Free Social Lives by Wendy Walker Page B

for a moment, this odd little man and her sister, and it soon became clear from Kelly’s demeanor that she was uncomfortable around him. He was standing close, too close even for a hushed conversation, and though Kelly hid it, Jacks could see the repulsion spreading across her face. A pasty, bloated hand reached out for Kelly’s waist, accompanied by a seedy grin, and that was, apparently, the last straw. Kelly pushed him away and turned toward the table, where Jacks was waiting. The man followed, somehow amused by this most recent interaction.
    â€œThis is Red,” Kelly announced, her eyes avoiding the man. “My neighbor.”
    Red extended his hand, and Jacks felt obliged to take it. “Red?” sheasked, observing the waxy white pool ball of a head that seemed to be resting on the man’s sternum. Not a neck in sight.
    He chuckled and rubbed his scalp, clearly unaware of just how unattractive he truly was. “Yeah. Used to have a full mop. You have to get to know me a lot better to see the evidence.” He winked then, eyebrows raised, provoking a loud sigh from Kelly.
    â€œChrist, Red, give it a rest.”
    Jacks smiled politely and changed the subject. “So . . . Kelly said you were an accountant?”
    Red sat down, nodding with pride. “
Am
an accountant. Just between firms at the moment. I think I’m gonna open my own . . . you know, get some clients, hang a shingle. Everybody’s got taxes, right? I’m what you’d call a necessary evil.”
    â€œYou should pass out some business cards at the Pink Panty,” Kelly said, stifling her disgust. Red had moved in next door three months ago following his release from prison on a vehicular homicide. He’d plowed down an old man after a night of heavy drinking. Now he spent his days and nights at a sleazy strip club, drinking away what was left of his savings, and his conscience.
    â€œI might just do that. Those girls make a lot of dough. I keep telling your sister . . . she could work half the hours—”
    â€œWell, thanks for agreeing to meet with me,” Jacks said, interrupting his train of thought before Kelly took a bat to his bald little head.
    â€œOh, yeah. No problem. I know it doesn’t look that way, but I handled a lot of corporate investment reports. I know my way around the paperwork.”
    Jacks could see he was serious, though Kelly was now rolling her eyes. No matter—even if he was merely half the man he seemed to think himself, he was free and far from Wilshire. She cleared her throat, then reached for the papers she’d copied through the night. “I brought what I could. I know there’s over seven million dollars missing from all of our assets.”
    Red took the papers, his interest now piqued. “Seven million, you said?” Still, his tone was nonchalant. “And you said there were letters from the government?”
    Jacks nodded. “They’re in there—at the back. They haven’t charged him with anything. That’s good, right? Wouldn’t they charge him if he’d done something wrong?”
    â€œDepends,” he said, reading over the letters from the U.S. Attorney’s office. “They’re still asking for explanations.”
    â€œFor what?”
    He looked up then, his face solemn. “This statute—the one they’ve cited here. It’s . . . well, it’s basically embezzlement.”
    The words tore through her. She knew what David did for a living—gathering other people’s money, pooling it all, and investing it in large-scale deals that none of them could afford on their own. There were no stocks or bonds, no securities regulations he had to worry about. The hedge fund business had been the Wild West of Wall Street. Private money. Private investments. And just enough rope for David to hang himself with.
    Kelly reached out and took her sister’s hand.