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There’s a pause as he makes a turn onto Fifth. ‘Yes, sir.’
Out the window I see a lot of men and women in business suits, each holding an insulated cup of coffee. Alice would always make use of George’s high-maintenance espresso machine every morning. She hadn’t mentioned my lack of coffee machine in the house, but she’s probably just like all these workers, addicted to caffeine.
‘And Brian?’
‘Yes, sir?’ He pulls in front of Moore’s, the usual busy drop-off lane near-empty due to the early hour.
I grab my briefcase from the seat beside me. ‘Wait in the valet section. I’ll have the café bring you out a latte to-go.’
‘Sir?’ He glances at his thermos resting in the cup holder beside him.
‘For Alice.’
The skin around his eyes crinkle.
I close the car door a little harder than necessary.
Brian lowers his window. ‘And perhaps a hot chocolate?’
I remember the chocolate smears Alice was cleaning off the counter when I left for work. ‘Yes, alright.’ She should really try and limit how much sugar Mary consumes, but as the little girl is already sugared-up, a little more couldn’t hurt. ‘A small hot chocolate.’
It isn’t until I catch my reflection on Moore’s brass-trimmed, double front doors that I realize the skin around my eyes is crinkled as well.
‘Good morn—’ Raymond, holding the door open chokes on his words. I’m not sure if it’s the black eye or the smile.
Either way I do not like how my stalwart, constant floor manager is suddenly tongue-tied over two things that are, yet again, entirely Alice Truman’s fault.
Letting my expression fall, I make do with the slight pinch of pain and raise my usual eyebrow. ‘Raymond.’
The older gentleman snaps out of his shock. ‘Yes, Mr Moore?’
‘Have a medium, non-fat latte with one pump vanilla and a small hot chocolate…’ I pause, remembering the demon cat ‘… sans whipped cream, brought out to my driver please.’
Recovering quickly, there isn’t a trace of inquisitiveness in his expression or tone as he inclines his head. ‘Yes, sir.’
Pulling out my phone on my way upstairs to my office, I call a number I should’ve called before.
‘Mason Investigations, Mason speaking.’
‘Mr Mason, Thomas Moore here.’
‘Ah, Mr Moore. Have you decided to find where your sister is living?’
I pause, mouth open.
I should investigate Liz. Obviously giving her time is not working. She may have shown up for the wedding, but she still eluded my efforts to talk to her. ‘Yes.’ I nod to myself. ‘Yes on my sister but at the moment I have a more pressing matter to discuss.’ Ignoring the stares and double takes from my employees at their various counters, I head toward the elevators. ‘I need you to find one Kayla Rogers.’ I pass a mirrored pillar, as a light casts a shadow over the uninjured side of my face, leaving me looking disorderly and unrecognizable to my own eyes. ‘And I need you to find her now.’
* * *
Alice
Mike Hunt is playing dress-up like a champ.
‘Why, sir, you look so handsome.’ Mary’s voice carries from the cat room downstairs, where she’s been dressing and re-dressing Chase’s cat in all his various outfits, to my spot on the third floor in Thomas’s closet.
I stare at my clothes hanging next to Thomas’s tens of thousands of dollars’ worth of suits, shoes and watches. Though probably unnecessary, I hung the few items I had with me from Vegas that I found in the laundry room this morning, on the off chance there’s a surprise visit from Ms al Abbas. It was all I could think to do after I spent an hour calling every place and person I could think of that had even the smallest connection to Kayla.
Sprawled back on the chaise longue set up under the window of Thomas’s closet –because of course he has both – I try to drum up enough energy to start the long trip to my apartment. It isn’t that far away, but the subway changes required will tack on a lot of time. And I lack coffee.
