Honey (22 page)

“So, set me up with a disguise.” Marc looked over Carlson, the taller and more broad-shouldered of the two. “What suit size are you?”

The agent blanched.

“I am the captain of my fucking universe!”

The voice, Winterthur's, had them staring at the monitors once more. He stood at the front of the thronged banquet room, screaming his “greed is good” shtick into the microphone. Judging from the rapt faces in the audience, he had his “investors” right where he wanted them. Marc scanned the image, studying the setup. Attendees sat at eight-top tables or hung out by the platform steps or at the bars set up in back. Servers, skimpily clad and masked, ferried drinks from the service bars to the main table. So far as Marc could see, they were all women—but did it necessarily follow that they
had
to be?

Carlson broke in on his thoughts. “Tell me, Doctor Sandler, just how do you imagine we're going to get you in there now without jeopardizing this whole operation? Why should we even try?”

Despite the dire circumstances, Marc managed a smile. “Because I have a very special set of skills, agent.”

“Right, you're a doctor. If someone chokes on a chicken bone from the buffet, I guess we're all set.”

Marc looked up. “I wasn't speaking about medicine.”

“No? Then what?”

“I waited tables in college.”

*

“Do you see what I see? Because I see a lot of wealth in this room!”

Standing onstage in front of the logoed backdrop, microphone in hand, Drew stoked his audience's enthusiasm. Roars rose up from the floor of round-top tables. In reserved seating nearest the stage, Honey resisted the urge to cover her ears.

“
Feel
it.
Own
it. Say it with me: I am the captain of my fucking universe.”

Obediently the room chorused: “I am the captain of my universe.”

He'd been drinking heavily since she'd shown up two hours earlier, slugging back scotch between the other presentations. Sweating out his Macallan 25, he scowled. “No, not just universe—your
fucking
universe. Say it again.”

Louder this time, the shout rose up: “I am the captain of my fucking universe!!!”

The back-and-forth reminded Honey of the evangelists who used to come to town in the summers, pitching their tents and portable bleachers on the fairgrounds, selling salvation at ten dollars a ticket. Drew was cut from the same cloth, only he was worse, much worse. The tenters had hired local kids to put flyers on car dashboards, but Drew and his flunkies used their phones to invade people's homes, sinking in their hooks, not letting go until they'd siphoned off their money—and their dreams.

“Whew, that's better.” Drew paused to wipe his forehead, not with the silk handkerchief folded in his suit pocket but with the back of his hand as if to show that he was no snob, that though he might be a fancy Manhattan “wealth manager” he was still a man of the people. “I don't know about you, but all this shouting's making me thirsty. You folks thirsty?”

One of the relatively few attending female investors, a fiftyish woman in a polyester pantsuit, turquoise bowtie blouse, and with an asymmetrical nineties-era bob, lifted her beer bottle and shouted, “Hell's to the yes!”

Drew let out a laugh. “That's the spirit. Drink up, everybody. You've earned it.”

Sipping her Pellegrino from a champagne flute, Honey conceded that was the one true statement he'd so far made. Every investor in the room had paid for the “privilege” of their presence with blood, sweat, and tears. Unless she succeeded in getting Drew's confession on record, they'd be paying permanently.

The current event alone must cost a small fortune. Bankrolling it with his investors' money, Drew had spared no expense. Upon arrival, each “guest” had been given a lavish goody bag of high-end booze, bath products, and tech gadgets. Models circulated between tables wearing elaborate feathered and bejeweled masks, beaded bikini-style tops and bottoms, stilettos—and nothing else. The earlier brunch buffet had included seafood, carving and omelet stations, as well as limitless Bloody Marys, mimosas, and Bellinis.

Later on the agenda came a sit-down dinner in the famous Starlight Room. He'd also reserved the Presidential Suite for the after-party. It was conspicuous consumption, decadence done to the extreme, a smoke-and-mirrors ploy that sickened Honey. How she could ever have consented to be part of this, not the pump-and-dump scheme—she honestly hadn't so much as suspected—but the lifestyle, a world where things were done because they could be gotten away with, regardless of whether they were right or wrong, good or bad, healthy or polluting?

