Dangerous Comforts (The Ruby Danger Series Book 3) Read online

  “Hello, officers,” she said brightly. “I’m Felicity Chan. How can we help you?”

  “Officer Tobias Ulrich. How do you know Millie Havelock?”

  Felicity ran a hand down her silky black ponytail, tossing it over her shoulder, and flashed her best demure smile.

  “We don’t, not really, but we were at the hospital and her doctor asked us to pick up her meds.”

  “Why were you at the hospital?”

  “We’re volunteers,” Ruby blurted before Felicity could answer.

  Ulrich turned to Ruby. He was still glaring, but this time with a veneer of puzzlement. Felicity squeezed Ruby’s arm a little harder.

  “I’m so sorry,” she said. “I forgot to introduce my friend, Abigail Baxter.” Felicity gave her a quick poke with her elbow so Ruby thrust out her hand.

  Ulrich ignored Ruby’s outstretched hand. The second officer stepped up and shook it, then turned to Felicity who extended her own hand.

  “How nice to meet you, Officer…?” Felicity tilted her head.

  “Rick,” he said, pumping her hand.

  “Nice to meet you, Officer Rick.” Felicity unleashed her most engaging smile, the crinkly eyed one, at him. Rick stepped back with a big grin. Ulrich glared at him, so Rick stared at the ground.

  Ulrich turned to Ruby again and narrowed his eyes at her.

  “Abigail Baxter? Would that be the same Abigail Baxter who ran down Mrs. Havelock yesterday evening?”

  “Yes,” Ruby squeaked, unwilling to say more. Felicity had gripped her arm so tightly that the blood flow to her fingers must be in jeopardy by now. Felicity released Ruby to step nearer the officers.

  Ruby rubbed her arm, flexing her fingers.

  “Officer Ulrich,” Felicity said, “I think if you check the police report on that incident you will find—”

  “What’s in the trunk?”

  “Excuse me?”

  He pointed to the Audi.

  “Open the trunk.”

  Felicity and Ruby exchanged glances. Felicity looked at Ulrich.

  “Why?”

  “Because I believe you are removing items from a home under foreclosure. Whatever you’ve got stashed in that trunk may not belong to you. Now open it.”

  Felicity turned to Ruby and held out her hand for the keys, then popped the trunk. Ulrich gestured at Rick, who pulled up the lid and peered inside.

  “There’s a box,” he said.

  “Bring it here.”

  Rick hauled out the cardboard box and placed it on the police car’s hood. Ruby watched anxiously as Ulrich rooted through the contents. But she relaxed when he pulled out the prescription drugs. At least the police wouldn’t take Millie’s meds. She grabbed for the bag, but Ulrich swung it out of her reach and passed it to Rick.

  “Put that in the car.”

  Before Ruby could protest, Felicity nudged her again with her elbow.

  Ulrich pulled the metal urn from the box.

  “What’s this?”

  “The remains of Mrs. Havelock’s deceased husband,” Ruby said.

  Ulrich looked at her as if she was dog scat stuck to his boot.

  “Something could be hidden in those ashes,” he said. “Jewelry, for instance.” He handed the urn to the second officer. “Put that in the car, too. In fact,” he said, straightening up, “I’m impounding all of this.” He gestured at Rick to pick up the box.

  “No, wait.” Ruby stepped up to the car trunk while Rick set the box on the car’s hood. After rummaging through it, she stepped back with clothing clutched to her chest. “Please, let us take these. Millie has nothing to wear, and surely an old woman’s underwear can’t be worth anything.” Ruby gave Ulrich a beseeching look. “Please,” she added, quivering her bottom lip.

  “Unless you have notarized authorization from the court entitling you to remove Mrs. Havelock’s personal effects, you’ll have to put those back.”

  Ruby tipped the clothing into the cardboard box, then Rick stowed it in the police car. Ulrich settled his peaked cap over his brush cut with two hands, glancing at Millie’s padlocked front door.

  “I’m not going to ask how you got into Mrs. Havelock’s house. But if I catch you here again, you’ll be looking at charges of breaking and entering, theft, and drug procurement. Understand?”

