by Sarah Andre
Being recognized would cause a pitchfork riot. And yet here he stood, in the lobby of a resort hotel filled with spring breakers, cops outside, media just a few blocks away. Parker was right—what an idiotic risk! In fact, coming all the way to Aspen today was a giant, time-sucking mistake.
“Come on,” he said shortly. “Leo’s at the Pitkin Library. We’ll go there and figure out what to do next.” He stole a glance at her, and she seemed to have pulled herself together, that journalist expression as unbreakable as cast iron.
“Go without me. I’m waiting for someone.”
His teeth clenched. “You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me.”
“Not Roberto. His alibi, Jennifer Johnson, arrived as I left. She wouldn’t talk to me, but she’ll have to leave this hotel sometime, and I want to be right here when she does.” She swiveled her head and stared at the bank of elevators, her swollen lips firming resolutely. He blinked at the now-exposed hickey on her neck.
What the fuck was he going to do? He wasn’t leaving her here, that’s for damn sure. But he couldn’t bear being alone with her right now. Couldn’t stomach looking at those kiss-smeared lips. He rubbed at the sweat on his face. No. He wasn’t walking away without her. If she waited here for that witness, she might meet up with Vannini again.
The old couple had edged into eavesdropping territory. Staying here another thirty seconds was suicide.
“She could be hours, Jordan,” he muttered as quietly as he could. “Let’s just go get Leo. I’ve got some info on Reeves. He’s the night security officer at Tiffany’s condo complex. He was on duty that night.”
“Holy smokes.” Her eyes blazed even brighter. “Great work. After I’m through here, I’ll need a ride to his house.”
He shook his head. “That’s too dangerous. Leo can help brainstorm where to go from here.” His brother didn’t believe Lock was innocent, but at least he was willing to help.
She glanced at the elevators again. “You go brainstorm. I’ll stay and follow this real lead.”
He let the jab go because the couple was upon them.
“Excuse me,” the man said. Lock didn’t look over. He still wore his sunglasses, but dropping the scarf to breathe had been a huge mistake. Jordan, however, turned those big blues on the couple, her smile wide and pleasant. “Are you Lock and Load?”
“Of course he isn’t!” Jordan breathed, her features morphing into genuine revulsion. “I’d never be caught dead talking to that monster.”
The woman clapped a hand over her left boob. “Oh, thank goodness. I mean, I was so frightened—”
“Come on, sugar. Sorry to have disturbed you.” The man turned and guided her away muttering, “I told you that wasn’t him.”
A few seconds of strained silence passed, and Lock tried to get past the way his body had just reacted to the loathing in Jordan’s response. She’d lied perfectly and saved his ass. It’s only a lie. It shouldn’t hurt this much.
“You better go,” she said, shifting her gaze from the retreating couple. “I’ll call when I’m finished here.”
He pushed aside his self-pity. “Not happening.” He lingered once more on those puffy pink lips—the kind of puffy caused by a whole lotta kissing. And that disgusting hickey. His face stiffened in rage as he held out a hand. “Get up this second, or so help me God, I’ll strip down to my long johns and make sure I’m recognized. It’ll cause a media riot so frenzied you’ll never see that alibi-chick leaving. Don’t test me, Jordan, I’m still Lock and Load. You know I have it in me.”
Her frown mixed confusion with trepidation. “Why would you deliberately sabotage your own case?”
But a miracle happened. Without waiting for a response, she rose, emitting a tsk of disgust. Grabbing her things, she brushed by him. Awash in triumph, he followed—at a snail’s pace, given her shorter legs and awkward limp.
Why had he just threatened to sabotage his case? Because now she was away from Vannini, and right this second that’s all he gave a shit about. Next up: a foot-long sandwich.
They were ten feet from the door when he squinted through his sunglasses. The cops no longer loitered outside but actually barricaded a crowd of press. Through the confusion, two bundled people slipped inside, waving their thanks. Obviously the guests who’d hired the protection from the media. Two familiar women walked toward them. His pulse stuttered.
On instinct he yanked Jordan behind an enormous potted plant and plastered her against his torso, shushing her squeak of alarm.
She stayed silent, thank Christ, but her eyes bore through him like he’d lost his mind. Maybe he had. This trip would be his downfall. He realized it in every strung-out nerve in his body. What the hell had he been thinking going against Parker’s advice?
He chanced a fleeting glance to the right. The women marched past, staring straight ahead, oblivious to the crowded lobby. Typical.
They disappeared into the high-end restaurant on the far side.
“Mind telling me what’s going on?” Jordan sniped under her breath.
“Marcy and her grandmother just passed by.”
She craned her neck around his torso, and he backed up, shoulders slumping with relief.
“They already went into that restaurant,” he said, furtively scanning the rest of the lobby. “We’re safe. Come on.”
She yanked her arm out of his grip. “I’m going in there too.”
“Why? Neither Marcy or her grandmother are suspects.”
“You never know what you can pick up listening to candid conversations. Go get Leo. I’m going to need him as a prop.”
“A prop?”