Drew's voice riveted her back to the stage. “Are you with me, people? C'mon now, let the Drewster hear you say it.”

“Yeah, Drew, we're with you!”

Drew glanced Honey's way and grinned. Playing the proud girlfriend, she plastered on what hopefully passed for a bedazzled smile and raised her glass to him.

Seemingly satisfied, he turned back to the audience. “Good. Now we're going to take a well-deserved break. Those bars on either end of the room are open for a reason, so go get yourselves another cocktail because when we start up again, I have a very special surprise for you. So if you haven't already, check your boundaries at the door because, ladies and gentlemen, you are in for one helluva show.”

Honey spied a few nervous looks and self-conscious smiles, but after several hours of boozing, most attendees had drunk the Kool-Aid along with everything else the open bars had to offer. Scanning the sea of flushed faces, Honey wondered if the whistleblower was among them. If so, he—or she—must be feeling much as Honey did. The possibility made her feel somewhat less alone.

Nursing her pretend champagne, she watched Drew descend the side stage stairs. Glad-handing a path through the tables of investors, he made his way toward her.

Frank Dawes grabbed a fresh drink from the tray of a passing server and joined him. She hadn't set eyes on him since the night he'd come close to raping her—with Drew's blessing, no less. Beyond shooting her a few fuming looks, he'd so far kept his distance. They drew up at her reserved table, Frank eyeing the empty seat on either side of her.

“You're looking good, Honey,” he said, checking out the cleavage revealed by her low-cut dress.

Honey sent him an openly icy stare, grateful that her deal with Carlson and company didn't require cozying up to her would-be rapist. “And you, Frank, unfortunately, look exactly the same.”

His fat face twisted into a frown.

“That's enough, you two,” Drew intervened, sliding into the seat beside Honey. “Frank, mind finding the catering manager and telling him to send over another bottle of Macallan? We're running dry.”

Frank lobbed Honey a seething stare. “Why not send little Miss Hepburn here? Maybe she can blow him and get us a discount—a
deep
discount.”

Aware of Carlson's surveillance team listening in, Honey felt her face heat. Refusing to rise to the bait, she held her head high, her shoulders back, and her smile in place.

Drew draped a proprietary arm about her, and she resisted the urge to move away. “Seriously, buddy, I need a few minutes alone with Honey.”

“Suit yourself, but don't say I didn't warn you.” He speared Honey with another look. “I'm watching you, bitch.” She opened her mouth to answer but before she could, he strode away in a huff.

“Don't listen to him. He gets this way when he's stressing.” Drew leaned closer, his scotch-stale breath blowing across her face. “I want you to know I'm glad you're here.”

“So am I,” she lied. Mindful of her mission, getting Drew's recorded confession, she fished, “W-what is Frank stressed about? Everything seems to be going so well. Isn't it?”

“Of course it is. Everything's going great. Look, I even got my girl back and looking more gorgeous than ever.”

He gave her yet another appreciative once-over, and Honey forced herself not to fidget. Though the Stella McCartney dress wasn't her usual style—the figured black lace showed through to a thigh-high cream-colored underskirt—it was a perfect choice for the occasion, suggestive, even teasing, a dress designed to whet appetites, not sate them. Though the FBI was prepared to foot the bill, to avoid arousing Drew's suspicions, she'd agreed to purchase the dress with his credit card. Once tonight was over, she planned to give it away, perhaps to Liz.

His gaze finally left her legs and returned to her face. “But I gotta say I was surprised to get your message. I really thought you were gone for good.”

Thinking how close she'd come to free, Honey swallowed against her throat's thickening. “So did I.”

One sandy eyebrow lifted. “What changed your mind?”

She shrugged, though his arm still banded her. “I suppose I … hadn't counted on how different life would be without you.” Different as in glorious, liberating, spectacular.

His lips lifted in a smug smile that her palm itched to slap away. “Yeah, well, now you know, so no more running away. And threatening to blow the whistle on me with my wife—that wasn't cool. I'll admit it, you really had me by the balls there.”