  For a moment, Ruby was speechless. But only for a moment.

  “Drug procurement?” she sputtered.

  Felicity cleared her throat loudly.

  “Understood,” she said. “You won’t see us again.”

  Rick got behind the wheel and Ulrich opened the passenger door.

  Ruby walked to the Audi and stopped at the driver’s door to gesture gimme at Felicity on the other side of the car. “Throw me the keys.”

  Felicity tossed them over the car roof and they landed with a metallic clatter above the driver’s door. Inside the car, Tinks barked.

  Ulrich turned sharply.

  “What was that?”

  Ruby and Felicity froze. Tinks barked again. Ulrich walked over to peer into the back seat.

  “That’s my dog,” Ruby said.

  “What’s its name?”

  “Charlie,” she responded without thinking.

  Ulrich looked through the window at the Maltese.

  “Then why does the tag on its collar say Tinkerbelle?”

  “It’s an old tag.”

  Ulrich wrenched open the back door. “That dog is coming with us until I can verify ownership.” He grasped Tinks by the scruff of her neck and pulled the little dog from the car. She squealed and struggled.

  “What are you doing?” Ruby said, reaching for Tinks. “Let her go.”

  Ulrich tried to hold Ruby back with one hand while hanging on to the writhing and panicked animal with the other. The little dog broke free, hit the sidewalk with a sharp yelp, and scurried across the lawn.

  “Goddamn it. Go after it,” Ulrich shouted, waving at Rick who hustled out of the car to follow the dog. Animal and man disappeared around the side of the house. After a decent interval, a huffing and puffing Rick reappeared.

  “It’s gone. Sorry.”

  Ulrich muttered something under his breath, his expression black, and flicked a hand at Rick.

  “Get in the goddamned car.”

  Rick scrambled behind the wheel.

  Ulrich pointed at Ruby and Felicity. “Remember what I said.”

  Behind Ulrich’s back, Rick winked and tilted his head at Millie’s back yard. While Ulrich climbed into the shotgun spot, Rick turned the key in the ignition. Felicity waved as the men drove away. Ruby squinted at the departing vehicle, then turned to the house and tromped across the yard.

  “Where are you going now?” Felicity called after her.

  “To get Tinks,” she muttered, without turning around.

  The little dog cowered against the back door, whimpering. Gingerly, Ruby picked her up and snuggled her against her chest.

  “Never mind, Tinks, they’re gone,” she crooned before carrying the Maltese back to the Audi and tucking her into the shawl in the back seat. Ruby got behind the wheel, Felicity climbed in beside her, and they pulled away from the curb.

  After a few blocks, Felicity turned to her.

  “I’m sorry, Ruby. I wish that had gone differently.”

  “Why? We have Tinks, we have Millie’s cherished photos, and, best of all, we have proof that Millie is the victim of a scam. I think it went rather well.”

  Felicity tilted her head, giving Ruby a puzzled look.

  “We’ve got Tinks, yes, but we left everything else in that box.”

  “Did we?” Ruby slipped a hand under her T-shirt and yanked something out from the waistband of her yoga pants. She dropped the photos of Millie and Norris, and Millie’s checkbook, onto Felicity’s lap.

  Felicity’s mouth fell open as she stared at the objects.

  “Two days,” she said. “We’ve been here two days. And already we’ve been in a car accident, broken into a ho
use, and breached a court order. And you wonder why they call you Ruby Danger?”

  Ruby wheeled around the next corner, her face breaking into a grin.

  “I’m just getting started.”

  Chapter Ten

  London

  Boom.

  Hari’s eyes popped open as the house shook. What the hell? He leapt to his feet, tripped over the sleeping bag, and fell headlong onto the carpet. His shoulder bounced off the coffee table on the way down.

  Boom.

  Bloody hell. What was happening? He scrabbled for the zipper on the sleeping bag, battled his way out of it and stumbled to the living room window, rotating his sore shoulder and rubbing sleep from his eyes. He pulled back the lace curtains and squinted at the street. A bright yellow excavator was perched on huge caterpillar tracks a few yards from the front window. Hari watched, craning his head up as the excavator’s giant saw-toothed bucket rose several yards in the air. Then it crashed onto the ground.

