At Wit's End (11 page)

“The blend comes from CoffeeBot. You smell fantastic.” He kissed her cheek, squeezed her shoulders and stepped around her to the counter and the sweet ambrosia that was freshly brewed morning coffee. He poured a mug and moved a stool around the island so he could sit across from her. “Did you sleep okay?”

She had to clear her throat. “Yes, thank you.” Oh Lord, here comes Miss Prissy. Wit merely grinned. He’d
known that tell already. She acted somewhat prim when she was nervous. He reached for and grasped her tiny hand, held it. The tight look around her eyes began to melt away.

“How did the test with your program go?” Marie swung her foot over the bar of the stool she sat on. She rubbed at her eyes, hoping to push the sleepy feeling away.

“Ah.” Wit held up a finger in a
just a minute
gesture. He stepped out of the kitchen and took his coffee with him. Marie refilled hers and watched when he came back. He was walking with a jaunty air and the sight of Wit in nothing but boxers nearly made her lose her train of thought.

He laid a sheaf of papers down on the counter and Marie glanced at it. “Who’s Weston Manning?” The name was in bold print across the top of the first page.

“A friend of mine,” Wit said easily. “He offered to be a test subject. When we were talking the other day I wasn’t sure if you’d want to see what IGGY does. Since you asked,” he gestured to the papers, “take your time and you can tell me if it worked or not.”

With some trepidation Marie began reading the report. It wasn’t long before she was intrigued. After two cups of coffee she flipped the last page over and looked at Wit. “That is some seriously detailed information.
Tax records, work summaries, mortgage details. Can you really find all of this information online?”

“Not everyone can, no. I can but it’s something I’ve been learning for years. Collecting access, we called it.”

“What does the last paragraph mean?’
All sources indicate a law abiding citizen. Due to insufficient data IGGY cannot prove this individual exists. Further research is required,’
” She read.

“It’s a bug I have to work out,” he said glibly.

“And you have already directed this all powerful eye at James Brandt?”

“
Oh yeah. In a few hours I’ll know him better than his own mother.”

“Who’s a lovely person,” she told him.

“I’m sure she is.”

James Alan Brandt – always James, never Jim or Jimmy though sometimes Michael – lay in
the bed and stared at the unfamiliar ceiling. A crack had caught his attention and he lazily followed the pattern. One arm was beneath his head, the other trapped underneath the blonde he’d picked up at his brother’s engagement party. The limb hadn’t fallen asleep yet but he knew it would if he left it there for much longer.

He turned his head and looked at the sleeping woman. What was her name? He couldn’t remember and didn’t think it was important. He’d made it clear he was looking for an evening of fun, not a commitment. Hopefully she’d remember gleefully agreeing to those terms after several glasses of wine and champagne.

A headache was taking root at the base of his skull, most likely from those same drinks. He knew he’d gone a little overboard with the alcohol last night but he’d been stressed. After the week he’d had, Brandt felt he deserved a few drinks and a bit of companionship. He’d gotten both and found it hadn’t changed his situation.

Brandt’s life had spiralled out of control nearly a month ago and he’d been scrambling to clean up the mess. A trader on Wall Street by day, he’d become a compulsive gambler by night. The sports betting had started small when he’d been in college. A few bucks on a game here and there had been fun and made watching the games more exciting.

Then the gambling had become more important than the games. The amount he’d wager had gone up and he stopped watching the games for enjoyment and instead viewed them as investments. Lately his “investments” had been blowing up in his face at an alarming pace.

As is normal for habitual gamblers, Brandt looked for someone to cover his losses until the next sure thing came along. He’d met a man named Charles several months back. Charles was a man who had money to invest without the nasty business of paperwork and collateral. Brandt made his first deal with Charles for $10,000 and everything had gone smoothly. He’d won his wager, paid Charles back and went merrily on his way.

A week later he’d been back at the bar Charles had his “office” in, a back booth that had an outlet for his phone and laptop chargers. He set up shop when the bar opened at 5:00 and stayed through closing. Loan sharking was a fulltime job for some. Brandt had taken a larger loan and, once again, was able to pay it back immediately.

Now, however, Brandt had somehow lost track of the loans, the games he’d won and lost. Pro
fessional sports were for amateurs, he always bet on college and lately college had been kicking his butt. At last count, Brandt owed Charles nearly $200,000 and he honestly couldn’t figure out how it had happened or if that was even the final total.

