Coming June 2025!

Chapter 1

“I’m not sure what I saw.” The elderly woman brought a pink-tipped finger to her mouth and began nervously chewing. Small, stylish spectacles rested on her wrinkled skin and framed her soft brown eyes. Her hair had that voluminous, blown-out look so fashionable amongst the moneyed crowd and there was an air of confidence about her—a trait so ingrained in those from well-to-do families that it almost seemed to be there at birth. The nail-chewing continued, the woman’s obviously well-mannered upbringing notwithstanding, and her hair bounced as she tittered with the finger in her mouth. It took a couple of seconds for her to realize what she was doing and her hand dropped into her lap as she banished the nervous tic. “I’m not sure what I saw,” she repeated. “But something seems off and I don’t want to involve the police.”

Nancy nodded a silent encouragement for Ms. Elena Fineberg, the pink-nailed woman who was seated across the table from her, to continue. 

Soft beams from the overhead light bathed the elderly woman in a warm glow. Not a fan of fluorescent, Nancy’s office had been designed to exude warmth—like stepping into a steamy bubble bath. The look she had gone for was cozy, calm, and comfortable. When clients came to see her, she wanted them to feel relaxed. Well, as relaxed as they possibly could be, given the circumstances. When people sought out her services, it typically wasn’t for anything good. In that sense, it was helpful to have a space that made people feel at ease. It also helped Nancy to assess her clients. The number of things you could pick up on from a person just by observing them or listening to them talk was infinite. And sometimes what her client didn’t say was just as important as what they did say. Not that reading between the lines was always helpful. It added layers and gave Nancy more things to think about, but what wasn’t said could never be considered concrete. Although, what was said couldn’t always be considered concrete either.

There is a myth that truth is objective—but in Nancy’s view, that couldn’t be more wrong. Like any kind of story, truth is subjective—tainted by feelings, twisted by motives, and told from different perspectives. Nancy’s job was to take the story, tease out each part, fill in the blanks with an impartial eye, and then come to a conclusion. Often the conclusion was one the client was dreading, but there had been the odd instance of a happy ending. Which was ironic given Nancy’s other job, in which happy endings were what she exclusively dealt in. Not literally, of course—the figurative kind. As a full-time private investigator and part-time dominatrix, probing people was what she was paid to do—finding out people’s deepest, darkest secrets, getting to the bottom of their motives, and figuring out the missing pieces to their puzzles.

Like her clients, the cozy, oatmeal-coloured space that served as the office for Nancy’s detective work actually held a secret: through a locked door that looked nothing so much as a janitor’s closet was a dungeon. Calm and cozy on one side of the building, cold and crazy on the other. Each business had its own entrance—one in the front, and one in the back, and the door in between was kept locked at all times. It was a division that kept Nancy from getting her two lives intertwined.

Well. Mostly.

As a detective, she had solved some of the city’s most high-profile cases and, as a dominatrix, she had serviced some of the city’s most high-profile men.

All done discretely, of course.

In the office, she wore contact lenses and minimal makeup. In the dungeon, she wore a latex mask and heavily made-up eyes. But the disguises didn’t stop there. When it came to her detective work, she was a chameleon. It was wild what a bit of makeup, coloured contacts, wigs, and some clothes could do to disguise a person. Her closet was full of wigs in different styles, cuts, and colours, and her wardrobe ran the gamut from librarian to socialite, housewife to scientist, and everything in between. She had lucked out when she had found her condo. It was a quiet, low-rise building full of retirees. The elevators were mostly empty in the evening, which is when she conducted most of her detective work, and the odd time that one of her neighbours did see her sporting a strange outfit or a wig, they either didn’t recognize or didn’t remember her. As for her dominatrix getup, that was something she only ever put on in the dungeon. One could easily excuse a woman wearing a lab coat or spike heels and a short dress in the elevator. A latex bodysuit, fishnet tights, and black platform heels, however, was a different story. That, she knew, would stick out like a sore thumb and probably attract the attention of her neighbours and their Board.