Without a backward glance, she limped away. He watched until she disappeared then turned to the doors, seething, sweating, and starving.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Lock was right: Carlotta van der Kellen was an Ice Queen. Formidably dressed in a deep-blue, Tom Ford wool suit, an ivory silk blouse, and a tasteful platinum-and-diamond choker, she emanated an elegant poise so cool it touched on arctic. She sat stiffly but gracefully in her tapestry armchair like it was a throne. Jordan could only see the back of Marcy, but the difference in style, body language, and confidence between the two was as wide as an ocean abyss. Marcy’s slouched posture and lowered head made her seem hugely intimidated. Un-styled, dirty-blond hair hung down the back of a loose-fitting, mud-brown suit.
They sat at a table by the wall-length window overlooking the majestic mountain. Mid-afternoon on a spring break Friday meant the dining room still held lounging patrons. Enough at least for Jordan to request the table next to the van der Kellens without looking obvious that her intent was strictly to eavesdrop. Her soft boot screamed injured skier instead of inquisitive press, so the hostess marched her over without hesitation.
Luck was with her. As she was seated by the hostess, the two women focused on their waiter reciting the specials and paid her no mind. Glancing at Marcy’s sullen profile, Jordan found it hard to believe this was the ultra-bossy cousin Lock described. Or the capable van der Kellen behind the scene at all the charities. Physically there was a genetic similarity to Tiffany. Like there was a similarity in a flashlight orb to the sun.
When the smiling hostess removed the second place setting, Jordan set her cassette recorder down and clicked the red button. Immediately she tented her yellow legal pad over it, the size and angle of the paper encasing the device.
Next, heart racing, she opened her large menu, which blocked her view of the ladies, and began listening intently. What she heard, after they placed their drink order, was absolute silence.
The minutes ticked by as her cassette only captured background conversations, ice cubes clinking in glasses, and an occasional laugh. Consequently, she ordered coffee and pastry without missing a syllable. She handed back the menu with regret. As the waiter left, she studied the silverware, hoping her stillness made her blend into the surroundings. One accidental slip of eye contact with Carlotta would ruin everything.
Just as she began to think the two were in some horrible standoff, Marcy spoke up. “I apologize for earlier. It’s just that March and April are our busiest times of the year.”
“Of course, dear.” The tone suggested the apology was not accepted. At all.
“So how long will this board meeting last?”
“The better part of two days.” Carlotta’s voice was crisp, no-nonsense, and held the huskiness of an aging smoker.
“I thought you’d postpone it for…I mean…to stay here until the end.”
“It’s the annual shareholders meeting. One doesn’t postpone a crucial event just to stay here waiting for a jury to be selected. We’ll hardly be missed in this media circus those two days. The vital time to present a united front is first thing Monday morning, which we’ll do on those courthouse steps.”
“So, when do we actually go to New York?”
“The jet will transport us Monday evening. There’s a reservation in your name at the Plaza. After the meeting and subsequent press coverage, we’ll fly back, you to your…own little business, and I’ll sit in the courtroom and represent Tiffany.”
A pause. “I’m proud of what I’ve accomplished here, Grandmother. The fact that I can sit on the board and still own a thriving busin—”
“We’re all proud of you, dear.” Once again the tone indicated the exact opposite, and Jordan felt a flood of sympathy for Marcy. “However,” Carlotta continued, “I implore you to do something with your hair before Tuesday. I was appalled at the last meeting. You represent the van der Kellen empire, for goodness’ sake. Why I even need to have this discussion…”
“I know. I will.” Peripherally it looked to Jordan like Marcy wiped her palms on her skirt. “And I appreciate your faith in me, Grandmother. It’s a great honor. Giving me Hollister’s seat.”
Silverware clinked on china. The low tones of patrons droned. Almost a full minute went by before Carlotta answered. “You do realize I had no other choice.”
Goosebumps rose on Jordan’s arms at the scathing murmur. Poor Marcy. So hardworking and dedicated to her family. Ice Queen was too nice a descriptor. She was just like Jordan’s father, only instead of fists the hurt came in precisely worded grenades. They both used pain to control people.
The waiter arrived with their drinks, which stopped any further conversation. When he glided to Jordan’s table with the coffee and pastry, she murmured her thanks without raising her head. In her lap she clutched her cell phone, furiously searching the internet for information about the van der Kellen board, Marcy’s promotion, and someone named Hollister. The first link listed an article by The Wall Street Journal, dated April twenty-third of last year.
Van der Kellen Industries filed a special 8K report with the Securities Exchange Commission today disclosing the pending retirement of Jerome C. Hollister as Member of the Board of Directors. The filing disclosed that Mr. Hollister, 58, has recently been diagnosed with early-onset Alzheimer’s disease and, therefore, requested immediate retirement.
According to the bylaws of the company, Mrs. van der Kellen may select someone to replace Hollister without board approval. It’s rumored she will appoint a family member to the coveted position.
The van der Kellens received their salads, and the silence stretched out. Jordan Googled the current list of board members. Among the twelve, she found Marcy and both of Carlotta’s sons.
But on April twenty-third of last year, when the seat opened up, Tiffany was still alive.
You do realize I had no other choice.