An electronic beep came from somewhere on the floor. Brandt carefully disengaged from the blonde and reached down for his pants. As though Charles had known Brandt was thinking about him, a text message had arrived.

$225K, 10

Brandt
felt the blood drop from his face and he nearly vomited onto the floral bedcovers. The total was more than he’d thought though, honestly, once you hit $200,000 did another $25K really make a difference? Charles was giving him ten days to come up with the money. Cash, of course, no personal checks or bank transfers.

Fortunately Brandt had finished laundering the money he’d liberated from Marie. She’d been a lovely girl but she should have paid far more attention to her security
, internet and otherwise. By the time the money was clean enough for him to use the nut had been knocked down to $150,000, give or take a few thousand. How a cook at a steakhouse was able to get that kind of business loan was beyond him but bless the loan department at that particular chain bank.

He threw the covers from his waist and slid out of the bed. Clothes were scattered all over the room and he dug around until he found what belonged to him. Briefly he wondered if the blonde had any money. He thought Regina had mentioned the woman was a paralegal when she introduced them with that shine in her eye. Like he’d ever date one of her friends.

Paralegal meant no savings unless she had family money and, in his experience, that was something she would have mentioned. Name and family dropping was a popular pastime in New York. Damn, what was her name? Whatever, it didn’t matter now.

Brandt exited the apartment, making sure to lock the door on his way out.
The air held a damp chill and a cold wind blew down the back of his jacket, causing him to shiver. The sun would be coming up soon and he wanted to be in his own bed when that happened. He hailed a cab, gave his address and leaned back in the seat.

Bradley Witson, Kid Midas himself, had been at his brother’s engagement party. Brandt couldn’t get over that fact. Witson was a modern legend in New York. He traded on the Exchange, h
e invested in new companies, the man blinked and his portfolio doubled or even tripled. Not only did he have the luck and the brains, Witson had been a freaking model in college. If Brandt didn’t envy Witson his life he might have hated the man.

Witson had said he was at the event with the caterer, not as a guest of Regina or Jason. Helping out a friend, he thought the man had said. It had been considered eccentric when Witson had taken off for places unknown. Brandt wondered if he’d spent or lost all of his money in those six months
and thus his work with, and in, Menial Labour Land. He doubted it but stranger things had been known to happen.

Perhaps he could talk to Kid Midas, show him some deals he’d been working on. If he could get Witson to invest in one project, he could easily get the money to Charles on time. Then he’d tell Witson the project failed and Brandt would be in the clear.
Or perhaps Witson had a few quick deals Brandt could participate in.

He wanted to kick his own butt for not remembering to get Witson’s cell number. Yes, he’d told the man he’d been trying to call him but that hadn’t been the truth. That phone number was one of the most difficult to hunt down in NYC. Brandt had tried to contact him through his old firm but that hadn’t worked
; the firm hadn’t had a forwarding address or phone number.

Brandt didn’t know which of his associates might have that magical phone number but he did know of one person who would. The caterer. He’d call Regina
once the sun came up and it was officially morning and find out who had made the food for the party. He’d get the number, call the caterer and he’d be off and running. What minimum wage worker wouldn’t give up a phone number for a couple hundred dollars?

For the worst ca
se scenario Brandt had access to several dozen client accounts. On an errand into the senior partner’s office he’d discovered the man’s sign on name and password laying on his desk. Brandt had left the paperwork he’d been delivering and taken with him the memory of those few words. He could do a lot with them, if he needed to, and it was highly unlikely he would suffer any blowback.

A small fire crackled in the fireplace in Wit’s bedroom and candles glowed on the bedside table. The sheets were twisted and the chocolate duvet was half off the bed. Wit checked the alert from his cell phone and grinned. He leaned over and patted Marie’s perky butt.

“I have something to check on in the other room. Take a nap and I’ll wake you up in a little bit. We’ve had a rough day,” he grinned wolfishly and flicked a love bite he’d left on her thigh.

She peeked out from under the pillow covering her head. “Your hair still looks good. How do you do that?”

“Genetics
,” he told her. He took a clean pair of shorts from a drawer. “I’ll be in my home office. I’ll leave the door open in case you want to come in.”

“K.” She was half as
leep and he left her to get back to the other side of awake.

After entering his office he propped the door open. The main computer, what he called his Command Center, was humming efficiently on his desk. The alert that had come had been from here, letting him know his search was complete. He now had a biography of James Alan Brandt waiting his perusal.