  Boom.

  He stepped back from the window, gaping as the bucket bit into the earth and then rose majestically with a load of broken sidewalk and pavement. Dirt dribbled out from the sides as the operator turned the cab and emptied the bucket atop a growing pile of similar material on the street, which was barricaded with bright orange traffic cones.

  Hari grabbed his glasses from the coffee table and raced into the hall. He turned the lock on the front door and yanked, wrenching his shoulder again when the door refused to budge. He swore, put both hands on the handle, braced his feet and pulled as hard as he could. The door popped open and hit him in the face. Wincing, he lowered his head, waiting for the stinging to subside. Then he stepped out of the front door in his T-shirt, striped pajama bottoms and bare feet.

  Hari waved his arms at the excavator’s driver.

  “Hey!”

  The driver waved, turned off the engine and slipped off his ear protection. The machine grunted and shuddered and finally stilled. Eying it cautiously, Hari walked around and looked up at the driver who wore a hard hat.

  “What are you doing?”

  “We’re digging.”

  Hari tried to keep his voice level.

  “I can see that. But why are you digging here?”

  The driver looked puzzled.

  “We have to start somewhere.”

  Hari’s jaw dropped. Was it possible he wasn’t awake yet? Perhaps he should go back indoors and make coffee, or go back to sleep and hope for a more pleasant dream. He slapped his forehead and winced again. Nope, he was awake.

  “I don’t—”

  The driver held up a hand to stop him. “Look, guv. We have to dig up your whole foundation before we can fix it and we’re startin’ here. We’ll put a coupla planks across the opening there,” he pointed at the front door, “so you can get in and out.” He replaced his ear protection and reached for the ignition switch.

  Hari waved his arms again.

  “No, wait, please,” he shouted.

  The driver slipped his ear protection down to his collar and looked at him.

  “Thanks,” Hari said. “Just tell me, please. Did Mr. Watson hire you?”

  “No idea, guv. I go where they tell me. This is seventeen Alexandra Place, right?”

  Hari glanced around, nodding with his mouth open. Four trucks were parked on the street and workmen were walking up the sidewalk. How the hell had William Watson managed to get a construction crew on site, and working, in South Kensington, in less than forty-eight hours? He turned to the driver.

  “How long will this take?”

  “The digging? Or the underpinning and the concrete?”

  “Everything.”

  “Oh. Hard to say. Two or three months. Maybe more. It’s a big job.” The driver replaced his ear protection and the excavator roared back into life. The engine’s rumble reverberated in Hari’s chest. He retreated to the house and shoved the front door shut, which made no difference to the noise level. He glanced at the hall clock. Seven fifteen.

  Boom.

  Two or three months? He went into the kitchen to make coffee.

  Two hours later, after showering and shaving, downing two coffees and pouring a third, Hari sat at the kitchen table with his head resting on one hand. Every time the excavator’s bucket hit the ground, the table shook and the surface of his coffee quivered.

  Boom.

  A tiny spray of plaster dust fell from the ceiling. He looked up and puffed air through his lips. Damn William Watson and his multibillionaire resources. Hari wanted his parents’ house fixed. But did it have to start today? He wasn’t ready to give up his sanctuary.

  He emptied his coffee into the sink, rinsed and dried the cup and replaced it in the cupboard. He stared at the other clean cups lined up on the shelf, then looked over at the empty recycling boxes. Not a single takeout container littered either the boxes or the kitchen. The coffee maker had been retrieved from its shelf and he had used it to make his coffee, like a normal person. He glanced down. His T-shirt was clean and unwrinkled. Not only that, but he was wearing blue jeans, leather driving moccasins, and a plaid flannel shirt. He actually looked presentable.

  Turning inward, he sought the familiar hollow feeling in his chest, the overwhelming guilt that had dogged him for the past two months. It was still there, but for today at least it seemed manageable. Something had shaken it loose, probably his angry confrontation with William. Maybe the old guy had known what he was doing after all.

