“As long as it doesn’t affect the service,” Luca says dryly. “I’m still staying here.”
“I assure you he’s mostly a figurehead. Too busy conducting his own affairs to bother worrying about the hotel. He leaves everything to his staff now.”
“In that case, I guess it’s time to pay him a visit,” Luca agrees.
The hotel manager’s office is decked out in a style more befitting a king than an administrator. I happen to know that running the city’s most exclusive five-star hotel comes with a more than a decent salary. Doing some digging, I’ve discovered that isn’t enough for him. A man doesn’t open an account in the Caymans without reason. Nicholas Randolph opened two.
He greets me at his desk, extending a pudgy arm. “Mr. Ford, I’ve been meaning to invite you for a drink.”
The years haven’t been kind to him. His graying hair—or what’s left of it—is swept pathetically over his shining boulder of a head in an attempt to hide his balding skull. His suit, while expensive, has been fitted to a much leaner man. I can almost hear him screaming at the tailor to make the measurements tighter. Why be comfortable when your pride is on the line? I accept his handshake, not at all surprised at how hard he squeezes. A good, firm handshake is important to men like him. Meanwhile, I barely bother. Touching him isn’t on my list of must do’s.
“This is my associate, Luca,” I say, purposefully withholding his last name. Anyone in the hospitality business knows the DeAngelo family. Learning he’s in the presence of a member of the family will either distract or disturb him. I’m not interested in either scenario.
“Thank you for joining me for a little afternoon refresco,” he says. Luca barely smothers a laugh, but Randolph doesn’t notice. “I hope you enjoyed your stay.”
“Immensely. I’d have been here longer but I closed on my condo last week.”
“A condo?” He settles into his chair, waving his hand over a spread of house delicacies he’s had brought in for the occasion. I shake my head. “How lovely. I like to check in with our more important guests to make certain we exceeded their expectations.”
“I try to refrain from having expectations. I’m easy to please,” I say, refusing the bourbon he lifts next in offering.
“Well, then, good,” he says in a flustered tone, retrieving a monogrammed handkerchief from his suit pocket and mopping his forehead.
“Luca will be staying at the Eaton for some time, though.”
“Oh, excellent.” Randolph turns his beady gaze on him. “In town for business?”
Luca nods, picking at his sleeve. He’s never been one to bother with chit chat.
“And your business is?” Randolph presses.
“The family business,” he says in a bored voice.
Getting nowhere with Luca, he returns his attention to me. “And you, Mr. Ford? What business are you in?”
I can’t blame him for wondering what the man staying in his most expensive suite for nearly a month does for a living. In Randolph’s eyes I’m the sort of clientele he wants to attract. At least, I am now.
“Asset management. I handle private financial matters,” I emphasize the last part—bait sure to make this fish bite.
“Management,” he repeats. “Investments and such?”
“In a way,” I say. “I only work with very select clientele. My clients require the utmost discretion.”
A light goes on in his yes. “I understand. I wonder if I might talk to you about a little financial issue of my own.”
He eyes Luca nervously, trying to figure out how safe it is for him to talk.
Randolph is a money launderer. Not a terribly good one, because I found proof of it far too easily, which means he’s just smart enough to know what he’s doing but just stupid enough that he’ll get caught. Eventually. He’s been skimming off the top for years. I have proof but it wouldn’t take a genius to see his lifestyle doesn’t match up with his salary. Loyalty is a funny thing in the South though. I’ve seen it before. People forgiving those who shouldn’t be forgiven. Overlooking crimes to save face. Scandals are as prevalent here as anywhere else, but they tend to be swept directly under the rug.
“You can speak freely,” I assure him.
“Are you also in asset management?” he asks Luca.
Lucas straightens in his seat, suddenly interested in the conversation. He’s never one to turn down a chance to boast about his own occupation. “I’m more of a people person. I handle staffing issues, among other problems.”
I toss in an incredulous stare. Staffing issues? It’s possibly the worst double entendre for assassin that I’ve ever heard. Randolph swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing with the effort. He clearly gets the idea.
“What he means is that he’s discreet,” I explain.
“In that case…” He clears his throat, darting nervous glances at Luca. “I recently had an investment opportunity present itself. Very certain returns. I need to figure out where to put the money.”
“A mutual fund?” Luca suggests flatly.
“You’re never as funny as you think you are,” I warn him under my breath. I nod to Randolph encouragingly.
“It would be better if my wife didn’t know about it…” he says, adding as an afterthought, “Yet.”
“Sometimes separate finances are for the best,” I say.
It’s a common problem I’m asked to solve. When a rich man bores of his wife and takes a new mistress, he starts to think about hiding his assets. The less the wife knows about, the less he has to share in the divorce. Most wind up still losing a chunk to keeping the mistress happy in the process. But she’s on the hook, willing to trade her body for the finer things. A wife expects the finer things for putting up with you. Something Randolph’s wife feels acutely, I’m sure.
“I’m sure I can find the right investment for you,” I say. “Why don’t you and I discuss this further? I’ll need to know exactly what assets and so forth you would like moved.”
He dabs his nose with the handkerchief, appearing relieved that
