Linda L Richards - Mad Money (Madeline Carter Novels)

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Mad Money is copyright

Linda L. Richards 2011

All rights reserved. Except for use in anyreview, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or inpart of any form by electronic, mechanical or other means, nowknown or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying,and recording, or in any information storage retrieval system, isforbidden without the express written permission of the author.

All characters in this book have no existenceoutside the imagination of the author and have no relationwhatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are noteven distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to theauthor, and all incidents are pure invention.

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Cover photography and design by DavidMiddleton

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Chapter One

No one accused me of killing JacksonShoenberger. The hand on the weapon wasnt mine. I didnt pull thetrigger or point the gun. After Jack was dead, no one looked at meand said: She did it. Madeline Carter widowed that woman, orphanedthose kids.

Yet, I felt responsible. Responsible and atthe same time, I felt how easily it could have been me. Thosethings might sound mutually exclusive, but theyre not.

I wasnt a junior broker. Neither was Jack.Wed both been with the company 10 years when Sal came to us andoffered to pull us out of the bullpen give us offices of our own.Jack looked like he thought it was a good idea, but I wouldntbite. I loved the electric crackle in the pen on bullish morningswhen the room hummed with possibilities the phones, the yells,the excited high fives. It was a part of it for me. I loved being abroker. Being an investment manager didnt feel like a step up.

I wouldnt have blamed Jack for acceptingSals offer. Jack had a wife, kids and a house in Jersey. I didnteven have a cat. But, when I declined, Jack looked at me with thoseheavy lidded eyes of his and grinned. What she can hack, Ican hack. It could have meant a lot of things, but I took it atface value.

We never got a clear answer on how theshooter made it past security and into the bullpen. He lookednormal enough. Fortyish, short dark hair, well-pressed chinos and agood wool coat, not out of keeping with the season. In retrospect Ithink that when he said Jackson Shoenberger? to confirm Jacksidentity, there was a quaver in his voice. A hesitation. But maybethats just my mind filling things in after the fact.

The rest isnt filled in.

Initial surprise. Then a smile. An extendedhand. Yeah, Im Jack. What can I do you for?

A coat flung aside, a flash of chrome, acrack of sound, then Jack on the floor in a cascade of blood. Icant forget the smell: metallic and burnt all at once. The smellof the firearm discharging. Cordite. But something else. Not thesmell of death, but that of dying.

Before any of us had time to react, anothercrack and the shooter was down. So little space had separated thetwo men that the shooters ruined face came to rest on Jacks leftfoot. More blood. Then a cone of silence you could hold in yourhand. The world stopped. No one said anything. No one screamed. Noone even seemed to breathe. Ten seconds. Maybe 30. It was the bloodon my hand that woke me from my daze. Moved me. Blood cooled by itsflight through the air.

Then chaos: we all moved at once. It didntmatter; we could have stayed there for an hour. Forever. Jack wasdead. Jackson Shoenberger 35-year-old husband of Sarah, father ofNigel and Rose, the man who never missed thefirst-Thursday-night-of-the-month meetings of his gourmet club was dead before he hit the floor.

And it was stupid. Pointless. Without sense.The shooter had been a client. Not an important one. Hed made abit of money when the bull was raging and had started investingheavily just as the bear pulled up. The worse the market got, themore money he plugged in. I know Jack wouldnt have asked him wherethe cash was coming from. That wasnt part of our job.

Once the blood was mopped up, we followedthe paper trail. Jack had been trying to steer the guy right but hehadnt listened, hadnt trusted and had said Buy, when Jack hadtold him Sell.

It had only been a couple of hundred grandbut, as it turned out, it belonged to the shooters mom. Accordingto the pieces the police and the old womans boyfriend puttogether, the lady asked for her cash back to buy a condo inFlorida and her son just snapped. Killed her pretty much the wayhed killed Jack at close range with the same small gun thenhauled his ass to Manhattan from Long Island and did the doubledeed Jack and then himself all in the space of a couple ofhours.

The funeral was in New Jersey, inLawrenceville where the Shoenbergers had made their home. I waspleased to see Sarahs delicate face light up when she saw me andsurprised to see Nigel and Rose standing somberly on either side oftheir mother.

Theyre little, I know, Sarah said whenshe saw me notice. But I wanted them to be part of this. Funeralsare about completion for those that are left behind, she said itlike a mantra, smoothing Nigels pale hair absently as she spoke.They deserved the chance to say good-bye, too.

Sarah was, in all ways, the opposite of herhusband. Late husband, I corrected myself. Sarah was a tinybundle of energy, where Jack had been big and rangy and, for abroker, laid back. Sarah was dark where Jack had been fair. Eachhad been given a child: At nine, Nigel, with fine wheat-coloredhair and pale eyes, was the image of his father. Today it hurt tolook at him. Rose, just six, was dark and composed, a jade greenribbon bringing out the red highlights in her hair.

I was afraid you wouldnt come, Sarahsaid, grasping my hand tightly when she saw me after thefuneral.

Of course Id come, Sarah. How could Inot?

I was worried when you didnt return mycalls.

Sarah, Im so sorry. I... I didnt knowwhat to say. I glanced down at the kids, lowered my voice. Iwas... I was there.

Oh, honey, I know you were, she reachedout and squeezed my hand. That must have been so hard.

The touch undid me. On the surface ofthings, Id been managing fine. Not thinking too much aboutanything, just moving. But the touch, from someone so close toJack, someone with whom I shared a link to my old friend, was likea flame to wax on the place Id been protecting. I could feel myface cloud, tears threatening, something I couldnt bear thethought of Sarah seeing. Sarahs pain, I thought, was enough. Shedidnt need the added weight of mine. She didnt see it thatway.

After all of this, she indicated thecrowds of people filing through, both Jack and Sarahs families,coworkers and friends, just a few people are coming by the house.Id like you to be one of them.

I nodded, quickly kissed her on the cheekand went to move on, to let other mourners pay their respects, butSarah didnt let me slip away. She grasped my hand firmly andpulled me back. Dont even think about bailing, Carter, she saidfirmly. I need you there. Jack would have wanted youthere.

Yesm, I said, smiling for what felt likethe first time in days. That does not sound like an invitationthat can be turned down.

Its not.

I get that, already. When?

Any time, really. My parents already headedback to the house to make coffee and prepare food.

But I didnt head straight for the house. Idrove around Lawrenceville in my rental, mentally placing Jacksoneverywhere I looked. In a ball cap and jeans, on the weekend,scooting into the hardware store for whatever gunk he needed to fixa leaky faucet in the kids bathroom. Taking Sarah out for Italianfood on their anniversary. Running the kids to daycare and, later,school. When I cruised past the high school and thought about howhe wouldnt get to see his kids go there, let alone graduate, Imade myself stop it. None of this, clearly, was going to bringJackson back. And none of it was making me feel any better,either.