Unintended Target (Unintended Series Book 1) (20 page)

Jack sat there stonily, not agreeing, but not arguing anymore.

“If they still have any of Tate’s calendar records, or other notes, or
anything
, there might be something pointing us to whoever he met with at WorldCore, or whatever those other banks were that he hacked. It’s our only other shot at getting anywhere.”

He bit his lip contemplatively. “When you’re done you’ll stay in the lobby till I come and get you?”

Chloe nodded. “Absolutely.”

“And if they close before I get there—”

“There’s a Starbucks across the street. I’ll
literally
run over there and park it till you get there.”

“You’ve got it on you?” he asked, nodding towards the ankle boots Marta had given her before leaving St. Gideon. She nodded. “And your gun?” he asked.

She sighed. “Yes, of course I do. Jack, I’ve gotta go.”

“I’m coming straight there after I nose around here a little more.”

She nodded and rose.             

Jack exhaled deeply, his face full of worry. He slid the keys across the table. “I still don’t like it. I wouldn’t let you go if we had any other choice.”

“I know,” she told him, reaching out to take the keys, and squeezing his clenched fist where it rested. “I’ll be careful.”

He stood, leaning in to kiss her forehead. “You’d better be.”

“Just find Rohrstadt,” she said.

“Seriously, be careful,” he called after her as she pushed open the door. She turned back to him, nodded, and walked out. He moved to the window, eyeing her nervously as she headed towards their rental. “Watch over her,” he murmured softly as she got inside, then drove off.

Because Jack had dumped the coffees and delivery sack into a trashcan on Building Three’s second floor in order to avoid looking suspicious by carrying them
out
of the offices, he’d need a new supply before heading back in. He trudged back up to the counter and ordered another two coffees and a sandwich from the pimply-faced clerk.

The clerk eyed him suspiciously. “Uh, what happened to your prank?”

“Not there. I, uh, gave the stuff away. Was getting cold. I’m gonna try back in a minute.”

“Whatever,” the clerk mumbled as he turned toward the coffee machine to fill the order.

Jack drummed his fingers on the counter. This whole thing with Rohrstadt was growing more ominous by the minute. Lawyers just didn’t shut down contact like that. “Come on, Rohrstadt,” he muttered to himself. “What kind of lawyer closes up shop like that?”

“A dead one,” the clerk answered matter-of-factly, as he turned around and set Jack’s coffees down in front of him. He had just turned for the sandwich case when Jack grabbed his arm.

“What did you say?”

“Uh, dude, my arm?”

“Sorry,” Jack said, letting go. “But what was that about a dead lawyer?”

“You said Rohrstadt, right?” The clerk cocked his head, putting something together. “Is that the guy you were playing the prank on?” He snorted. “Looks like the joke’s on you.”                           

Jack rubbed his face in frustration, grimacing tightly as he kept his voice calm. “You know something about him?”

The clerk paused, eyeing Jack. He shrugged. “Maybe.”

Jack groaned, then slipped the clerk a twenty from his pocket.

“Yep. Rohrstadt,” the clerked nodded. “I just know what his secretary said. She used to come in here to get coffee and lunch stuff for him. Came in here bawling weeks ago. It was kinda sad. Apologized for it and everything. Said Rohrstadt had died.”

“Are you sure it was Rohrstadt? Herbert Rohrstadt?”

“Yeah, I’m sure. Like I said, she picked stuff up all the time, and her name or his name was always on it. Not much of a loss, if you ask me. He was a jerk whenever he stopped in here. Killer car, though. But real nasty attitude. Kept asking when his coffee’d be ready. Didn’t care how many people we were dealing with.” Another man stepped up to the counter beside Jack. “You mind, man?” the clerk asked, gesturing for Jack to step aside.

“Uh, no. Sorry.” Jack stepped to the side and turned towards the windows. Building three loomed in the distance.

“How did he die?” he asked the clerk.

The clerk shrugged. “She said something about a heart attack.”

With Rohrstadt dead, Chloe was right. Inverse was their only shot. If he hurried, he might catch her before she went in.

“His secretary was pretty cool, though.”

