Page 20 of Velvet Vaughn

“How many ways do you have into this apartment?” she asked.

“Front door. Service elevator at the back of the hall, locked from my side. Two balconies, both thirty-three stories up.”

“Who else has a key?”

“Chloe. The building manager has a master for emergencies.”

“Are there cameras in the hallway?”

“One at the elevator. One at each end of the corridor. Building security keeps the footage for forty-five days.”

She nodded and held up her cell phone. “I’m going to sweep your unit before we sit down. It’ll take ten minutes. Don’t follow me. Sit and drink your coffee and try not to listen to yourself think.”

His mouth curved sexily. “That obvious?”

“You’ve been alone in your own head for hours. Nothing good comes from that.”

He chuckled, and she busied herself with her phone to hide the shiver, pulling up the bug app. Starting with the entryway, her sweep was methodical. She checked every outlet, light fixture, and smoke detector. Searched behind each piece of art on the walls and inside the cabinets. The primary bedroom got the same treatment, and she kept her attention on the screen instead of on the hastily made bed with its black comforter, the paperback on the nightstand, or the knee-weakening trace of Leo’s lingering aftershave. His condo featured a ridiculously large en suite with both a shower and a jetted tub. She moved to the guest bedroom, the hall bathroom, and then the laundry room. Off the hallway was an office with a framed baseball jersey hanging behind a tidy desk.

The app stayed silent the whole way through.

She returned and set her phone on the island. Leo was where she’d left him, probably trying very hard not to interrupt while she worked.

“Clean?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Thank you for coming.”

“You mentioned that on the phone.”

“I know. I meant it then too.” He slid a mug across the marble. “Cream’s already in. I remembered.”

She took a swallow and tried not to think about what that meant. The coffee was excellent, strong and hot, with just enough cream to soften the edge. He’d remembered from a single cup in a diner in St. Louis months ago. Most people didn’t notice details like that. Leo apparently did.

Drawer, she reminded herself. Later.

“Okay, De Luca.” She slid onto a stool and placed both hands flat on the island. “Start at the beginning. What the hell happened today?”

#

He told her, and she listened. He started with Bellerive, which surprised her. Most people began with the worst segment and worked backward. Leo told her about the eighteenth fairway and a client named Desmond Roule. He walked her through the afternoon in chronological order, which was probably how he prepped a contract. First the news alert on his phone and Vic Shaw. Then a flashback to Tony’s Steakhouse three nights earlier and the exact phrasing Vic used about “If somebody tells you a story about why.” He recounted the drive back to Pinnacle and Marcy at her desk with a signed-for mailer.

Leo stopped there, pushed off the counter, and crossed to the oven.

“Leave it,” she ordered, and his hand froze mid-reach. “Keep going. I want the complete story before I touch anything.”

He gave her a crooked glance that translated into: you’re going to be difficult about this, aren’t you, and came back to the island. There was no wasted movement or fidgeting when he perched on the stool. He held himself the way athletes did when they’d been hurt and didn’t want anyone to notice.

“There’s a handwritten note from Vic inside the mailer, along with a thumb drive and burner phone, powered off. I tried a few obvious passwords on the drive and took it out when I realized I was being stupid. The burner has one contact. I didn’t touch it.”

“Good. What does the note say?”

“Basically, to trust no one. Not the cops, the feds, or my own firm, and to get the drive to someone outside the industry. It says Vic didn’t kill himself, the story I’m about to hear is a lie, and that my clients are next.”

Her pulse quickened, and the familiar, welcome jolt of her old detective’s brain dropping into place came right behind it.

“How sure are you that the note is really from Vic?”