Page 20 of Choosing Stella

He had an urgent protection assignment for me.

A woman named Stella Moon had spent the evening with a wealthy casino owner who’d turned up dead after she left. The police were looking hard at her. Her employer wanted somebody with her until they knew whether being connected to the murder made her a suspect, a target, or both.

That was enough for me to get dressed and start driving.

I didn’t know Stella.

I didn’t know the dead man.

And nobody had given me a reason yet to believe somebody intended to hurt her.

My job was to make sure they didn’t get the chance.

The Riverside buildings rose ahead through the mist, glass and old brick overlooking the black water. Stella’s address belonged to one of the newer mid-rises, the kind with underground parking, controlled entry, and enough money behind the lobby doors to make residents believe strangers stayed outside.

They usually did.

I slowed near the entrance long enough to check the approach, then drove on and parked two blocks away.

When I walked back to the lobby, the concierge behind the desk was waiting for me.

That told me Stella had followed instructions before I’d even met her.

I showed my Bancroft Risk Group credentials through the glass partition. The concierge checked the name against his screen, looked at me again, then released the interior door.

“Ms. Moon authorized temporary access to her floor,” he said. “This will get you through the lobby and activate the elevator.”

He slid a black key card across the desk.

“Nothing else?”

“No, sir. It won’t open her apartment.”

“Good.”

The man glanced at me.

Most people expected private security to want more access, not less.

Bancroft had built the company on discretion. If a client’s building handed us a master key without asking questions, that became a security problem of its own.

I pocketed the card.

“Where does the service stair exit?”

“Rear loading area. The door from the residential floors is alarmed only if it’s held open. You can exit without a separate card.”

“And the garage?”

“Two levels underground. Residential elevators connect directly.”

I thanked him and crossed the lobby.

Pale stone floors reflected the warm lights overhead. A bowl of miniature pumpkins sat on a console beside an arrangement of bronze leaves and black candles. The decorations looked expensive enough that nobody would mistake them for a grocery-store impulse purchase.

The elevator required the temporary card before the button for Stella’s floor lit.

I rode up alone.