Fifth Victim (15 page)

As he ducked into the car, Parker nodded to the troops, who stiffened as if suddenly realising they were raw recruits in the presence of a veteran. One hopped in smartly behind us, the other took the front seat next to the driver.

Inside, the Cadillac was cavernous in a slightly tacky way, with inset LED lighting everywhere, mirrors on the ceiling, flat screen TVs, and champagne on ice. It could seat ten in squishy cream-leather comfort, three abreast at the front and rear of the huge rear cabin, and along one side on a four-seater sofa that would have been too big to fit most British living rooms.

When the door clunked shut behind us, I saw there were two other passengers already in occupation. One was a statuesque red-haired woman in a charcoal silk tuxedo, who was clearly security. The other, lounging at the far end with his back to the raised privacy screen behind the driver, was a thin man in his sixties. He cut a striking figure, with a shock of white hair and Colonel Sanders-style moustache and narrow strip of a beard. So, this was Eisenberg Senior, Torquil’s gazillionaire father. Physically, they were not much alike, but in manner they mirrored one another. Of Torquil’s mother, there was no sign.

Parker and I took the rear seats, with the security man who’d climbed in last alongside us. It was the same guy I’d seen shadowing Torquil at the riding club, rather than the lurker who’d stayed in the car. He glanced at me once, without a flicker of reaction in his face, then muttered an instruction into his radio that we were ready to roll out.

I guessed from the snatches of radio traffic I caught that two generations of Eisenberg men travelling together warranted at least two chase cars. They were not difficult to spot.

Torquil’s cellphone rang twice before we’d made it half a mile. The first time was some kind of message that he glanced at briefly, but when the
Mission: Impossible
theme began its second run, his father gave him a hard stare that made him pointedly turn off the device – or at least put it on silent.

Meanwhile, Eisenberg Senior greeted Caroline Willner with a distant familiarity. Where Torquil came across as precocious and occasionally arrogant, Brandon Eisenberg had perfected this manner into a certain straight-talking charm, backed by obvious savvy. And he’d done his homework.

As he leant forwards to shake Dina’s hand, he said smoothly, ‘I understand you’re turning into quite the talented equestrienne, young lady. I have a few horses myself, so I appreciate the skills involved to handle them well.’

Dina flushed at the praise, and self-consciously congratulated him on his recent winner in the Kentucky Derby.

‘Well, we sure were lucky this time out,’ Eisenberg said modestly. Duty done, he turned his attention to those of us in the rear of the bus as we began to pick up speed. ‘Mr Armstrong, I understand. Your reputation precedes you.’

‘As does yours, sir,’ Parker returned in that entirely neutral voice he used to such effect.

Eisenberg nodded in acknowledgement, and his gaze slid sideways onto me. ‘And you must be Miss Fox,’ he said. ‘According to my boy, you put up quite a show the other day.’

‘I told you – those guys were total dumb-asses, Dad,’ Torquil put in sharply. ‘If they’d taken a swing at her first, instead of the riding club guy, who knows
how
it would have gone down.’

Beside me, the bodyguard didn’t quite heave a sigh, but his chest definitely gave a quick rise and fall outside its normal rhythm. I didn’t need to suppose whose expert opinions Torquil had hijacked as his own.

Dina, sitting next to Torquil on the sofa, gave him a nudge in the ribs that was only half playful. ‘Hey, that’s my personal bodyguard you’re talking about,’ she protested, flashing me a smile. ‘Charlie was just great. A real action heroine!’

But Eisenberg was silent for a moment, as if giving his son’s words due consideration. Or maybe he was simply wondering – as I was – why Torquil sounded so annoyed about the inept performance by Dina’s potential kidnappers.

It bothered me – Torquil’s response to the incident. Dina had told me he was a risk-taker and a thrill-seeker in the extreme sports in which he regularly engaged. Did that mean he now fancied himself in the role of bodyguard, with all the inherent dangers that fantasy entailed? If so, he could well cause me some major headaches. Not to mention exposing Dina to possible harm.

I thought back to Orlando’s comments at the riding club, just before the attack. She’d told me that Torquil had been hanging around
her
shortly before she was taken. Was his interest purely academic, or did he have some other, more sinister, involvement?

