Free First Kill by Lawrence Kelter Page A

partner hours ahead of time so that he can testify to the fact that I had a headache at work to give me an excuse for blowing off my date if he makes a sexual advance … or maybe I’ll just take an aspirin .” I chuckled lightheartedly. “Jerk!”

Chapter Nineteen
    “Well, this is a nice place.” Farrell owned a fabulous loft with twenty-foot ceilings, poured-concrete floors, and a kitchen that an Iron Chef would trade his Shun knives for. I mean wow —Wolf appliances, granite countertops, and cherry-wood cabinets—not that I’m impressed with any of that stuff. Ma is the best cook in the world, and she does it all with a burnt frying pan and her grandmother’s old rolling pin.
    “Hungry?” he asked.
    “Experience will teach you there’s no reason to ask that question.”
    “Great,” he said as he took my coat and bag and placed them in the closet. “I like a woman with a healthy appetite.”
    “Well then, you should like me a lot.”
    Farrell looked handsome in his sweatshirt and glasses, the personification of geek chic. I glanced through the floor-to-ceiling windows—we were in lower Manhattan, so there were no skyscrapers to gawk at, but I had a magnificent view of the Westside piers and the Hudson River. I felt terribly guilty for bailing on Rodriguez with so much going on in the investigation, but he insisted that I go on my date. To tell the truth, I needed a little distance from the case, a short pause to sharpen my senses so that I could attack it with renewed vigor in the morning.
    Farrell opened a bottle of wine and filled our glasses. I took a large gulp. “I really needed this.”
    “I know. I heard about the dead PI. What happened?”
    “Not much to tell. We arrived at his apartment to question him, just as someone picked him off from across the courtyard. Ex-cop. He must have had a great memory because there were no records to be found—closet full of burner phones, so there are no contacts to follow up on. I know he has a car, because that’s how I traced him. We’re checking all the garages in the area for his ride.” My cell phone rang. Jesus, what timing . I didn’t want our evening disturbed, but I was happy to see Ambler’s ID come up on the display. “Sorry,” I said apologetically. “I’ve got to take this.”
    “No sweat. I’ll get our dinner going.”
    “Talk to me, G-Man.”
    Ambler chuckled. “You’re the only one who can call me that and get away with it.”
    “And I know it. What did you find out?”
    “Do you have any idea how much Cronan Hartley was worth and how many investments he had?”
    “Do I want to know? I mean don’t make me feel bad; I eat peanut butter and jelly three nights a week.”
    “Really?”
    “No. Actually it’s two nights of PB&J and one night of cream cheese and jelly, but I didn’t think I needed to be that specific.”
    “You are kidding, right?”
    “Yes, I’m kidding. So tell me about Hartley’s finances.”
    “He was worth upward of seventy-five mil: securities, precious metals, brokerage. I’ve been analyzing his accounts all day—still have a couple to go. He was pretty clever, but I traced several random transfers that ended up in an account in the Channel Islands.”
    “I have no idea where that is. Is that, like, near Guam?”
    “Ha! Guam? Your geography sucks, Chalice. The Channel Islands, and the Isle of Jersey, to be exact, are located off the coast of France.”
    “And this is significant, why?”
    “The Isle of Jersey is like the Cayman Islands—it’s a tax haven. Hartley moved money there from various trusts and corporations to avoid taxation.”
    “Is that legal?”
    “Yes, it’s legal. He had about thirty million stashed over there.”
    “That’s a lot of peanut butter.”
    “Sure is.”
    “But you didn’t call to tell me he was a shrewd investor.”
    “No. I’m calling because money never left that account, except just once—fifty thousand was wire transferred to a numbered Swiss