Back in her office, she added the interview details to her book, ran Ryder Cooke.
Mixed-race male of forty-eight, worth several tidy billion. Producer and president at Delray. He had twenty-six years with the company, his own shuttle, homes in New York, New L.A., East Hampton, Jamaica. Two ex-wives, a rep, from what she read when skimming ente
rtainment media, for being a major player.
And going by that segment of the media, Cooke was currently in New L.A. producing a recording and vids with some band named Growl.
Which kept him safe, for now.
She ran Sherri Brinkman to get the ex-husband’s name, but switched to a run on him.
Linus Brinkman, Caucasian male, age sixty-seven, one marriage, one divorce, two offspring. Currently cohabbing with LaDale Gerald, age twenty-five. (Which brought her in at five years younger than his own daughter.)
Residence in New York, second home on Grand Cayman, and a recently purchased flat in Paris.
Cofounder and CEO of Lodestar Corporation, a company used for promoting events—concerts, major fundraisers and auctions, sports both live and online.
His listed net worth hit nine figures.
Toggling back out of curiosity, she noted his ex-wife barely made six. While her employment data listed her as a VP of marketing with Lodestar for twenty-six years—with two breaks for professional mother status—it now listed her as an administrative assistant, marketing in a smaller firm, for a fraction of the pay.
“Yeah, he screwed you over, didn’t he, Sherri?”
She tagged Lodestar, went through a frustrating runaround to glean only that Mr. Brinkman was out of town and unavailable.
She rose, paced the confines of her office, kicked her desk.
Tagged Roarke.
“Good afternoon, Lieutenant.”
“Is it? Already? Shit. Do you know Linus Brinkman of Lodestar?”
“More or less—more less. We’ve met.”
“How about you put on your expert consultant, civilian, hat, contact his office, and find out where he is and when he’s due back? His assistant has assistants and nobody will tell me.”
“I’ll do that if you make time to eat some sort of lunch.”
“Well for … fine. Just tag me back or text if you get the info. Thanks.”
She wasn’t hungry, she thought, but the rest of her day equaled packed. She didn’t want to make time to eat something, and doubted she’d be able to anyway.
But she could fix it. He had said “some sort” of lunch. She figured a candy bar fit that criteria.
She locked her door, dug the remote out of her desk to turn off the blue dye trap she’d laid for the infamous Candy Thief. After climbing on the desk, she carefully eased up the ceiling tile.
And stared at the empty space.
“Come on!” She dragged a mini light out of her pocket, shined it inside.
Nothing.
“Son of a fucking sneaky bitch!”
Not a sign of the dye—and there should’ve been. So the Candy Thief used a remote, too. Probably a scanner first, which warned of the trap.
She jumped down, scowled up at the tile. Then jammed her hands in her pockets.