“Above my pay grade, sugar. I just do what I’m told, and I was told to keep you busy this morning.”
“Jesus Christ!” she exploded. “Why didn’t someone just call me and tell me not to come in? Besides, why would Madsen be here? We don’t have anything going on as far as I can tell. And what’s it got to do with me?”
“Oh, there’s always stuff beneath the surface. And I’m afraid Madsen’s here to see you. He wants to talk to you about Gunnison’s death.”
“Absolutely not!” Her voice was rising, bordering on incipient hysteria, and she didn’t care. “I know all I need to know. Archer shot him and he died. Case closed, story ended.”
“Well, he must have some reason for coming all this way to talk to you. Maybe Malcolm left you money like everyone else has. You know operatives—they pick those of us without family or close friends.” He sounded a little gloomy at the thought, and for a brief moment Sophie’s dried and withered heart offered up a random beat.
“I’ll be your friend, Remy,” she said.
“Damn straight,” he said. “And you can start by seeing Madsen. He’s a stubborn sum’bitch and he won’t leave until he does what he came for. And Bishop wants him gone. Can’t have two chiefs in the same tribe, not with wild Indians like the rest of us.
“Your racial sensitivity is impressive,” she said in a caustic voice. “But this little Indian is going back to her office and locking the pocket doors so no one can bother me.”
“You think there’s a creature in this house that can’t pick any lock made? Even the cat could probably figure it out,” Remy scoffed.
“Then I’ll barricade it,” she shot back. “And don’t forget I’ve still got a gun. I’ve killed before and I can do it again.”
“You’re going to shoot Peter Madsen?” Remy emitted a hoot of laughter. “I’d like to see you try.”
She shook her head. “I might shoot you instead.”
For a moment he looked uncertain, and then he pushed his gorgeous curly hair away from his classical face, laughing. “I know you’re a crack shot, darlin’.”
“I didn’t say it would be an accident,” she said demurely. “My coffee’s getting cold and I have creatures to kill. Are you going to let me go back to my office or am I going to have to get dangerous with you?”
His grin was charming, she acknowledged that. Just as she acknowledged that it didn’t work on her. He glanced down at his watch, an impressive Rolex that looked almost real. “I give up. Don’t say I didn’t warn you, though.”
“What were you supposed to do, keep me here until Peter Madsen was ready to see me?”
Remy shrugged. “Not exactly, cher.” He moved out of the way, bowing extravagantly. “Enjoy yourself, sugar.”
She made a derisive noise, stopped as she passed him to give him a kiss on his cheek, and headed out the door, her heart hammering. It wasn’t Peter Madsen’s fault that he had to be the one to tell her Malcolm was gone, but he’d been responsible for taking her last few minutes with him away from her, and she’d never forgive him for that. If he thought she was willing to see him, then he was in for a major disappointment.
But the hall was empty except for one of the guards standing between the front door and the closed pocket doors to her office. “Hey, Alphonse,” she said. “Have you seen Peter Madsen around? I don’t want to run into him.”
“Madsen, Miss Jordan? He’s not here. At least, not that I know of.”
Sophie frowned. Alphonse would never lie to her, but if Madsen was in town, he would most certainly know it. This odd day was getting even odder, and she didn’t like it. “I must have misunderstood,” she said, sliding one of the pocket doors open. “I’m going to lock the doors, just in case. I’ve got a lot of work and I don’t want anyone disturbing me.”
Alphonse grinned. “I don’t know how you can play that game. I couldn’t get past the first level, and I’ve been gaming most of my life. You haven’t been near a machine in years.”
“Ah, but I’ve got a lot of rage to get rid of,” she said. “Thanks, Alphonse.” She stepped into the room and slid the doors shut again, turning the lock. She looked to either side of her, wondering if there was anything she could use to block the entrance, when the unmistakable sound of her game came to her ears. It was muffled, as if coming through someone’s earphones, and she turned around slowly.
Malcolm sat in her chair, his gorgeous green eyes trained on the screen, his hands busy with her controller, not even bothering to glance up at her. He was dressed casually in a loose shirt and presumably jeans, and his left arm was in a sling. It didn’t even seem to be slowing him down.
She couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe. It shouldn’t have come as a surprise—she’d known deep down somewhere he wasn’t dead. But fo
r some reason a wave of dizziness had washed over her, and she swayed slightly, putting a surreptitious hand behind her to steady herself against the locked doors, as she tried to gather her shocked senses.
She could hear the muffled music that signaled the end of one stage and the death of one more evil boss, and then he deigned to look up. He’d known she was there all along, of course. He would have known she was there if he’d been comatose. Committee agents were just that good.
She considered her options. Her favorite, bursting into noisy sobs of relief, was rejected immediately. Dropping to the floor in a dead faint would give her a little time to get used to this miraculous return from the dead and decide how to respond, but she was already past the first rush of shock and joy and well into rage at grieving for him, aching for him. If she had her gun with her she could shoot him, but that was back at her apartment in the French Quarter.
She couldn’t think of anything to say that didn’t involve screaming rage and wild tears, so she said nothing, simply leaned back against the door. She’d set the three locks—she wouldn’t be able to make a fast escape, and she suspected he wasn’t about to let her walk out.
He took off the headphones and set them on the desk, and his eyes met hers, and she had no idea what he was thinking. Nothing had changed. “I would have thought you’d be on level four by now,” he said.