“What?” Jack replied distractedly, checking his watch.

“Rohrstadt’s secretary. She was really nice. A little off—big poufy hair, kinda bleached blond—like yours,” he said nodding towards Jack, who frowned. “But always waited patiently, you know? Never ‘how much longer,’ and stuff.” 

“You wouldn’t remember her name by any chance, would you?”

He paused, as if thinking about holding out for another twenty, but after seeing the look on Jack’s face, seemed to decide against it. “Elena. Grabney. Been writing one or the other on bags for the last two years straight. Haven’t seen her since her boss bought it though.”

“Grabney? You’re sure?” Jack asked.

“Positive.”

“Thanks,” Jack said breathlessly.

“What about your coffee?” the clerk said, gesturing to the cups Jack had left on the counter. But Jack was already halfway through the door, its bell jangling in his wake.

THIRTY-ONE

The building was exactly as she remembered. Fifteen stories of steel with large glass windows covering the entire structure. To the far left of the front entrance was the ramp leading up from the subterranean parking garage. Huge, coconut-dotted palms lined the entrance into a small short-term parking lot. Chloe turned in, passing the substantial island dividing the lanes in and out of the property and the hefty rectangular pillar inscribed with “Inverse Financial Holdings, Ltd.,” and the company’s emblem—a capital “I” encircled by two rings—erected in the island’s center. Her stomach flipped. The last time she’d seen the pillar, she’d been there with Tate.

She parked in a visitor’s spot and walked under a vine-covered canopy to the glass front doors. Inside the lobby, minimalist ebony chairs upholstered in searing red fabric dotted with gold curlicues lined the way to the receptionist’s desk on the far side of the room. Behind her, about halfway up the charcoal-colored wall, a marquee gave the names of the other tenants in the Inverse building. Beside it hung an oversized pewter replica of the company’s emblem.

Her boots padded silently across the marble tile as she made her way to the desk. She passed the stone goldfish pool in the center of the room and cut her eyes at hundreds of coins resting on the bottom. She smiled wistfully, remembering how she and Tate had thrown a penny in for luck
. A lot of good that did.

The twenty-something receptionist wore her blond hair in a tight bun at the base of her neck, and her understated makeup was so calculated it could have been professionally done. She smiled politely.

“May I help you?”

“My name is Chloe McConnaughey. My brother, Tate, used to work here.”

“Wait, I’m sorry. You’re—Tate’s sister?”

“Um, yes.”

“Oh,” she said, her aloofness dissolving. “I am
so
sorry. Tate was a really nice guy, or—at least he seemed like he would be, you know? He um, was always so busy, running around . . . he didn’t really talk much. But he didn’t complain either,” she quickly offered, as if just realizing she may have said the wrong thing. She cleared her throat and blinked her false lashes. “Just kind of kept to himself. Always focused on his mission, you know?”

Chloe eyes softened. “Yeah. I do,” she replied. “Thanks. I was hoping to see Mr. DiMeico. I know it’s short notice with me just showing up like this, but it couldn’t be helped. If he’s not here, maybe his assistant?”

“Let me check.” The receptionist held up a French-manicured index finger. “Just give me one second.”

Chloe turned towards the pool while the receptionist babbled into her headset. She knew the chances that Renaldi DiMeico, Inverse’s CEO, would be available were slim, but what was the alternative?

Memories flooded back of the last and only time she had been here. She had come at Tate’s urging, insisting that she get a look at the life he was going to have once he finally got the job. DiMeico had even put them up at his own mansion on Star Island, one of the most expensive and exclusive locations in all of Miami. She had once written a piece on the city that addressed Star Island briefly, but she had never finagled an overnight stay at any of the estates. The grandeur of DiMeico’s thirty-room mansion, with its own tennis court, pool complete with waterfall, home theater, and yacht parked at the dock at the rear of the property, had dazzled her. He had pampered them for three days, treating them to the finest of everything, from the choicest wines to the choicest company. The guest list for their Saturday night dinner on the terrace had included a state senator, a primo fashion designer, and a pop star that, as she put it, also had a “little place” on the island.

