The Drifter (Peter Ash #1)(53)

Skinner surveyed the room. Peter caught his eye and lifted a hand.

“Peter Ash?” Skinner walked over and flashed his easy, careless smile, almost shocking in its warmth and charm. Peter could see how the man had managed to talk so many wealthy, intelligent people out of their money. It was the smile that built Lake Capital.

You’d never know the SEC was investigating his company.

They shook hands, Skinner’s grip harder than expected under the pampered skin. “Great to meet you, Peter,” he said, taking in Peter’s faded blue jeans and white shirt. “Boy, I wish I could dress like you every day. Better or worse, finance is still a suit-and-tie business.”

His eyes lingered on the multicolored bruise on Peter’s cheek.

Peter was counting on the bruise to get Skinner wondering. He was pretty sure Skinner wouldn’t recognize him from his first visit to Lake Capital. He might have noticed the bruise, but it had turned a deep shade of purple. Regardless, Skinner probably didn’t have many meetings with guys who looked like they’d been in a fight.

“Anyway,” said Skinner as he sprawled comfortably in the skeletal metal chair. “I appreciate your interest in Lake Capital. Somehow I haven’t heard your name before. What business are you in, Peter?”

There was also a trace of an accent in Skinner’s vowels, but Peter couldn’t pin it down. As if he’d come from a foreign country just around the corner. Or maybe it was just private school, in the land of money.

“Oh, you know,” said Peter. “A little of this, a little of that.”

“Give me a hint,” said Skinner, that smile flashing on and off like a beacon. “What’s the most fun? What makes the most money?”

“Salvage,” said Peter. “Finding opportunities others have missed.”

“Oooh,” said Skinner. “What kinds of opportunities?”

Peter leaned forward. Skinner leaned in to meet him. It was a salesman’s trick, Peter knew, to mirror your customer. People were more likely to trust someone they thought was like them. But Peter could do that, too.

“If I told you,” he said, “they wouldn’t be opportunities.”

“Hah! Well, it sounds like you know what you’re doing,” said Skinner, the smile broad now. “And you’ve worked hard and taken risks and now you’ve got some liquidity to invest. Tell me, how did you come to find us? We’re not exactly Edward Jones.”

“A friend of mine gave me your card,” said Peter. “James Johnson. He used to work for me. Maybe you remember him.”

Skinner seemed to think for a moment, then shook his head pleasantly. “No,” he said. “I don’t believe I do. Is he an investor of ours?” If he was lying, he was a very good liar. Although he was in finance, so that was part of the skill set.

“He’s dead now,” said Peter, watching the other man closely. “He was killed.”

“Oh, what a terrible shame,” said Skinner, with every appearance of thoughtful sorrow. “I’m so sorry.”

“Me, too,” said Peter. “This business can be dangerous. Before he died, he told me he wanted to invest with you. And James often had excellent ideas.”

Skinner’s warm, understanding smile returned, his teeth gleaming with saliva. “How much of an investment are we talking about?”

Peter wondered if the amount would mean anything to the man. “Four hundred thousand dollars.”

Something flickered across Skinner’s pale face, like the shadow of a bird flying overhead.

But it was gone too quickly to identify, and the salesman was back. “Oh, dear,” said Skinner. “Unfortunately, our current fund is only open to investments of a half-million or more.”

“The money’s in cash,” said Peter. “In a suitcase. Banded stacks of hundred-dollar bills.” He smiled pleasantly.

Peter was a blind man groping in the dark, but he seemed to have found something. Skinner’s easy smile stiffened. His face became all hard planes, lean and muscular, and his voice went flat. “Who are you?”

Peter kept his own smile in place. “I haven’t talked to the authorities yet. I thought I’d hear your side of the story first. About where the four hundred thousand came from.”

Skinner’s face had gotten more pale, if that was possible. The warmth and charm were gone. He stared at Peter with cold, reptilian eyes.

“If you are truly an investor,” he said, “I apologize, because Lake Capital is unable to help you.” Without the engaging warmth, his eyes bulged slightly from his head. His teeth seemed somehow more prominent. “If you are something else—”

“Don’t you want to know how I got this?” Peter interrupted. He tilted his head so the other man could get a clear look at the multicolored bruise that had taken over a third of his face.

Skinner didn’t answer.

“First I killed a man,” said Peter in a calm, even voice. “Then I put two more men in the hospital with my bare hands. Trying to get a fourth man to answer my questions. So you had better answer mine now. Before things go very badly for you.”

Skinner’s pale face seemed to belong to another man entirely. He stood, trembling, teeth bared in a kind of grimace. But not in fear. This was aggression.