I glanced sideways at Parker, caught his brief frown and knew his thought processes had travelled a similar path to my own. Either way, Torquil needed to have his wings clipped before he got any of us into a situation where his proverbial wax melted.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

As we all climbed out of the limo outside the grand front entrance of the country club, Brandon Eisenberg turned, buttoning his immaculate dinner jacket, and said casually, ‘I have a table reserved. You’ll be my guests, of course.’

Caroline Willner smiled at him with every appearance of pleasure and said we would all be delighted. I dredged up one of the facts and figures that the ultra-efficient Ms Harling had flung my way the day before, and recalled that reserving an entire table, which seated twelve, could be had for an outrageous price running into thousands of dollars.

There were few limits, it seemed, to what you could get away with in the name of charity.

Before the dinner and auction took place in the Grand Ballroom, there was a cocktail reception in one of the smaller function rooms. Always a difficult occasion to manage from a security standpoint, because of the general crowding and the liquid nature of people’s movements.

It was fortunate that Dina seemed keen to have me alongside her, otherwise I would have struggled to keep her fully covered once the place really began to heat up. Maybe she just wanted the company. Torquil appeared more interested in making inroads into the complimentary champagne than taking care of his date. There was playing it cool, I decided, and then there was being positively chilly.

As we circulated I ran into plenty of other minders, and was on nodding terms with some of them from previous jobs. There were enough actors and celebrities attending to make casual lunatics alone a possibility, never mind specific targeted threats. The close-protection guys all looked tense as a result.

It was a relief to finally be rallied through to the ballroom to take our seats for the gala dinner. Brandon Eisenberg’s table was one of the best, front and centre. Not where I would have chosen to stash my principal if I’d had a choice.

We were directly in front of the stage where the compère would later attempt to whip up his audience into a frenzy of generous bidding. Eisenberg was first to take his seat, at right angles to the stage, where he could keep an eye on the room as well, without craning his neck. His own bodyguard, the red-headed woman, claimed the chair to his right. I’d learnt from Parker that she was ex-Secret Service, called Gleason.

Gleason had not returned my smile of greeting, but turned on the charm as far as Parker was concerned, and was now attempting to impress him with her professional attention to duty. I assumed she was after a job. In this business, having the name Armstrong-Meyer on your CV looked good to anyone.

Caroline Willner sat next to Brandon Eisenberg and, practised in the social graces, immediately engaged him in quiet and earnest conversation. The rest of us sat down and spread out. Even with Torquil’s own bodyguard, we were still only eight instead of twelve, which gave everybody a bit more elbow room.

I had Dina on one side of me and the security man from the back seat of the limo on the other. He had not developed his conversational skills during the ride in, and I’d privately nicknamed him Lurch as a result, but I was happy to people-watch and keep an eye on the flow through the ballroom as the late arrivals made their entrance. Dina was chatting stiltedly with Torquil. The elaborate table displays made it difficult to hold a conversation with the person sitting opposite.

From our vantage point, I spotted Benedict Benelli looking moody in all black, with his damaged right hand thrust into his pocket as usual. Manda Dempsey was on his arm in a white dress that showed the extent of her all-over tan and was causing many a double take from the male guests. Possibly they were all wondering how she managed to keep anything so skimpy to stay the right side of decent. I reckoned double-sided sticky tape had a lot to do with it.

It wasn’t long before Orlando and Hunt also turned up, in a party that also consisted of several security guys and an older couple who looked to be Orlando’s parents. None of them looked particularly happy to be there. The three former kidnap victims did not, I noticed, make any efforts to sit together, despite their apparent pally behaviour at the birthday party.

Dinner was served and cleared with inconspicuous efficiency and the auction began as soon as the coffee and mints were on the tables, leaving the staff to scurry about between the guests, trying not to be mistaken for bidders.

I was staggered at the lots on offer and the prices they fetched, from trips to the British Virgin Islands on the Eisenberg yacht, to a kiss for a rich man’s daughter from the latest teen sensation heart-throb actor.

The auction took about an hour, after which the dancing started, more ballroom than disco, which at least meant the noise stayed at a comfortable level. The country club had employed live musicians to provide the accompaniment, including a Korean girl in a long red dress who, if I was any judge, played classical guitar to a far higher standard than the gig should have demanded.

