the building, she pressed the elevator for up and took it to her floor.

Glancing at her watch, Maddie saw she had an hour before the police arrived. She was dreading the interview. She unlocked the door to her place, and turned to her left to deactivate the alarm—only to be hit on the back of her head with something. She guessed the butt of a gun as she saw stars, but she had, through luck or training, “felt” the presence of someone for a split second before she’d fully even processed the thought in her brain. She’d turned just enough to deflect the blow, and though the pain through her neck and shoulder was severe, she hadn’t blacked out.

Whirling, she saw a man with a black wool ski mask. He froze for a second, surprised, she guessed, that she was still standing. She immediately grabbed the seventeenth-century stone statue of a pagoda that rested atop the desk in her entranceway, and swung it for the head of her assailant. She missed but managed to land a solid hit to his shoulder.

“Bitch!” came his muffled response. He reached out, trying to grab her by the throat, but Maddie ducked—always keep them off balance, her martial arts trainer had told her—and then landed a solid punch to his solar plexus.

He doubled over, and she knew she’d knocked the wind out of him. He wheezed and coughed, then raised one fist and punched her in return, landing on her jaw. She flew backward against the wall. Still on her feet, she somehow managed to land a roundhouse kick into his thigh. Now he was really angry, she could tell.

He bellowed, grabbing her by the hair, and rammed her head against the wall. She finally screamed—loud. She clawed at his mask. But using her hair for leverage of some sort, he spun her away from himself and then dashed out the door and down the hall to the stairwell.

Maddie had fallen back against the sharp point of the corner of her dining-room table. Pain coursed through her back, but she willed herself to get to the keypad of her alarm system. She pressed the panic button, still puzzled as to how the assailant had outwitted her system. The button made the entire keypad light up with red lights. Maddie looked down the hall, the assailant now gone, and waited for the security company to dispatch a team.

Someone, she decided, was up to no good at Pruitt & Pruitt. And she was more determined than ever to figure out who that was.

Chapter 4

The security company was still there when the police arrived. The head of security, Marcus Barron, was taciturn, his face etched with fury. No one outwitted his system—ever.

The two plainclothes detectives gave their names as Tom Briggs and Ed Compton. They talked with Marcus, who kept shaking his head incredulously.

“This guy was not only a pro, disabling a camera in the hall, but he knew the building codes. He didn’t set off the alarms, because he knew what codes to use.”

“Even to her apartment?”

Marcus nodded.

Briggs, the taller cop, with a build like a former football player, said, “So who has the codes?”

“Our system, in ten years of business, has never been hacked. Ever. I presume the head of the building’s security detail is to blame for the breach. I don’t know. She says no one has her code—her father insisted on it.”

“What about her father?”

“Her own father attacked his daughter? Jack Pruitt? You’ve got to be kidding me, man.”

“Stranger things have happened in our line of work.”

“No. You don’t think she’d recognize him, even with a ski mask?”

“Then he could have hired someone.”

Maddie listened to all this with an ice pack pressed to her neck. “Look, gentlemen, this is all preposterous. I interrupted a thief. Do you have any idea what the art in this apartment is worth? In the millions. That painting—” she swept her hand toward a Picasso “—is worth over a million itself. I inherited it from my grandmother, who was an avid Picasso lover.”