“We think so.” Derek looped an arm around Sloane’s shoulders. “As for knowing how lucky I am, I do. That’s why I’m so eager to get settled. I want to solidify what I’ve got.”
“Excellent. Then let’s get right to it.” Leo glanced around the hallway. “Where shall I set up?” he asked, indicating everything he’d brought along, which was currently perched on the hall table.
“How about the living room?” Sloane suggested. “There’s lots of room there to spread out.”
Leo glanced in the direction she indicated. “Perfect.” He was already halfway to his destination. Forget Bert. This guy was more like Road Runner, except as tightly wound as Wile E. Coyote right before he inevitably went over the cliff.
“I’ll leave all this in here while we take our walk-through,” Leo was continuing. “Sloane, give me a tour of the cottage as you’ve decorated it. Derek, I’ll ask you some questions as we walk. By the time we sit down, I’ll have a very good idea of what to show you.”
And I’ll have a very good idea of what you’re about, Derek thought. Because there’s a lot more to this visit than a decorating consultation.
Fred Miller had been working security for twenty years. He was a pro. He’d familiarized himself with every detail of Rosalyn Burbank’s routine. He also checked in with her twice a day to ensure she kept him apprised of her schedule.
This morning, she had a business breakfast to attend. He’d be picking her up outside her apartment in his navy Ford Explorer.
He arrived half an hour early, as always. And, as always, he checked to make sure his counterpart, Matthew Burbank’s security guard, was posted outside the building. Yup. Jake Lambert was right there. Jake handled the night shift, which meant that Tom O’Hara would be arriving soon to relieve him.
As Fred pulled up to the building, he and Jake exchanged impersonal nods. The doorman spotted Fred immediately, and gestured that, per instructions, he could leave his car right out front.
That done, Fred walked over to the Starbucks on East Eigh
tieth and York to get a cup of coffee.
The pedestrian traffic was typically congested on a weekday morning. Fred bought his coffee and stepped outside, nudging his way through the crowd to cross over and head back to his car. He stopped at the corner, waiting on the sidewalk for the light to change. He didn’t notice the stocky Asian man who came up behind him. His mind was running through the day’s schedule.
The light changed. The pedestrians began to cross.
That’s when Fred felt the searing pain of the switchblade as it plunged straight into his back.
The rest happened quickly. The Asian man moved before Fred could cry out, before his legs buckled under him, before the blood soaked through his suit. He grabbed Fred’s arm and shoved him into a waiting sedan, his motions that of a colleague who was helping his associate grab his ride before the driver was forced to move on or be pounded by traffic.
The sedan pulled away and drove off.
No one noticed the incident, or thought it anything but business as usual.
No one knew that Fred Miller bled to death in the sedan, or that his lifeless body was dumped in the East River.
CHAPTER TEN
Rosalyn was in a hurry. Business tote in one hand, file folder in the other, she was skimming through her notes as she left her apartment and made her way over to the Explorer. As usual, her mind was in a dozen places at once. She didn’t wait for Fred to come around and help her in. She never did. She was far too impatient. She simply yanked open the back door, placed her tote on the seat, and slid in after it.
“Good morning, Fred,” she greeted him, never glancing up as she shut the door and continued reading her notes. “Please find a way to get around this traffic. I’ve got to be in midtown in twenty minutes, rush hour or not.”
Her driver muttered a good morning along with a grunt of acknowledgment, and pressed the button that activated the automatic door locks. Then, he pulled into the stream of traffic.
It wasn’t until a chunk of time had passed that Rosalyn got the niggling feeling they’d been driving for way too long. Her head came up, and she blinked when she saw where they were.
“Fred? What are you doing? We’re in Harlem, practically in the Bronx.” She leaned forward as she spoke, searching the rearview mirror to see Fred and hear his explanation.
The flat, emotionless gaze that looked back at her did not belong to Fred. Nor did he say a word.
Rosalyn froze. “Who are you? What do you want?”
The menacing Asian man still didn’t answer. He just continued driving over the Willis Avenue Bridge into the Bronx.
Rosalyn wasn’t stupid. She knew this wasn’t a case of a mix-up in drivers. This had been planned. And it was linked to the murderer who was threatening Matthew.
Alarmed as she was, she forced herself to outwardly keep her cool. “Where are you taking me?” she demanded. “And why? What do you plan on doing this time?”