Second Chance Gold (Buck Reilly Adventure Series Book 4) John Cunningham (the rosie project TXT) 📖

came to see you several times a week, and while the gendarmes don’t suspect foul play, we’ve been speaking to Jerry’s associates to help advise Mr. Atlas on how to proceed. He is not looking to remove Jerry’s deposits from BNP, but that could change if he feels the bank isn’t doing its best to help us determine what happened to his nephew.”

Piccard straightened his back and the corners of his mouth turned down.

“Naturally we would like to assist Mr. Atlas. Jerry was not only a customer, but as you say, he was here frequently, and though he could be … demanding, I considered him more than just an acquaintance.”

Demanding?

“Thank you. And we appreciate your candor.” I smiled and considered how to play this. “Jerry had many different sides, didn’t he?”

Monsieur Piccard shrugged. “Here at the bank he was constantly shifting funds into different investment accounts, based on the markets or currency fluctuations. As one of our more sophisticated clients, he kept us on our toes.” His smile was strained.

Sophisticated? “Not exactly his public persona, though, was it?” I held my breath.

He laughed.

“No, not at all. Jerry liked to have fun, and while he was generous, I often wondered if his reputation as a playboy was a façade—that can be excellent camouflage, you know. From what I saw, he never let anyone get close enough to know the real Jerry.”

“Even Madame Atlas, his wife?”

Monsieur Piccard pressed his fingertips together.

“She is not on any of his main accounts, only a checking account for household supplies and groceries. I do not know whether she knows the extent of his estate or not, but she is fighting for access now.”

“Jerry’s estate is complicated,” I said.

“Ha! An understatement.”

I didn’t want to press too hard. Right now, Philippe Piccard believed we were far more informed than we actually were, so I struggled with how to ask the next question.

“And Jerry’s estate attorney, is he also of a high caliber?”

“Ah oui, Pierre Jardin is the best on the island. Have you spoken to him yet?”

“He’s our next stop.”

Monsieur Piccard provided directions to Jardin’s offices, which were only a couple of blocks away. I said we might return if anything else arose.

“Thank you for coming in person. Please let Mr. Atlas know that we—I—am very saddened by Jerry’s demise. Complicated, yes, but he was also caring, in his own way.”

Once outside, we turned left and walked slowly in the direction of Pierre Jardin’s office.

“Don’t sound like the same Jerry Atlas we been hearing about,” Truck said.

I shook my head. “No, it doesn’t.”

I pulled out Lou Atlas’s list of names. Odd that neither Jerry’s banker nor attorney were included.

Why?

Though not large by the standard of big city attorneys, Pierre Jardin’s plush second-story suite had a beautiful view down Rue General de Gaulle. A lovely young pixie-haired paralegal/administrative assistant greeted us warmly in French, then switched to English upon hearing our response. She stood in front of a rosewood desk neatly covered with stacked files and papers.

“Is Monsieur Jardin expecting you?”

“Philippe Piccard from BNP suggested we come see him.” I produced the letter from Lou Atlas.

She read the letter and sighed.

“Unfortunately, Monsieur Jardin has not returned from his lunch meeting.” She glanced at the digital clock on the desk. “But he should be back in ten minutes or so, if you would like to wait.”

There were two chairs and a couch, all pale blue leather, in the waiting area near her desk.

“That’s fine, we’ll wait.”

As she walked down the hall I noted bright red high heels and tan legs wrapped in a thigh-high tight blue skirt. Back in a flash, she gave us two cold glasses of water, then sat at her desk.

“So sad about Jerry,” she said.

“Yes, hard to believe he drowned doing something he loved so much.”

She squinted slightly and nodded her head.

“You must have known him well,” I said.

She nodded again. “He was very—”

The door suddenly swung open and a rotund man with gray shaggy hair, dressed in tan linen pants and a white linen shirt, walked in. He stopped when he saw us.

“Messieurs Reilly and Lewis here on behalf of Jerry Atlas’s uncle,” the paralegal said.

“Oui? How can I help you, gentlemen?”

I repeated the ritual handing over of Lou’s letter. Monsieur Jardin scanned it.

“Come to my office.” Without waiting he hurried down the hall to a corner room with a wonderful view of the western side of the harbor, BAZ Bar visible beyond the boats. He shifted stacks of files from his pale green leather couch to make room for us, then sat at his desk and lit a cigarette. He leaned back in his chair, which squeaked, and exhaled a long cloud of smoke.

“Jerry was not fond of his Uncle Lou,” he said.

“Neither are we. However, he hired us to look into Jerry’s affairs, search for anything that may have hinted at foul play.” I paused, debating whether to use the banker’s revelation to appear more informed. “With Gisele seeking to invalidate the prenuptial agreement, Mr. Atlas thought we should speak with anyone who knew him well, which has led us to you.”

He leaned forward. “I was not aware that Mr. Atlas knew about me. In fact, Jerry specifically stated that he did not.”

Crap. Strike one, and ever closer to the attorney-client-privilege brick wall.

“He didn’t,” I said. “The list of names he asked us to check with—” I pulled the list from my pocket and handed it over “—is comprised only of people who knew him socially. His banker, Philippe Piccard, gave us your name and suggested we come see you.”

A long drag on the cigarette caused the ember to glow red for several seconds.

“That is unlike Philippe.”

“We’re not seeking confidential information, Monsieur Jardin—”

“Pierre.”

“We’re only trying to find out what happened to Jerry. We understand he lived something of a dual life.”

Pierre gave me a penetrating look, then leaned back in his chair.

“With his estate in limbo—under attack, actually—and given that he is dead, I am