The couple had been at loose ends for the day. Marie didn’t have any imminent events and, of course, Wit had his days to himself for the foreseeable future. They’d gone to the salon and she’d had a pedicure while he’d gotten his hair cut.

Just knowing those cute little toes hiding away in sensible shoes had a flirtatious Cotton Candy pink covering had made him want to nibble. When they’d returned to his penthouse they had taken a bubble bath in his huge tub and he’d followed the urge. That had led to
an interesting afternoon.

Thinking about that pleasant
interlude had Wit consider crawling back into bed for a few more hours. Now that IGGY had run a search on a real person, however, he felt drawn to read the results. Before he began scrolling through the several screens he selected the last ten pages to print and set them to start. Those pages were the final report and Wit would save those for last.

He began with the most recent information and took his time reading through Brandt’s employment contract. The firm was medium sized and specialized in safe investments and Brandt’s commission and benefits package were decent for someone with his education and experience. He took his salary through direct deposit, of course, and there was a link to the financial information. Wit followed the trail and immediately had a Eureka moment.

Brandt had liquidated all retirement plans and anything else he had access to. The money had been deposited into his checking account, the same one his salary went to. Three days later the total had been withdrawn, in cash, down to the last fifty-six cents. That had been six months ago.

Through those six months Brandt’s balance had yo-yoed nearly in sync with his pay and commission checks. Wit made a mental bet the man had a gambling or woman problem. Considering
what he’d done to Marie, Wit essentially ruled out women trouble. He considered drugs and discarded the notion. From what he could gather from the history of the man’s trade patterns he was too steady at the wheel.

His current account balance was $153,622.09. Wit was sure this was what remained of Marie’s business loan after the various institutions it had been bounced through had taken their
cuts. Wit noted that IGGY had tied in accounts under the name Michael Morrison to Brandt’s. That was an impressive feat as Wit had not included the alias in the search. He gave a silent cheer.

Brandt’s financial information was a mess but with a pattern that was easy to understand. Wit figured he had two days, three tops, before Brandt drained the account once more. He returned to the transaction history, selected deposits and went back five years. Yet another fairly consistent pattern emerged.

Wit wondered what would happen if he contacted the various women who had deposited large sums with Michael Morrison. Would they tell him it was voluntary? Wit highly doubted it. Would they tell the police about the Spontaneously Invisible Man? Wit thought that probable.

In his experience, n
o one wanted to admit they’d been scammed. However once they heard other people had fallen victim as well they became much more amenable to going to the police. Often they would want revenge. Wit opened a document and began two sets of notes. One for future police involvement – Wit loved to use the old-fashioned anonymous tip – and one for his own plans for this particular scumbag.

Marie’s money would be leaving Brandt’
s account, no doubt about that. The only question that remained was where it would go. All of their talk of karma made Wit not want to boomerang it back to her. That felt dirty.

Besides,
Dream Will hadn’t wanted him to do that.

The sub-conscious was a powerful thing and Wit’s had been screaming at full
volume. He was listening this time. No more ignoring strange little men in alleys. Dream Will had wanted him to stop pulling tricks with the computer and, to an extent, he was. Marie’s deposit would be coming from Wit. To put it bluntly, Wit was loaded and he considered this a good cause.

The
desire for revenge screamed just as loudly, however. To be fair Wit felt he had to consider that sub-conscious want as well. To balance that with karma he’d decided Marie’s alma mater culinary school would have a nice little scholarship fund paid for by Brandt. And it would not be anonymous.

The room was ten degrees cooler than the rest of the penthouse. Marie nearly shivered as she walked in the door but a warm wave of air greeted her after she’d entered the room. “Whoa,” she said, “it’s hot and cold in here at the same time.” She walked over and put her arms around Wit’s shoulders from behind. She looked at the screen and realized she had no idea what she was looking at.

“This computer runs at some pretty high temperatures. I had to install a separate thermostat in here. It keeps it cooler but those boxes,” he gestured under the desk where several towers were linked together, “even it out. Did you have a good nap?”

“God, yes,” Marie nuzzled the back of his neck. “What are you working on?”

“Oh, the usual,” he said dismissively. “Hey, check this screen out.” He pointed to the screen on the top left.

“I don’t know how you keep track of five monitors. Shouldn’t that be information overload?”

“That would depend on the information,” he said. “Have you ever had multiple documents you had to look at and been forced to flip from screen to screen?”