“And yet you already are,” I point out.
She slides her hand under her hair and rubs her neck. “Not really, but I know enough to be scared.”
I set the cup down more decisively. It’s not that damn good and this meeting is becoming tedious. “Can we just get to it?”
“Promise it’s off the record.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Off the record. Talk.”
“I dated Rip Vaughn.”
“When?” I asked.
“We broke up over the summer.”
“And saw each other for how long?” I ask.
“About six months,” she says. “And we actually got pretty serious.” Her hand trembles and she shoves it under the table.
“That’s surprising, considering he was a player,” I say, looking for an emotional reaction from her that speaks louder than a shaking hand that could be nothing more than nerves over a lie.
“Yes,” she says softly. “He liked women, but I was pretty willing to play to his many different interests. He liked his sex games, too, which you’ll understand as I continue. We were—” she hesitates.
My brows lift. I learned that from Kane, but it took practice. It’s not as easy as it looks.
“We were swingers. I guess I’m a bit of a player, too, but we did it together. Then it wasn’t cheating.”
Swinging is at the core of numerous murders I’ve investigated over the years and it’s rarely a single interest as she’s already indicated. My theory of Banking the Billionaire being a secret sex game is looking more and more likely, I think.
“We had,” she begins and then hesitates, “oh, I don’t really know what we had now. I was going to say we were different, but that’s what every lonely heart says. He wasn’t the person I thought he was and I feel kind of shitty saying that after he died.”
“Don’t expect me to correct you and make you feel better. That’s not what I do. How did you meet him?”
“A charity event.”
“What charity event?” I ask.
“I attend so many. I think it was for a children’s hospital.”
“Obviously, the first meeting wasn’t all that memorable,” I comment, “since you aren’t sure which event.”
“He was memorable,” she assures me. “The event was not.”
“And then what?”
“We had sex that night. Like I said, we had a sexual connection. It worked.”
“Until it didn’t?”
“It’s really not the sex that was the issue,” she says. “We had fun fucking each other and other people. But at the core of it all, he told me he loved me. He trusted me. I started going out to the Hamptons with him here and there. We got more and more serious.”
“Elaborate. What does serious mean to you?”
“He talked about marriage. He wanted me in his inner circle. He wanted to be sure I felt comfortable there. That’s when he invited me to one of many private events. He called it the ‘Think Tank Tournaments.’ He said that it was a big deal for him to invite me and consider me for the financial board, which he called just the ‘Circle.’”
“And where was this tournament?”
“It was held in a hotel conference center in the city. The location changed each time. From what I understood, they’d been going on for about two years.”
“Why in a hotel? Why not in his office?”
“They weren’t bank business.”
A decent answer, but I think there’s more to it.
“Where were they held?”
“The ones I attended were at the Clementine hotel.”
“And the others?”
“I don’t know. I just remember Rip saying he rotated hotels.”
She cut her eyes with that answer. I set that question aside with the intent of asking it again. People tend to drown in their own lies if given the chance. “What happened at the events?”
“They had a round table and invited guests presented ideas. If they were viable investments, the financial board would evaluate them to decide if they were worthy of their efforts.”
“What efforts?”
“They’d try to package a group of investors.”
Like Woodard’s business model on the surface, but somehow, it’s got a twist. “Keep going,” I tell her.
“It’s complicated. They actually did help a few startups in a big way, but you see, they were all already wealthy people, bored with life. They needed entertainment. It was all a game to them. Sex, money, amusement. It was all one big high.”
“Who are they?”
“Emma and Gibson, her ex-husband. Naomi and Lawrence, her husband, who of course, passed away. They were divorcing and I think this tournament stuff is why. And then Rip, of course. And me. They wanted me.”
“And now they’re all dead,” I say.
“Right? I know. It’s scary. That’s why I don’t want my name involved in this but I can’t in good conscience not come forward and give you anything I can to help.”
“So you’re afraid for your life?”
“Maybe. I was with Rip, but I wasn’t part of their inner circle, round table, decisions. I never judged anyone.”
“But you wanted to?”
“I wanted to be with Rip. And that’s what Rip wanted me to do, but once I realized what was really going on, I was pretty disgusted.”
Doubtful, I think, my mind going back to the list of people she’s just given me. “What about Morgan Rockport, Emma's fiancé? Was he involved in these events?”
“Oh, he wasn't involved at all. I never even met him. I heard about him, but Emma said she was leaving the group for him. I guess not soon enough.”
“Was he a swinger?”
“I don't think so. I don’t think she wanted him to know about her other life at all.”
Interesting, but I don’t say that. I shift the topic. “All right. How did this group come up with the prospects they invited to present?” I ask. “And how did they choose who to invest with and who to play games with?”
“They all had contacts, legit, solid contacts. Those high-end prospects went to the gold events. Gold events were all business, no sex and games. Then there was a silver event for the others.”
“The others?”
“Right. The others. That’s where the dark side to all of this is revealed.”
“Explain.”
“They created these private rooms on this game called Banking the Billionaire. The game teaches people to invest. So, Rip and his team of cohorts would challenge those players to play. If they scored well enough, they could present their ideas at a silver event, but here’s the catch. They never planned to give them money. They just fucked with their heads. The silver room guests were just fuck buddies and entertainment.”