Bad Billionaire (Bad Billionaires 1)

“My investments?”

“Sure. You’re going to want to assess them. What to keep and what to cash out. Whether to sell the house in LA, or even this one, if you don’t want it. How many stocks in your portfolio versus how many bonds.”

“Are you kidding me?” I said. “I don’t know anything about that shit.”

“Learn,” Ben said. “Buy a book. Take a course. You can fucking afford it, and you don’t have to work anymore, so you got time. I got no sympathy for you, Bucko.”

I squinted at him. The sun was up, and I had no sunglasses. Maybe I’d buy a pair. “You treat all your rich clients this nice?” I asked him.

“You betcha,” Ben said. “Just watch who you trust, all right? People are gonna be all over you when this gets out. Financial advisors, real estate agents, bankers, lawyers. Don’t trust any of them.”

“You’re a lawyer,” I pointed out.

“Obviously, I’m a very different breed,” Hanratty said without missing a beat. “I got street

smarts, and I’ve known you a long time. I don’t like to see my clients get screwed. You’re lucky you have me. And by the way”—he jabbed a finger at the shiny new credit card I was holding—“I accept credit cards when it comes time to settle my bill.”

He dropped me off at my new house, giving me a little wave, like this was an everyday thing. As if I wasn’t standing in front of the most expensive house I’d ever seen.

It wasn’t a mega mansion. Ben had said my grandfather bought it in 1971, and it was made of a combination of brown brick and cream accents—dated, sort of unattractive, but imposing in its way. Well maintained. The lawn and gardens were immaculate, obviously kept up by a gardening company, and the property was surrounded by a high wrought iron gate. On the front of the gate was a security keypad. I hefted my duffel bag on my shoulder, rummaged through the grocery bag, and keyed in the code Ben had scribbled on the piece of paper.

As the gates clicked and swung open, a voice came behind my left shoulder. “Thank God you’re here.”

I turned to see a man of about sixty, his face square as a brick, his hair pure white and combed back from his head in waves that were truly amazing. I’d never seen hair like that on an old guy. He had a sun-browned tan and flawless white teeth. He was wearing a blue jogging suit and had a little dog on a leash, which he had obviously been walking when he spotted me.

“Excuse me?” I said. I had never seen him before in my life.

The oldster pointed past me to the open gate and the grounds beyond. “The koi pond in back has scum on it,” he said, his tone thick with offense. “And the rose bushes are positively ratty. There’s a view of it from the golf course, and every time I go golfing I can see it.”

I blinked at him. That was what it was, then. He thought I was the handyman. The help.

People are gonna be all over you when this gets out.

I could give this guy some attitude, tell him I was his new neighbor. But I found I had no desire to do that. Absolutely none.

“I’ll get right on it,” I said instead, thinking, What the fuck is a koi pond?

“See that you do,” the oldster sniffed, and went briskly walking on his way.

The inside of the house was beautiful—even someone like me, who knew nothing about decorating, could see that. It was all medium brown earth tones mixed with cream, like the outside. Thick glass in the connecting doors that was like looking through ice cubes. Marble tiled floors and understated art on the walls. It was a little bit 1970’s, but kept up with taste and money. Not like Shady Oaks, which had been built sometime in the sixties and never touched since. You used the same puke-colored fridge some lady in a beehive hairdo had used fifty years ago. This was different. If you’re going to go back in time, you may as well do it with class.

I dropped my duffel bag and wandered from room to room, still clutching the grocery bag. The kitchen, an open expanse of floor-to-ceiling windows and stainless steel appliances. The main rooms, with their sloping ceilings and wide views of the golf course and the hills beyond. Upstairs, the bedrooms, four of them, each beautifully decorated and immaculately clean. The bathrooms, that could fit a freaking football team. I wandered everything, taking it in.

Back downstairs I found a door with another keypad, and when I punched in the code I found it opened into the garage. Granddad, it seemed, had taste in cars too. There was a 1970 Mustang and a 1968 Thunderbird. A newer Mercedes, shiny black and sleek. I poked under the hood and saw that the cars needed restoring, including the Merc. Maybe Graham had fancied himself a mechanic, then never got around to it. The keys were on a hook next to the garage door, as if Graham had just hung him there on the way into the house.

It should have creeped me out, going through a dead man’s house and looking at his things, but it didn’t. First of all, he hadn’t actually died here. And he hadn’t actually lived here—the house was furnished, but it wasn’t lived-in. There were no stacks of newspapers or favorite photos or coffee cups. Graham Wilder had used this as a second home, a place to get away from LA once or twice a year.

I didn’t know who Graham Wilder was. I didn’t know what he was like. Not even what he looked like, come to think of it. It made it easier, that I had no memories here. People inherited houses all the time, right? It was no big deal. So I’d live in Diablo, in this place. It was either that or go back to my place in Shady Oaks. Which meant kicking out my best friend, Max, who I’d given the apartment to while I was in prison.

I stood in the kitchen, staring out the big windows at the back yard—actually about an acre of garden and trees—and thinking. I couldn’t see a single neighbor, the properties were so big here, and I felt like I was the only man in the world. There was a man-made pond back there—the koi pond, I assumed. It really did have scum on it. I should do something about that, like my white-haired neighbor had said. Was I supposed to do it? Or was I supposed to call someone?

Jesus, Devon, get a grip and think.

My cell phone rang. Not the new one that Ben had given me, but the old one from my old life. My pre-prison life.

I reached into my plastic grocery bag and fished it out, answering it. “Yeah?”

“Wilder,” said the voice on the other end. It was Gray Jensen, my old buddy. “Come to the club.”