Quietness aside, her condo was within walking distance of her Queen Street office—a space she had found just before she had purchased her tenth-floor home. Her two offices were wedged in the middle of a rowed block of buildings and she had spent several months getting both spaces just right. Calm, quiet tones and soft lighting for her private investigator office; heavy wood, blacks, reds, low lighting, and soundproofed walls for her dungeon—which she privately thought of as ‘The Cell’. Clients who were interested in her private investigative services were given one address and entrance, and clients interested in being sexually dominated were given another. It suited Nancy well.

Not just the office, but her two careers.

It spoke to the dichotomy of her character—she was smart, reserved, kind, and caring on one hand; on the other, she was sexy, dominant, cold-blooded, and cruel—all qualities that bled over into both of her jobs.

Elena Fineberg adjusted herself in the plum-coloured velvet chair and Nancy stayed silent while she waited for the formidable woman to continue. It wasn’t the lady’s no-nonsense gray pantsuit or the Birkin that made her intimidating—it was the air about her. A self-confidence that money could buy. With one word, she had the power to cripple a company or revive it from the dead.  

Elena shifted uncomfortably in the chair but didn’t say anything else.

“What happened, Ms. Fineberg?” Nancy asked gently.

Elena paused a second to collect herself—a testament to just how rattled the normally self-assured woman was.

“I was approached by one of my dear friends about investing in a private equity fund,” she began. “A real estate fund. I met with Barron and Theodore Benjamin, from Clover Capital, at my office and they explained the fund’s strategy: they would purchase multi-family apartment buildings, buy out the tenants, renovate the units, and then rent them out at a higher rate.”

Nancy nodded. Simple enough.

“On paper, the numbers were great—5.8% return on your investment after three years with the ability to roll your investment and returns into other funds. I showed it to some of my financial advisors and there weren’t any that advised against it. In fact, they all told me that they thought it was a great model.”

Elena took a deep breath and let out a sigh.

“Who am I to question brilliant financial minds?” She made a slight shrug of her shoulders. “One doesn’t get to be a top dog on Bay Street by being bad at his job. So, I brought it to my foundation’s Board of Directors. We have big plans for the foundation and need a substantial amount of money in order to complete them.” She paused to make sure Nancy was following. “The foundation does charity work with disadvantaged youth,” she said proudly. “We work with schools, youth organizations, and families to provide youth with support, opportunities, and training.”

Nancy nodded and Ms. Fineberg continued.

“The Board voted to invest in the fund and, five months ago, I wrote a cheque for $20 million of my foundation’s money and gave it to Clover Capital. After that, I didn’t give it a second thought. They sent out monthly updates, but they didn’t consist of much aside from telling me which buildings had been purchased, the price, and the work that would be done along with the timelines. Everything seemed tickety-boo. Until the other day.” She paused again before continuing a little more slowly.

“I’m not sure exactly what I saw.” Confusion clouded her face as if she were still trying to make sense of it. “But something seemed off.  I know one of the buildings that the fund bought. It’s close to a school that our foundation does some work with. I was leaving the school and saw the contractors at the apartment building and thought I would stop by to see it.” She paused again and drew a breath—the poor old woman looked troubled. “But there was something about them that seemed . . . off.” She was choosing her words carefully now. “The contractors.”

Nancy murmured an “hmm” in encouragement for Ms. Fineberg to continue.

“I . . .” The woman looked down and then she met Nancy’s gaze. “They didn’t seem like the kind of contractors that would be hired to renovate a building by Barron and Theodore Benjamin. Their work vehicles looked like they were on their last legs and they were sitting around smoking cigarettes and what smelled like marijuana.”