Tate was enamored with the world DiMeico had built for himself and assured Chloe more than once that he would make the same thing happen for himself. And for her. She wondered how long it had taken him to decide that Inverse wasn’t making that happen soon enough, driving him to consider something more illicit—

“Ms. McConnaughey?”

Chloe turned and looked at the woman expectantly.

“Mr. DiMeico’s assistant said he would be delighted to see you. He’s in a meeting right now, but he should be out in a few minutes if you can wait.”

“I absolutely can wait.”

“Well, then, Mr. DiMeico’s office is on the fifteenth floor,” she said, gesturing to the elevator which had just opened. “Mrs. Falco is Mr. DiMeico’s assistant. She’ll take care of you.”

“Thank you,” Chloe said as she passed in front of the desk, then stepped onto the elevator and disappeared behind the sliding doors.

* * * * *

Elena Grabney turned out to be much easier to find than Herb Rohrstadt. Her neighborhood was located in an older section of Miami Springs, just twenty minutes from Rohrstadt’s office. The homes were all one-story, siding-clad structures painted a multitude of pastels and varying shades of white. The landscaping was nothing fancy, but was generally well trimmed, whether solid green or bloom-kissed, creating modest but pretty yards. As Jack’s cab navigated the streets, he passed more than one white-haired person strolling along the sidewalks, enjoying a late afternoon walk in the winter sunshine. The majority of cars parked in the concrete driveways were large American sedans. In one yard, a man leaning on a cane rolled an inflated ball to a toddler; a few houses away, an elderly woman in a flowered house dress beat a jute rug against her front steps. The area abounded with senior citizens; Jack hoped desperately that Elena Grabney was one of them.

When they finally turned onto Thirty-Fourth Street, he began counting house numbers. Halfway down the block, he spotted number 8248—light pink with black shutters—easily fitting in with the rest on the block. A short, stocky woman with poufy, blond hair was stooped over on the porch, repotting red begonias in a rust-colored plastic planter.

Jack asked the cabbie to let him out in front of the house. “And would you just wait here? I’m not sure how long it’ll be.”

The driver shrugged. “It’s your dime.”

The woman continued working as Jack exited the cab, hovering intently over her pot as he approached.

“Ms. Grabney?”

It wasn’t clear whether she was hard of hearing or ignoring him. He stopped a few feet behind where she crouched.

“Elena?”

She spun around, clutched her chest and swore. “You always sneak up on people like that?” she exclaimed, looking him up and down as she drew in deep, rapid breaths. She squinted, narrowing her gaze to his face. “Do I know you?”

“Are you Elena Grabney?”

“Who wants to know?” she asked suspiciously, rising to her feet and noticeably tightening her grip on the spade in her hand.

“My name is Jack Collings. I know this is strange, but I’m a friend of one of Mr. Rohrstadt’s clients—”

“Herb’s dead,” she interrupted, taking a step backwards towards the front door.

“I know, I heard. I’m sorry. We were just at his office.”

“We? We who?”

“The client and I.”

Grabney’s expression turned stony. “Why are you here?”

“Look, I’m not here to cause you any trouble. I just want to talk to you for a minute. My friend, Mr. Rohrstadt’s client—well, actually it was her brother that was the client—he passed away a little while ago. Apparently he left instructions with Mr. Rohrstadt to mail a package to my friend—which she got—but then she lost it. We were hoping to talk to Mr. Rohrstadt about it, but when we got to his office we found out what happened. Someone mentioned you were his secretary—”

“Assistant.”

“Sorry. Assistant. Ms. Grabney, I’m just here to ask a few questions. That’s it. I thought you might be able to help. Remember something. Anything.”

“Where’s Ms. McConnaughey?”

Grabney’s unexpected use of Chloe’s last name threw him for a second. “You—you know about her?”

“Where is she?” Grabney insisted.

“She had . . . another appointment.” Jack let a moment pass, sizing up his options, then plunged ahead. “I heard Mr. Rohrstadt died of a heart attack.”

Her eyebrows rose slightly. “Why does that matter?”

“Because I don’t think it happened how you think it happened.”