  Hari found himself overcome by the urge to get moving, to do something. And he would start in the living room. It took only a minute to gather the menus, empty coffee cups, and paper bags from the floor and coffee table and stuff them into a garbage bag. Another minute saw the cushions on the sofa fluffed and the TV dusted with a napkin. He stood back to give the carpet an appraising glance. A cleaning service could deal with that. Meanwhile—

  He wrenched open the front door, ducked around the workmen standing on the remnants of the sidewalk, and marched next door. Hari lifted the knocker and slammed it twice. Watson opened the front door.

  Boom.

  Watson raised his eyebrows.

  “Okay,” Hari said. “I’ll do it.”

  * * *

  Hari adjusted his collar in the fitting room’s three-way mirror. He hadn’t worn clothes this costly since Antony’s trial had ended in Manhattan nearly two years ago. The prosecutors had asked the bailiffs to let Hari retain his custom-made suits and Patek watch for the trial, so the jurors wouldn’t think that he was testifying against Antony Carver for the reward money. But right after the guilty verdict, the bailiffs cleaned out his Tribeca loft, including the closets. They followed that up by taking the keys to the apartment itself. Hari had stood at his windows overlooking North Moore Street one last time before walking away. He had no complaints. Compared to his former boss Antony, whose current address was a medium-security prison in Connecticut, he had gotten off lightly.

  Since then he’d worn mostly track pants, T-shirts, and hoodies. He considered sprucing up his wardrobe after he met Leta, but that idea had died with her. Since then, Ruby had assured him repeatedly that Leta sealed her own fate. But it was more complicated than that.

  A twinge gripped his chest at the thought of Ruby and their bittersweet parting in Manhattan. That was complicated, too.

  Hari turned again to the mirror. In his new suit, Turnbull & Asser shirt, and studded Prada shoes, he looked like the Hari Bhatt of old. But now the expensive clothes felt strangely uncomfortable, as if they belonged to someone else.

  “Tell me again why I need this stuff?” he asked, waving a hand at the clothes piled on the nearest chair.

  “I told you,” Watson said, “you need to look wealthy—very wealthy—for this to work. You have look as if you and your associates have the wherewithal to purchase a Las Vegas casino.”

  A slim young man entered the room along with a heady gust of cologne. He appraised Hari’s appearance and raised an eyebrow at Watson.
r />   “Wrap it all up,” Watson said. “We’re taking everything.”

  The young man left the fitting room with clothing cascaded over his outstretched arms. Hari grinned at Watson in the mirror and tilted his head at the departing salesman.

  “He thinks I’m your bitch.”

  William glanced at his watch.

  “You should be so lucky.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Hari inhaled the lemon fragrance that wafted up from his sole meunière in a private room upstairs at Henry’s, one of London’s most expensive restaurants. The succulent fish was swirled in butter and festooned with capers. If this was ‘excess,’ he was all for it, even at lunch. He picked up his fork and started in. Beside him, Watson sawed off a hunk of prime rib, slathered it with horseradish and chewed contentedly. Finally, after blue-veined Stilton and snifters of brandy, Watson came to the point.

  “Someone’s robbing my casino, Hari, and ripping off my customers. I want you to find the bastards and work out how they’re doing it.”

  Hari pushed his plate to one side.

  “I need to know more.”

  “Six months ago we noticed an uptick in fraudulent credit card transactions at the Starlight. At first, we thought it was only a run of bad luck.”

  “The credit card companies paid up, I assume?”

  “At first. But when the frauds kept coming, they raised our fees. The card issuers say we’re at fault, that our fraud detection procedures aren’t good enough.” Watson pulled two Padrón cigars from his jacket’s breast pocket and offered one to Hari, who declined. Watson clipped off a cigar end and pulled a silver lighter from his pocket. “In the end, we decided it was cheaper to absorb the losses ourselves.” He lit the cigar, puffing until the end glowed red. “But then the credit card companies started to see fraudulent transactions on cards that were last used at the Starlight. The pattern pointed to unauthorized data capture at our end. We thought it was nonsense, so we did our own investigation.”

  “What were the results?”

  “Inconclusive. Possibly an identity fraud ring linked to the hotel.”

  “An inside job?”