“I'm sorry.” The apology, though empty, tasted bitter nonetheless. She took a sip of water, wishing she might rinse her mouth. “Since I'm here, maybe you could explain how all this … stock business works. HG Enterprises sounds so grand. I hadn't realized you'd named a company using my initials. That's really … lovely of you. What does it do, exactly?”

He opened his mouth, as if to answer, and then closed it again. “Don't worry about it,” he finally said, reaching for his drink.

Clearly he needed more scotch—and a little push. “HG Enterprises doesn't do anything at all, does it? It's a made-up company, isn't it? What is the term? I just learned it the other day.” She paused, pretending to ponder. “Oh yes—
dummy corporation
. Isn't that what it's called?”

His arm fell away but not before she felt him tense. “Lower your voice!”

“Sorry, but I'm right, aren't I?” She'd better be, because so far she'd been the only one of them doing any talking for the record. “The stocks you're selling aren't even penny stocks, are they? They're worthless.”

“Since when are you so interested in my business dealings?”

For a few frozen seconds, Honey's heart stopped. She'd gone too fast, been too brash, too transparently obvious. Drew was many things—violent, vindictive, and apparently as crooked as they came—but he was far from stupid.

She slipped on a smile. “In the spirit of ‘new leaves and new beginnings,' I thought I should take more of an interest in what you do, that it might … bring us closer.”

Saying the latter nearly brought up her breakfast. The moment she got his incriminating admission on record, she meant to clear out as fast and far away as she could. Once she was free and clear, she promised herself she'd tell Marc everything, not just about the sting operation but about her past, too. He deserved the truth from her, regardless of what he chose to do about it.

Drew reached out, pulling her closer. “That's sweet, baby, but to be totally upfront with you, I've never been all that interested in your mind. Now that hot body of yours, on the other hand … ” He reached over and palmed her breast.

“Drew, please, not here.” She tried moving his hand away, but he wasn't having it.

He brought his mouth brushing her ear. “You've been a seriously bad girl, Honey, a real little bitch. At some point, I'm going to have to punish you. You realize that, right?”

“Wasn't destroying everything I own punishment enough?” Try as she might, she couldn't entirely keep the archness from her voice.

Fortunately it seemed he was too tripping on ego to notice. “I'm thinking of something more … creative.” He reached out and traced her mouth with his thumb, and Honey braced herself against her sudden terrified trembling.

“Scotch, sir?”

That voice, it sounded like …
Marc!
Honey whipped her head around and looked up.
Oh … my … God
. It
was
Marc! Even wearing a black satin mask and an old style fedora, he was impossible not to recognize. A bow tie—no jacket, no shirt—and a pair of black tuxedo pants that looked like they'd been painted on summed up his server's “uniform.”

But what was he doing here? Did he know about Operation Moneybags, or had he simply followed her here thinking she'd really gone back to Drew? Either he saw her as a serial cheater or a FBI patsy with a shady past—Honey couldn't decide which scenario was worse.

Offloading the bottle of Macallan and clean glasses from the tray, he snagged her gaze. “Another champagne for the lady?”

“N-not right now, thank you.” She cast a quick, sideways look at Drew, but his attention had already wandered to the stage, where several hotel staff members were setting up for his “surprise.” He was so all about himself that a doctor he'd met briefly months ago wouldn't make a lasting impression—or so Honey hoped.

Drew turned back to her. Beneath the table, he grabbed her hand—and laid it on his crotch.

Aware of Marc hovering, mask-framed eyes murderous, she dropped her voice and said, “Drew, please, not here. We can't—”

“Sure we can. This is my party, and I'll come if I want to,” he shot back with a snort, clearly pleased with himself for his perverted paraphrasing of the sixties pop song.

Marc broke in. “Shall I pour now, sir?”

Drew lifted his gaze from Honey and glared. “Don't bother. Just leave the bottle and go.”

Marc reached for the scotch. “It's no bother, sir. It's my job.”

Drew made a grab for the bottle as well. “I told you, just leave it.”