My phone, bluetoothed to the car’s onboard system, interrupted my thoughts with a pleasant little melody, fading out the pensive strings of the eighth variation. The caller ID said Greenbriar Industries. I tapped the answer icon.
“Hello.”
“Mister Vincent?”
“Yes.”
“I’m Victoria Butler. Morgan Jutting’s assistant. Calling to book an appointment with you to meet with Mister Jutting.”
****
On my way out, I ran into my temporary landlady Murial on the stairs. She was holding a bag of garbage and wore purple dishwashing gloves.
“Liking the place all right?” She asked.
“Yes, it’s fine. Thanks. Quick question though. Is the cat yours?”
“Cat?”
“Yes, a big tom. Maine Coon maybe.”
“Oh, Max we call him. He’s a neighborhood cat. Doesn’t really live anywhere. A bit of a nuisance really. Some people feed him. He gets in fights.”
“Got it. He’s been hanging around.”
“Well, I wouldn’t encourage him.”
“Okay. Have a good evening. I’ll probably be leaving tomorrow. I’ll pay for the week of course since I reserved it but wanted to let you know in case you have someone else who wants it.”
“Okay. Thanks dear. Hope you have a good evening too. You look like you’re going somewhere fancy.”
“Just a business meeting unfortunately. Bye.”
****
I arrived at Jutting’s house a couple of minutes early. Our appointment was scheduled for five PM. Ortoli had given me a list of specific questions to ask. He had confided to me that he found the opportunity interesting mainly because he believed he would be able to take control both financially and on the ground. He was confident his own people could get the project back on track and he could end up profiting from the deal. He had insisted that I be allowed to meet with Jutting in person citing rumors that Jutting was in ill health or going senile.
I stood across the street for a minute, observing the house. It looked like a posh townhouse but it was probably more like a fortress. Steeling myself, I walked over and knocked. While I waited, I checked out the hardware. There was a biometric keypad on the door. The glass in the nearby window was definitely not original. It looked like ballistic glass-clad polycarbonate—super thick and nearly bulletproof. A capable looking guy in a black suit opened the door. He had hands made for crushing rocks. Each finger was a bratwurst. He stared at me without speaking.
“I have an appointment with Morgan Jutting,” I said after a few seconds, realizing he was waiting for me to speak first.
“ID.” He said and held out one of his oven mitts. The intimidating monosyllabic posturing was a bit over the top but it was part of any good private security guard’s arsenal. It was working on me. I didn’t want to try anything in Jutting’s house.
I handed him my passport and he motioned me into the entry hall. He had a regency desk with an incongruous black PC at one end. He bent over it, probably checking the appointment schedule, and compared my passport to something on his screen.
“Okay, wait a minute,” he said, handing my document back and picking up a phone. “Justin Vincent here…yes…all right.” He hung up and pointed to a carved walnut bench upholstered in broad gold and black striped chenille. “She’s coming down.”
I stood next to the bench and looked around. A wide angle security camera poked incongruously from the venetian plaster, providing a view of the entire entry hall. There had to be motion sensors too. Probably a safe room. Maybe even radar reaching out into the street to detect people near the house. Of course, the best security is people, well-trained and professional. Judging from what I had seen so far, Jutting’s London abode would be nearly impenetrable.
Aside from the security, the interior of the house was opulent in a way I hadn’t expected. I had thought the place would be more masculine but the color palette was gold and white, blue and pink. Across an expanse of white marble floor and through a gilt archway, I could see into a drawing room rife with glittering chandeliers, intricate woodwork, low, wide regency armchairs covered with pale gold fabrics. The effect was dizzying. There was nowhere to rest your eye. Everything was shiny and overwrought.
I squinted and found oases of relative minimalism to look at while I waited. Five minutes later, Victoria Butler, who I recognized from the photos I had found online, finally strode into the entry hall from another arched doorway. She was tall and built like a rower, with big shoulders straining a gray silk blouse. It occurred to me as she approached that she might be the decorator, or the one who chose the decorator anyway. She held out a hand and I took it.
“Mr. Vincent. A pleasure. I’m Victoria. Please follow me. Mr. Jutting is waiting.”
“Likewise. Thank you. Please call me Justin.”
A grand stairway at the far end of the hall spiraled up to a gallery, leading to higher floors. Victoria led me around it and through