Those who didn’t dance took the opportunity to circulate and network, or simply to chat. Manda floated across and exchanged air kisses with Dina.

‘Honey, I heard about what happened at the riding club,’ she said, hand still on Dina’s arm. ‘That must have been horrible. How
are
you?’

‘She’s fine,’ Torquil said, leaning back in his chair to talk around Dina before she had a chance to speak. ‘After all, it wasn’t much of an attempt.’

Dina threw him a sharp look. ‘Well
I
was terrified, but Charlie was terrific,’ she said, sliding me another of those little sideways glances. ‘And I don’t know how you can say that, Tor. Poor Raleigh’s arm was bust up really bad.’

Manda looked confused. ‘Raleigh?’

‘My horse-riding instructor,’ Dina said. ‘He was walking us to the trailer when these guys appeared out of nowhere and just whaled in on the poor guy.’

Torquil drowned a ‘humph’ into his glass as he took a swig of his drink. Some people just like being argumentative for the sake of it.

Manda frowned at him. ‘Poor guy,’ she repeated. ‘Well, at least you’re OK, honey. That’s something.’ And with a vague smile, she drifted on.

I watched her go, noting that her return to the Benelli table seemed to spark a quiet disagreement between her and Benedict, who was in a worse temper than Torquil and was being stiffly ignored by the rest of his party.

Why, I wondered, amid all this luxury and excess, were all of them so determined not to have a good time tonight?

I turned back and met Caroline Willner’s eye. She gave me a fractional smile as if she’d read my thoughts with accuracy.

‘I should very much like to dance,’ she announced firmly, causing Torquil to bury his nose in his drink again, just in case she had him in mind as a partner.

His father had a more mature way of declining, patting what had seemed to be a perfectly healthy knee and shrugging apologetically. ‘I made it a policy a long time ago to dance in public only with my wife,’ he said with a smile, carefully not looking at his red-headed bodyguard as he spoke. ‘Causes less scandal that way.’

‘In that case,’ Parker said, rising politely and offering his hand. ‘May I?’

Caroline Willner inclined her head, her expression announcing, in a subtle kind of way, that this was the outcome for which she’d been aiming. ‘You may.’

They moved out onto the floor. Dina fidgeted in her chair and stared pointedly at Torquil until he gave an ungracious sigh and pushed his chair back. What was eating him, I wondered?

‘You wanna dance?’

Dina nodded and got to her feet quickly, in case he changed his mind. I glanced across at Parker, saw him pick up Dina’s movement and give me a slight nod, knew he’d have her covered while she and Torquil were out on the floor. Torquil’s bodyguard, Lurch, had been busy folding the silver foil from the coffee mints into mini origami shapes that looked far too delicate for his oversize fingers. Although he didn’t seem to be paying attention, it was deceptive. He was on his feet before Torquil, and was heading for the dance floor.

‘Do me a favour and help him to blend a little, would you?’ Brandon Eisenberg said. For a moment I thought he was speaking to me, but when I looked up, Eisenberg’s eyes were on his own bodyguard, Gleason. When she hesitated, he said, ‘I’m sure Miss Fox will keep me company until you return.’

Gleason didn’t like that at all, but there wasn’t much she could do. She gave a curt nod and stepped onto the floor, holding herself rigidly away from her partner by way of protest, her eyes fixed on Torquil and Dina.

Eisenberg patted Caroline Willner’s empty chair alongside him and, having no good reason to refuse, I moved round, keeping my own eyes on the dance floor as I took my seat.

Parker, I saw, had casually manoeuvred himself close to Dina and Torquil, without it being obvious to anyone, least of all the couple concerned. He was an excellent, fluid dancer. Caroline Willner looked like she was having a good time in his arms.

‘That bother you?’ Eisenberg asked. ‘Mrs Willner dancing with your boss?’

I looked at him in surprise, found him watching me with disconcerting pale-blue eyes.

‘Excuse me?’ I bit out, and remembered belatedly Parker’s warning that Eisenberg was not someone to get on the wrong side of. I swallowed my temper and said in measured tones, ‘Mr Armstrong is my boss. Why does everybody assume there’s more to our relationship than that?’