Nancy’s expression had morphed into one of empathy as she tried to understand where Ms. Fineberg was coming from. She didn’t think the elderly lady had any knowledge or experience when it came to renovations, but she was sharp. And it didn’t take a rocket scientist to detect when something might be wrong in the state of construction. Still, Nancy didn’t see how a couple of broken-down vehicles and some weed meant that there was something going on. Surely Barron and Theodore Benjamin would have properly vetted anyone who was working for them. They were dealing with hundreds of millions of dollars and she couldn’t see either of them risking their reputation or financial ruin to save the equivalent of spare change. That fall from grace wouldn’t just be hard—it would be cataclysmic. Reputation was everything in the world of finance. Although if there was something untoward occurring, goodness knew that the brothers wouldn’t be the first people who had become too intoxicated by money and corrupted by power. There was more than one financial genius who had been taken down by their own greed. Starting off with good intentions but transformed by the temptation of riches along the way. It was understandable, of course, when you were dealing with massive amounts of money. It didn’t take much sometimes—once you started cavorting with the rich and powerful, it took a lot to keep up. And sometimes it wasn’t just keeping up, but it was the motivation to overcome and one-up. But broken-down vehicles and marijuana-smoking contractors? If that was the bar for suspicious activity and fraud, she imagined that there wouldn’t be a construction company in existence that couldn’t be accused of hiding something.

Nancy could see some hesitation in Ms. Fineberg’s eyes—the elderly lady wanted to tell her something more, but there was something that was stopping her.

“What else, Elena?” Nancy asked gently.

“Well,” Elena hesitated, “there were only three of them. Workers, I mean. And I saw the countertop materials.”

Nancy stayed silent and Ms. Fineberg continued. “Something about it didn’t sit right. I was very interested in the renovation work that was being done to each of the units, having a design background myself. And the mock-ups that the Benjamin brothers showed me when they presented their fund to me was not high-end, but it had the look of luxury. Which results in a more lucrative return because the apartment building is able to be rented out at a higher price.”

Nancy thought she had an idea where this was going.

“The material at the site looked cheap. Like laminate. I tried to get a closer look, but the workers shooed me off of the property.” Ms. Fineberg pondered a moment. “Now that I think about it, technically I partially own the property so I really should not have let them shoo me away.”

“It’s understandable that you left,” Nancy reassured her. “I’m sure you were taken aback by what you saw and being asked to leave only added to it.”

Elena nodded, looking at Nancy’s desk.

“That’s why I came to you,” she said suddenly. “If there is something going on, I can’t very well ask Barron or Theodore about it. And if there isn’t anything going on, I don’t want to raise any alarms by inquiring or asking around. As far as I can tell, the brothers are very successful in business and all of their previous deals have been without any issues. But I’ve also invested a large sum of my foundation’s money with them and I can’t risk losing it if there is a chance that things are not above board.”

The hesitancy had fallen away from Ms. Fineberg and now distress was written all over the poor wealthy woman’s face. It was usually a relief for clients to tell Nancy the story of why they had sought her out and Ms. Fineberg’s tear-glistened eyes pulled at the detective’s heart strings.

“I understand, Ms. Fineberg,” Nancy said gently. “I will get to the bottom of it one way or another. If there is something going on, you will know. And if there’s nothing going on—no harm, no foul, and no one needs to know.”

Elena smiled regretfully. “I wish it hadn’t come to this, but you were recommended to me by a friend. You helped her out during her divorce a year ago. She said you are the best.”

Nancy smiled back.

“I wish we were meeting under different circumstances, but I will keep my fingers crossed that my investigation turns up nothing. But if it does,” she added, “I will do everything I can to ensure that your investment is found and secured.”

“Thank you.” Elena mustered a grateful smile before pulling some folded-up papers out of her purse and sliding them across the desk. “These are the records of my investment and the updates that Teddy and Barron have sent out. I don’t know whether they will help with your investigation, but I thought I would bring them just in case.”

Nancy unfolded the papers and glanced at the first few pages. “Any information is helpful,” she nodded with a smile. “Thank you for bringing them.”

Elena stood up then and Nancy got up to walk her client to the door. She put her hand on the woman’s shoulder.

“I’ll keep you updated on what I find.”

Elena, her eyes glassy from holding back tears, thanked her again before she turned and hurried out of the office. Nancy watched her walk to her car—a Mercedes, of course—across the street, before turning back to her desk. The papers that Ms. Fineberg had given her littered the top of her desk and Nancy gathered them up into a pile. She was going to get to the bottom of this case, no matter what it took. If there was one thing that Nancy disliked, it was well-to-do men taking advantage of women. Even well-to-do ones.