Bancroft showed not even a trace of emotion at the mention of his son. “Prove it,” he spat out.
“I don’t have to.” I took my time explaining those words. “Either you have been hiding assets,” I said, “which makes you a felon, or you’re actually as broke as you claim to be, which makes you the very last person in the world whom anyone in DC should trust to invest their money.” I paused. “I wonder how long it would take for news of your financial difficulties to spread.”
Bancroft snorted, but his eyes gave him away. He was looking nervous. Good. “You think my ex-wife wants DC society to realize how broke she is?” the man countered. “If she was going to go public with this, she would have already.”
True.
“I’m not your ex-wife.” I picked up my phone and brought up the contact information for the Washington Post. “And as it turns out, I don’t have a vested interest in whether people think she’s broke or not.” I turned the phone toward Bancroft just long enough for him to see who I was calling, then hit the call button, setting the phone to speaker.
It rang once.
Twice.
“Stop,” Bancroft said.
I hit the button to end the call just as someone picked up. I held out the paperwork Henry had asked his family attorney to draw up. “In an ideal world,” I said, “you’d amend the divorce settlement you made with your ex-wife.”
A muscle in Bancroft’s jaw ticked. He’d take his chances weathering damaging rumors before he’d give his ex anything she wanted.
“However,” I continued, “I thought you might prefer making an anonymous donation to your children’s school.”
I held out the papers again. Bancroft took them. Reading them, he frowned. “A scholarship fund?”
“Donors can put whatever stipulations they would like on a donation. Your stipulations are very specific.”
Jeremy and his little sister would be the recipients of scholarships that would pay their Hardwicke tuition through graduation.
“I only have two children.” Bancroft looked up from the pages and glowered at me. “Why am I funding three scholarships?”
I offered him a tight-lipped smile. “Price of doing business.”
A vein in Bancroft’s forehead throbbed. “And if I tear up these papers, call the police, and have you arrested for stealing my car?”
I shrugged. “Technically,” I said, “I didn’t steal your car.”
The car slowed to a stop at the curb of the Roosevelt, having circled the block. In the driver’s seat, Henry turned around. “Technically,” he said, “I did.”
“Henry Marquette,” I clarified for the man in the backseat. “His mother is Pamela Abellard.” My smile took on a cat-eating-canary glint. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but aren’t the Abellards your firm’s biggest client?”
Bancroft’s grip tightened over his phone, his knuckles turning white.
“We both know you’re not making that call,” I said. I nodded toward the paperwork in his hands.
The man’s eyes went back to Henry’s.
“Normally,” Henry told him conversationally, “when someone asks me to commit grand theft auto, my answer is a firm no. But I have a sister.” Henry’s expression was perfectly polite, but his mint-green eyes flashed, striking against his dark brown skin. “My little sister,” Henry continued, “is your daughter’s age. Nine years old.”
Bancroft signed the papers. He made a call and authorized the transfer of funds.
As I exited the car, I glanced over at Henry. “Should I call Asher and tell him we won’t be needing that getaway distraction?”
Before Henry could reply, pop music reverberated off the building. Asher jogged into the middle of a large crowd and struck a dramatic pose.
“You say ‘distraction,’” Henry deadpanned, “Asher hears ‘flash mob.’”
Five seconds later, Vivvie danced wildly past and gave me a questioning look. I nodded.
“The possum has fallen on the nun!” Vivvie called to Asher.
Asher didn’t miss a beat of choreography. He shimmied and punched a fist into the air. “Long live the possum!”
CHAPTER 2
I had exactly three hours to recover from my confrontation with Jeremy Bancroft’s father before I found myself facing off against a very different opponent.
“What do you know about the War of the Roses?” My paternal grandfather closed his fingers around a black knight and then used it to remove my rook from the chessboard.
No mercy. No hesitation.
“Wars of the Roses,” I said, countering his move. “Plural.”
The edges of the old man’s lips quirked upward. He inclined his head slightly—both an acknowledgment of my point and a command to continue.
“Bunch of guys in the fifteenth century fighting for the throne of England.”