A String of Beads (Jane Whitefield, #8)(96)

Salamone was at Crane’s desk. He hadn’t just sat there as he often had, because that was the most comfortable chair. He had opened all the drawers and left them open, and he had moved things around on the desktop. The bay rosters, the time sheets for the men, the bills, notices, and price lists had all been combined into one pile. As Crane approached he could see that there were two sets of papers on the cleared desktop, one facing Crane and the other facing Salamone. Two of the pens that Crane usually kept in the desk were set beside the papers.

“Hi, Danny,” said Salamone. He looked at his watch. It wasn’t a big, heavy stupid one with lots of little dials and buttons. It was white gold or platinum, as thin as a coin with a leather strap, the sort of watch Crane imagined on the wrist of a French banker. “Run into some traffic?”

“No,” Crane said. “I overslept a little.”

“Bad night, huh? I can’t blame you.” He looked toward the counter where the coffee maker was. “Want a minute to pour yourself a cup of coffee and get up to speed?”

“I’m fine,” said Crane.

“Suit yourself. We heard you had some trouble.”

“I did, but it’s not going to be a big problem.”

“No? I heard your girlfriend went to the hospital and the police have a bunch of roofies you’d used on her. I’m glad to hear that wasn’t what happened.”

“It wasn’t rohypnol. It was GHB. I bought it through a Mexican online site, and they must have made a mistake in the dose, or the concentration was uneven and she got a strong batch. She was still asleep when the cleaning lady came unexpectedly, found her, and got worried. I’ll explain it to Chelsea, and she’ll be fine with it. The stuff disappears from the bloodstream right away, and it’s a natural substance, so the police can’t prove anything anyway.”

“I hope you’re right,” said Salamone. “But I do kind of wonder what you were thinking.”

“I gave her some once before, and she was okay and the next day she didn’t remember a thing. The other night she was acting crazy, talking about leaving me, and I figured I’d just make her forget what she’d said. She’d sleep and then wake up the next day okay.”

Salamone and Cantorese met each other’s eyes. Salamone shrugged. “Okay. I hope your trouble goes away. In the meantime, I’ve got some papers here for you to sign. Take a look.” He pushed one set of papers toward Crane.

Pistore sprung up and brought his chair to Crane so he could read and sign sitting down. Crane was expected to sit, so he sat.

After a minute Crane looked up from the papers. “This says I’m selling my business to Angela Milton. I don’t know anybody named Angela Milton.”

“Look, Danny. You know something about business. Do you know how mortgage insurance works? The company that lends you money isn’t a hundred percent sure you’ll always be able to keep paying the money back. So they cut their risk by having you insure them against you not paying.”

“What does that have to do with—”

“It’s an analogy to your current situation. You could be right that your little girlfriend will be generous about things and shrug off the fact that you—legally, anyway—raped her. But you’ve opened a big box full of uncertainty here. What happens if you’re wrong?”

“There’s no risk,” said Crane. “The drug isn’t detectable. They can’t prove she took it, let alone that I gave it to her.”

“Mr. Malconi has an excellent team of criminal attorneys. They tell him that having her wake up with your sperm in her and claiming not to know she’d had sex with you could be a problem. The fact that there was a supply in your home of an illegal drug that causes those symptoms makes the problem worse. Mr. Malconi has decided to make sure that he’s protected.”

“Can’t you talk to him?”

“Danny. You met Mr. Malconi yesterday. Did he strike you as a man who changes his mind about things like this?”

“But he can’t just take my business because I had a problem with my girlfriend.”

“This isn’t just an unfortunate spat. You had her in the first place because you shot her boyfriend through the head. Then you had the idea you’d get a stranger arrested for it, and have him die in jail. You have to be fair about this, and admit to yourself that you’ve given Mr. Malconi reason to think you’re not a hundred percent reliable. Ninety percent isn’t good enough.”

“Maybe I can talk to him,” said Crane.

“I’ve talked to him on your behalf. I’ve said everything you could say, and more. But even I have to be careful. You’re used to businessmen like you. They negotiate everything, and then if it doesn’t work out they sue each other. Mr. Malconi’s options are much, much wider. I’ve persuaded him to limit himself to creating a simple legal safeguard. Read the papers and sign them.”

Crane scanned the pages. “This says I give this person my business for five million dollars.”

“A fair price, right?”

“But I’m supposed to get paid for the sale at the rate of a hundred thousand a year. That’s fifty years. And the money doesn’t come from Angela Milton. It comes from the -business—my own business. I’m supposed to run the business and pay myself?”