Vesey Street, New York City
1:30 A.M.
Sloane shifted on the bar’s leather stool and took another careful sip of her raspberry cocktail. She’d been nursing it for the past half hour, making sure to keep a clear head. Not only for the drive home, but for the interview she was about to conduct.
After Doug Waters had blown her off at the last minute because of some major deal he was negotiating, she’d called his bluff, determined to speak to him today, while she was in Manhattan. Her interviews with Penny’s friend Amy and coworkers at Harper’s Bazaar had yielded nothing. But they’d all mentioned Doug, and the fact that Penny had seemed to take the breakup hard. So Sloane was hell-bent on getting Doug’s side of the story—tonight, before he had time to spin the facts in his favor.
She’d decided to wait him out. Even investment bankers went home eventually. So, after hearing the time commitment involved in his negotiations, she’d suggested they meet between 1 and 2 A.M. right here at the Marriott, walking distance from Merrill Lynch’s investment-banking headquarters. Doug had been audibly surprised by how far she’d bend to make this meeting happen. He’d lost his smooth edge, tripped over an attempted excuse, and then finally realized he sounded like a man with something to hide. He’d agreed to meet her at the bar.
Sloane had made some quick arrangements. She’d called her neighbor, Elsa Wagner, an elderly woman who lived alone, except for her Pomeranian, Princess Di, and her son, Burt, who’d practically moved in since his recent divorce. Between Elsa and Burt, Sloane had constant and reliable backup for her beloved hounds when she was out of town or working long hours.
Having made plans for her “babies,” Sloane then prolonged her dinner with Elliot—although she knew she was less than stellar company, given how drained and preoccupied she was. She made sure to fortify herself with three leaded cups of coffee. Those were all the reinforcements she needed to be sharp as a tack for her meeting with Doug. Her time at the Bureau had conditioned her well for the long days and bizarre hours that were the mainstay of investigative work.
Now she took a healthy swallow of water to dilute the effects of the alcohol, then returned to her drink, stirring it with the little straw. There were just a handful of stragglers left at the cocktail bar. Most of them were cramming for early-morning meetings.
Sloane didn’t envy them.
Not ten minutes later, a good-looking guy in his midthirties wearing a dark navy Zegna suit and carrying a sleek Ferragamo briefcase approached the counter. He looked exhausted. “Excuse me,” he said to the bartender, who was in the process of cleaning up. “I’m supposed to be meeting someone. My name is Doug Waters. Has someone—a woman—asked for me?”
“That would be me,” Sloane informed him from the quiet corner she was sitting in.
He turned, and did a double take. “You’re Sloane Burbank?”
“Guilty as charged.”
“Can I get you something?” the bartender interrupted to ask.
“Scotch. Neat.” Doug waited for his drink, then walked over to Sloane and perched on the stool beside her.
“You’re obviously surprised,” Sloane noted. “What were you expecting?”
Doug put down his briefcase. “Let’s put it this way. There are five women in this bar. I’d narrowed down the possibilities to three. You weren’t even on the list of candidates.”
Sloane’s lips twitched. “And why would that be?”
“You’re kidding, right? You said you were an ex–FBI agent. I figured you were solid, muscular, and intimidating.”
“I am.”
“Right. What are you—five foot two? A hundred pounds?”
“Five three and one-ten. And if you want proof that I’m intimidating, let’s step over there.” Sloane pointed to a deserted, semidarkened corner of the lounge. “This way you won’t have to suffer the embarrassment of people seeing me toss you on your ass. Or worse, if you’re still not convinced.”
His brows rose, and he gave a quiet chuckle. “Never mind. I believe you. Plus I wouldn’t be much of a challenge. I’m about to fall on my ass anyway. I just worked forty hours straight.”
He wasn’t lying. Sloane could see that. He looked haggard, with dark circles under his eyes and a five o?
?clock shadow that said he hadn’t shaved since at least yesterday. So he hadn’t been blowing her off. He’d really been putting together some major deal.
“I appreciate your meeting me,” she said. “I’ll make this brief so you can go home and get some sleep.”
“Sleep? Right.” He grimaced. “Three hours tops. I’ve got to be back at my desk by seven.” He drank some of his scotch. “You said you were a friend of Penny’s and that her parents hired you to conduct a last-ditch investigation on her disappearance. But you also said there were no new developments. And Penny’s been missing for a year. So how do I factor into your investigation? I’ve already told the police and the FBI everything I know.”
“I realize that.” Sloane nodded. She took an intentional sip of her drink, then crossed her legs and propped an elbow on the counter, conveying a relaxed, informal demeanor. “This isn’t an interrogation, Doug. It’s a review of facts. You and Penny were very close right before her disappearance. I just want to make sure there isn’t some nuance—something she might have said or done—that you didn’t stress to the authorities that I’ll pick up on because of how well I knew Penny. No hidden agenda. No accusatory tone. You have an alibi. I’m not questioning it—or your motives. I’m just looking for a miracle to give to Penny’s parents.”
Her soft-pedaling paid off.
Doug visibly relaxed, downing a little more of his scotch. “Penny’s a terrific person. We were good together for a long time. But two ambitious workaholics can’t last indefinitely as a couple unless one of them is ready to take a backseat to the other’s career. Neither of us was willing to do that. So we broke things off. The decision was mutual, and it was amicable. No fighting, screaming, throwing things. Just a mature parting.”