don’t know. I do know that he’s a thief and I discovered quite recently that he may have spent some time in prison. In any case, Rogers, my chauffeur, informed me that Scruggs took my vintage Jaguar. Since Farley was in the passenger seat, he didn’t question it. That was Monday afternoon. When I was going over my personal records this morning, I found twenty thousand dollars had been withdrawn from a savings account to which my son has access.”
“You’re sure Farley took it?”
“Yes, and I’m equally sure Scruggs encouraged him, but I won’t press charges. I simply want you to recover my money, my car and my son. Quietly. No headlines. Do you think you can do that, Ms. Ballanger?” He glanced at his Rolex, indicating the interview was over.
“I’ll do my best to bring back your son, Mr. Winchester. But I will need a few names and numbers—his doctor, your housekeeper and chauffeur, the registration info on the Jag.”
He nodded, turning to the console at the side of his desk and pressing a button. “My personal assistant will be happy to furnish whatever you need.”
Sam stood up. Winchester didn’t bother. Neither did he offer to shake hands. “About my fee—”
“Ms. Ettinger will take care of that, as well. Send a bill.” With that he swiveled his chair around and opened his computer.
She’d been dismissed like a chambermaid in an English melodrama! “Where do I find Ms. Ettinger?” Sam said to the back of his head.
He didn’t turn around. “She’ll be along.”
As if on cue the door opened. A wraith-thin woman with gray hair pulled into a painfully tight knot on top of her head and the worst overbite Sam had ever seen, said, “Please follow me, Ms. Ballanger.” She didn’t smile, either.
The kid may be into Space Quest, but his old man and this staff could play in zombie movies.
Chapter 3
Ms. Ettinger furnished Sam with every name and address she requested, sniffing with obvious distaste when she came to Scruggs, whose last known domicile was in a trailer park in Liberty City. Sam had the distinct impression the old harridan imagined that she lived in a trailer, too…or under a rock.
Grinning cheerfully when she took the proffered fat retainer check from the older woman’s bony fingers, Sam couldn’t resist saying, “It’s been fun, Ettie. Let’s do lunch sometime.”
“Ettie’s” glasses slipped to the end of her thin nose when she jerked her head back at the moniker. Adjusting them, she peered over the tops with squinty eyes and said, “You may exit the premises that way,” pointing to a narrow door at the end of the hallway.
I’ll be lucky if it doesn’t open on an elevator shaft with a fifteen-story drop. Sam turned the knob cautiously and saw the door led to a dimly lit hallway near the service elevators used by cleaning staff. Considering how scruffy she looked, Sam was not surprised Upton hadn’t wanted her offending W, G & K’s elite patrons again.
Maybe she should use the service elevator. That had been Ettie’s clear intent. No way. She rounded the corner to the main hallway where the light was better and perused the directory. “Hmm, the shrink has an office a couple of floors up,” she murmured to herself, wondering if he was available. Maybe she’d hit the ladies’ room downstairs first and repair what she could before tackling a guy with an M.D. and Ph.D. behind his name. Half the alphabet, Roman numerals—did all rich guys have to be such pains in the ass?
Matt had come from money but he didn’t want any part of it. And she’d fallen for him. But he was part of the club when it came to the pain part. All that lovely money just going to waste in Aunt Claudia’s bank and he’d extracted a promise from Sam that she’d forgo the loot to become his wife. “He caught me in a weak moment,” she reminded herself as she rode the elevator to the main level. A weak moment all right…in bed.
Just remembering that interlude brought a silly grin to her face. She quashed it and pushed open the door marked Ladies. Once she eased up to a mirror in the washroom and inspected the damage she knew why everyone was treating her like a leper. Her hair was standing up in clumps, her suit was grease stained and ripped, and one cheek was bleeding slightly from where sharp pieces of concrete had grazed her when that goon had shot at her and hit the wall.
She wet a bunch of paper towels and set to work cleaning herself up, then went into one of the classy marble stalls and stripped off the snagged panty hose, jamming her bare feet back into the Via Spiga pumps. One knee was skinned and a dandy bruise on her shin had already begun to discolor. Oh, well. She glanced at her watch. It was late, but if she was lucky, the doc would still be in his office treating patients. Shrinks didn’t usually keep nine-to-five office hours.
Luck was with her. The receptionist, a plain middle-aged woman with a sweet smile, informed her that Dr. Reicht was with a patient at present, but would see her shortly. Upton Winchester must have called ahead. Reicht’s suite was not as large as W, G & K’s, but it still reeked of money. The smaller reception room was furnished with heavy oak chairs. To keep potentially violent patients from busting them up if they went off their meds?
The decor was all done in neutral tones of beige, tan and white as if a deliberate attempt had been made to offend no one. A wide array of magazines lay fanned across a massive coffee table. Ignoring the enticement of reading about the lifestyles of the rich and famous, she checked over her meager notes on Farley Winchester.
Age seventeen. High IQ, low self-esteem and a probable drug habit, if his father was to be believed. She’d been provided with a photo, taken several months ago, according to the harridan. He looked like a geeky kid, the kind the jocks made fun of in high school. Tall, skinny, bad complexion, even horn-rimmed glasses, for Pete’s sake! And he was dressed in some kind of weird getup with insignias on the shirt and a wide leather belt. It looked like cheap polyester fabric accessorized with plastic.
Not exactly a preppie, are you, kiddo?
Was it a “Spacer” uniform? Hopefully the good doc could give her more info before she set out to snatch the kid from Elvis’s clutches. Her perusal of the photo was interrupted when a short, stocky man opened the inner door and said, “Ms. Ballanger?”
Reicht had a fringe of graying tan hair ringing his oversize head. Sam guessed that was a requirement to hold the brains for acquiring all those initials after his name. There were pouches the size of Pony Express saddlebags under his eyes and he possessed jowls that would be the envy of an English bulldog. Reicht’s eyes were obscured by a hedge of eyebrows that flowed uninterrupted across his forehead. He wore a rumpled tweed jacket and even had a meerschaum pipe protruding from one pocket. Jeez, talk about a walking stereotype!
Sam stood up and offered her hand, which he shook heartily, grinning as he ushered her into his sanctum. “Please hold my calls, Heidi,” he said to the secretary.
The office was as cluttered as its owner, with piles of folders and loose papers scattered everywhere. She could identify with the unholy mess, but there was something about him that gave her a hinky vibe. “I assume your friend Mr. Winchester told you why I’m here,” Sam said as he offered her a seat.
“Indeed, he did. Most regrettable, most regrettable…” He seemed to lose his train of thought for a moment, then continued. “Farley requires close supervision and regular medication to keep in touch with reality.”
“I