Ms. Grabney stood quietly, fingering the longest of several gaudy, gold chains that hung around her neck. She took a long look at the cab, then stood. “Come on,” she growled, marching up the porch steps and slamming the screen door behind her, leaving Jack on the lawn. He lingered for the briefest of moments, then paid the cabbie and followed her inside.

The first thing he noticed was the black-and-white photographs plastered over nearly every inch of the living room walls. Had the pictures been of family or friends, it might not have seemed so peculiar. But Jack recognized every one of them. They were entertainers. Of the Las Vegas breed. Wayne Newton, Elvis, and Frank Sinatra smiled down at him from behind framed glass. And where there weren’t photographs, there were posters, colorful and gaudy, hawking acts like Siegfried and Roy, or movies like
Vegas Vacation
and
Viva Las Vegas
.

“Well, come on in here if you’re coming,” she ordered from behind the corner of the next room. “I don’t have all day.”

He followed her into the dining room where she plopped down behind an oval-shaped Queen Anne-style table. It took up most of the space, leaving only enough area for the china cabinet behind her, which, instead of china, displayed hundreds of shot glasses emblazoned with the logos of Las Vegas casinos, restaurants, and hotels.

“So your friend is Chloe McConnaughey, right?”

Jack nodded.

She folded a knobby, aged hand around a glass resting on the table in front of her and the other on the bottle of Smirnoff beside it. “What’s your angle?” she asked, taking a stout swig of vodka.

Jack shook his head. “No angle. I’m just here to help Chloe—Ms. McConnaughey. She’s in a bit of trouble now and needs what was in that package. We were hoping there’s a copy somewhere. If you could help us—”             

“Know why I let you in here?” she asked, staring Jack down.

Jack shook his head.

“Because I’ve known all along Herb didn’t die of a heart attack. From day one that’s what the cops told me, but I didn’t buy it for a minute.”

“Why not?’

She pulled a pack of cigarettes off the table and lit one. “Because he had his ticker checked out two weeks prior. Completely. Even had a scope done. The doc found nothing. Healthy as a horse. Even offered to trade hearts with him. If he had a heart attack, it’s because somebody gave him one.”

“Look,” Jack started, treading carefully, “I’m glad—more than you know—that you’re talking to me, but I have to ask—why? How do you know I’m not that somebody?”

A knowing grin twitched at the corner of her mouth, pulling the cigarette up. “Because they’ve already come to see me.”

“What?’

“Two days after the cops talked to me two more guys showed up on my lawn—just like you did. Only they’re dressed in suits, flash a couple of badges, and tell me they’re following up on the investigation. But I know right off they’re not. I know that these guys are with whoever McConnaughey ticked off.”

“How? And wait . . . what exactly do you know about Tate?”

“I knew they weren’t cops because of their shoes. And the suits. But mostly the shoes. Too nice. Armani, I think. Not something your average detective wears on the job. And because I’m a very good people reader. I can tell when people are lying. Have to do it all the time in Vegas. Have to take care of myself.

“Well these guys reiterated the heart attack story, but said that they just had to ask a few procedural questions to close the case—that the final medical workup wasn’t back, and they wanted to cover all their bases since Herb was found parked on a side street like he was. They asked me all kinds of questions about what Herb had been doing, did I know of any odd cases, anybody with a grudge? I was smart enough to play dumb. Told them no, no issues other than the odd angry husband of a client. After that song and dance they got around to asking about McConnaughey specifically, along with a couple other clients. Said standard procedure had turned up the names. I said I thought maybe I’d heard the name, McConnaughey, but couldn’t remember where. I asked who he was, gave the impression I didn’t know anything, hadn’t done any work for him. It was obvious they wanted to see if I knew anything. Probably would’ve killed me if they thought I did.”

“So what happened?”

“They left. Satisfied, I guess. Haven’t heard from them since. I’m betting they don’t want the exposure of getting rid of me unless they know I’m a threat. They probably realize the cops would get suspicious, start looking more closely, if all the sudden I kicked it, too. And because I don’t want them re-thinking that strategy, I’m not telling the cops anything either.”

“So why talk to me?”