New York City
April 25
Roman Block entered the lobby of the Peninsula Hotel like he owned the place and strode to the elevator. He was registered under his own name; he had a legitimate reason for being in Manhattan. He had never attended a National Builders’ Conference dinner, but it was a well-timed reason to be in the City. As he rode the elevator to the seventh floor he sighed wearily, imagining the tedious speakers and presentations he would have to endure, but it was a small price to pay if someone connected the dots. He entered his perfectly average $1,100-a-night room and sank onto the sofa in the small sitting area. His men had no doubt been subdued by the giant and his attack dog. He wasn’t worried about them, though. He always made sure he outsourced work of this nature to men with loved ones; the veiled threat to their families would keep their mouths shut tight. Calliope Garland, however, was a problem.
He hadn’t planned on letting her survive the home invasion—a woman living alone falling victim to violent crime—so now…He had a problem. Roman seethed. She had the phone he needed. She just didn’t know its value; her desperation when she mentioned it proved that. This woman had the photo, the key to millions, possibly billions in assets, but she had seen him. She could identify him. He’d find the phone, but a witness could do so much more damage than the lost assets. She was a loose end that was unacceptable. Fortunately, Roman knew exactly how to deal with loose ends.