Danger in a Red Dress Read Free Page A

club.
    “Of course.” Carrick took the proffered paper, tucked it under his arm, and assessed the posture and mood of each and every man inside. It was a skill he’d developed and honed during the slim years.
    The club looked as it had for a hundred fifty years: dark paneling, high windows, overstuffed leather chairs, newspapers scattered on the end tables. The low buzz of male conversation and the clink of glasses filled the air.
    Mathew Davis was smirking at the glowing tip of his cigar. Carrick had heard rumors of a successful insider stock deal; obviously they were true.
    Headphones on, Judge Warner Edgerly watched a DVD on his handheld, a heated flush climbing up his shiny forehead. He must be reviewing porn again.
    Jeff Dresser sat at the bar hunched over a gin and tonic. Dresser looked hangdog and irritated, and anything that made the pompous jackass unhappy must be good news.
    Carrick slid into a seat next to Harold Grindle, the nosiest old gossip in New England. “What’s the problem with Jeff Dresser?” he murmured.
    “What?” Harold shouted.
    Carrick leaned forward and turned up the volume on Harold’s hearing aid. Still quietly, he asked, “I said, what’s the problem with Jeff Dresser?”
    “Oh.” Harold lowered his voice, too. “Haven’t you heard?” With a sly grin that relished each of Jeff’s tribulations, he reported the tale of Donald Dresser Sr.’s death and the details of his will.
    When he had finished, Carrick whistled softly. “So the Dressers are working at the insurance firm?”
    “The members of the board of directors are tearing out their hair. The stock is descending with each passing day. As a preventive measure, they’ve fired a few of the most worthless progeny”—Harold’s rheumy old eyes glistened—“ including Cynthia.”
    “No!”
    “She’s threatening to sue, but Burkhart assures me her claim will never stand up in court. I asked him about the scandal concerning old Donald’s private nurse. He clammed up about that, but I heard she slept with the old man to the tune of five hundred thousand dollars.”
    Carrick’s eyebrows shot up disbelievingly. “The old man must have gone senile, then, because when I knew him, he hadn’t an ounce of weakness in him.”
    Harold drew back, offended. “I only report what I’ve heard.” He turned off his hearing aid, and loudly, he huffed, “Upstart!”
    Ah, yes. The first insult of the day.
    Sauntering over to the bar, Carrick took a seat two stools down from Dresser. “Gin and tonic,” he told the bartender.
    He hated gin and tonics, but he wasn’t going to drink it, anyway. He was merely ordering up a little camaraderie.
    He placed the Wall Street Journal on the polished cherrywood bar and scanned the headlines, then turned with a well-feigned start. “I didn’t see you there, Mr. Dresser. How’s Ryan?”
    Ryan Dresser was the asshole who had made Carrick’s life hell after Nathan Manly crashed his multibillion-dollar business, walked with the money to South America or Thailand or wherever the hell he’d gone, and left Carrick and his mother destitute and humiliated.
    “Ryan? Oh, he’s fine. Twenty-six years old and absolutely good for nothing. Every one of my children is good for nothing.” Jeff Dresser was slurring his words, drunk at two o’clock in the afternoon.
    This just got better and better.
    “But Ryan’s got all that money behind him. How can he be good for nothing?”
    Dresser shot him a glance that told Carrick he wasn’t so drunk he didn’t recognize sarcasm when he heard it.
    The bartender slid the drink across to Carrick, who lifted it in a swift and distracting salute. “Here’s to the oil companies. Long may they reign.”
    “I suppose you’ve heard the story.” Dresser glanced behind him resentfully. “They’ve all heard the story, and they haven’t stopped chuckling yet.”
    Carrick wisely kept quiet.
    “Even that damn girl laughed. Laughed right in our faces!” Dresser