Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 92702 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 464(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92702 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 464(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
“I would be doing better if you’d find something. Then you could go through these books for me, and I could… handle one of the many other tasks in front of me.” There’s too much for me to choose just one thing, though Alicia’s face was what came to mind first. She needs my attention, but so does everything else. If anything, work is a good distraction from her. I’m finding it harder and harder not to give into my needs, not to go back to the way things were before.
“You always could avoid a topic you were determined not to talk about.”
I would rather not take the bait, but my patience is running thin. “What is this? A therapy session?” I forget about the bank statements, for the time being, glaring at him instead. “Because I’m not in the mood.”
“Yes, I’ve turned over a new leaf. I’m all about discussing feelings now.”
“It seems that way from where I’m sitting.”
“I suppose I’m the first person to ever tell you this, but sometimes, it’s all right to admit you want to talk. I doubt you share many of your thoughts and feelings with Alicia.”
“Don’t talk about her.” It’s one thing for me to feel conflicted when it comes to her, but I won’t have him dropping her name so casually. That’s my business, not his. She’s my wife.
He takes it well enough, letting the subject drop and returning to the ledger. “He had very neat handwriting, didn’t he?”
“I can’t believe he didn’t go blind, staring at these small numbers for so long. You know how he would sometimes hole up in his study for hours, going over the books.”
“Why would I pay someone to do something I can do myself?” he asks, and I’d swear my grandfather is in the room with me. Prince’s impersonation is that spot-on.
“That’s the trouble with you children,” I continued, waving a dismissive hand the way he so often did. It isn’t quite the same without a cigar between my fingers, but it’s close enough. “Always wishing to outsource the most important tasks. Unwilling to put a little bit of effort into making certain no one is cheating you.”
He laughs, but his laughter trails off as he lifts the book, squinting down at the numbers. “This is very recent. The most recent transactions took place in the weeks before he—before the wedding,” he quickly amends, but not quickly enough. In the weeks before he died. I wish he would come out and say it and stop being so irritatingly concerned.
“What about it?”
“A lot of payments are going out.”
“There are always a lot of payments going out.”
“But I see three here, identical amounts paid within a week of each other. Doesn’t that seem strange to you?” He brings me the ledger and lays it out across the desk. “See? The first payment is to a D.S., while the other two went to F.M.”
“Initials,” I muse, “but to whom did they refer? And why?” We both start flipping through pages, searching for those initials elsewhere. I might be able to link a line to an entry in a bank statement, but after an hour, we’re no closer to answers, and my vision is starting to blur.
D.S. and F.M. The second set stirs something in the back of my mind that’s probably unrelated, but the man’s been in my thoughts lately—rather, his absence has been in my thoughts.
“One of the guards who was here during the wedding went MIA,” I murmur, sitting back in my chair and closing my eyes after an hour spent poring over pages of small, tight handwriting. “At least, I haven’t seen him. Frankie Morris, I think it was. Someone Grandfather hired to have his back here in Miami.”
“Do you think that’s what F.M. stands for? If the old man hired him as protection, it makes sense there would be payments to him.”
“That’s not how he did things. The money went to the head of security, then was dispersed.” I’m already on the phone with my grandfather’s longtime security chief. He would have made any such arrangements in advance of Grandfather’s arrival.
“Can you put me in contact with Frankie Morris?” I ask. “I need to speak with him about the arrangements he made with my grandfather.”
“I haven’t been able to reach him—in fact, I was going to ask about him to find out whether he’d joined your crew there in Miami.”
“He hasn’t.”
“He did beg off sick immediately after the wedding.”
My free hand curls into a fist. “You thought nothing of that? Have you checked with him since? Or sent someone over to see him? Anything?” I don’t wait for an answer, instead pulling out a pen. “What’s his address? I want to speak with him personally.” Prince is already prepared to leave, waiting in the doorway for me to jot down the address.