Jordan nibbled the inside of her lip. Had Carlotta wanted Tiffany on the board? Or was she talking about her grandson, Marcy’s brother, who drowned, like twenty years ago.
No, she meant Tiffany. Drunk, coked-out Tiffany.
The realization astonished her into forgetting to remain motionless, and she jerked upright. Carlotta’s icy eyes swiveled at the motion and scanned her with cool dismissal. On impulse Jordan flashed a weak smile. The woman did not return it, nor indicate that she even acknowledged a person at the next table making eye contact. She simply turned her attention back to her plate and speared another leaf of romaine lettuce.
“Hi, Jordan.”
She froze at Leo’s voice behind her. Would Marcy remember she’d spoken to a Jordan on the phone last night? The second passed, and Marcy continued eating salad. But Leo had captured Carlotta’s formidable attention, and Jordan couldn’t risk staying and using him as a decoy. The woman seemed too perceptive. Too paranoid. And way too aware of Jordan now.
“Hi, darling,” Jordan answered brightly. “I waited as long as I could.” She gestured to her half-eaten pastry, wishing Leo would wipe the astonished look off his face. “I’m afraid we’ll be late for our appointment if we don’t leave now.”
She waved at the waiter while collecting her pad and cassette, thoroughly ignoring the women. Leo warmed to his role and apologized for the delay, mentioning spring break traffic. When the bill came, he paid without hesitation.
“What was that all about?” he murmured as they made their way through the crowded lobby.
“In a minute. Where’s Lock?”
“In the car, eating.”
She swept one more glance at the milling guests and energetic staff, hoping by some miraculous coincidence Jennifer Johnson might wander through at this precise moment. No such luck.
Once tucked in the front seat between the twins, she released a long breath. Lock swallowed an enormous bite of a thick sandwich. He ignored her, so that oddly dark mood he’d left in clearly persisted. Was it because Vannini had kissed her? Oh well. Seething jealousy beat out avenging a near-rape. Maybe Lock possessed enough self-control not to act on that impulse with his arch nemesis, but it wasn’t a chance she was going to take. Let him think she willingly kissed Vannini. It kept him safe from additional charges of assault and battery and witness intimidation.
As they drove aimlessly down side streets, she filled them in on the peculiar relationship between Carlotta and Marcy, the board position, and the possibility that the seat was intended for Tiffany.
“The Ice Queen’s not stupid,” Lock said, without glancing over. “Putting Tiffany on the Board would’ve been a disaster. You misunderstood.”
Jordan stiffened.
“I disagree,” Leo said mildly. “Think about the timeline. All the events coincide. The retirement announcement is made April twenty-third. You noticed her behavior deteriorating the last month. According to Marcy, Tiffany’s dream of having her own reality show is suddenly canceled, and not by the producers. Maybe Tiffany knew she was bound for a seat on the company. She didn’t want it, and this was her way of sabotaging the promotion.”
“First,” Lock said through bared teeth, “she would have told me—”
“Maybe she did,” Jordan interrupted. “She says something on YouTube about a seat in New York.”
“She was talking about chairs! Second, she hated business. Hated meetings and financial information and sitting in conference rooms for hours. Carlotta would not have chosen her, and Tiffany would never have accepted.”
Jordan thought about the royal manner Carlotta spoke to Marcy. “If Carlotta had chosen Tiffany, I don’t think declining the position was an option.”
“Then it goes back to her wanting Tiffany. It’s stupid.”
She sighed. “It was an uncomfortable half hour to sit through. Carlotta seems deeply disappointed in Marcy, and I can’t imagine why.”
“It’s not Marcy, sweetheart, she speaks that way to everyone.”
“Well, if Marcy grew up around that awful woman, I can’t believe she has any self-esteem left.”
“She’s got enough self-esteem for twelve people. I already told you how much she bossed Tiffany around. She commands everyone. You’ll never hear her ask you to do something.” He hung a left and slowed to a halt. “An Ice Queen in training,” he muttered.
Jordan couldn’t reconcile the Marcy he knew with the one she witnessed. The slumpin
g shoulders and beaten, unassertive manner? “Nevertheless,” she murmured, “I feel sorry for her.”
“Don’t waste your time. She’s ferocious. Where to next?”
“Let’s go visit Russell Reeves.”
“Not without a plan.”
She folded her arms. “You’re not screwing up two leads, Lock. We’re going.”
“Actually, we should think about heading home,” Leo said. “We can return tomorrow morning.”
“Are you joking?” she sputtered. “Another four hours back just to turn around again tomorrow?”
“It’s spring break here,” he answered kindly, “and the media has descended. We won’t find vacant hotel rooms until we’re close to home.”
She gazed beseechingly at him. “Just one more hour. Let’s hit Reeves’s house, see if he’ll answer any questions about his dates with Tiffany or that night in the bar. Then we’ll go.”
“We are not ambushing that psycho,” Lock said emphatically.
“I’m not suggesting an ambush. I’ll legitimately ring the doorbell, ask a few questions, and leave.”
He leaned in, smelling faintly of mustard. “The guy has a hard-on for mixed martial arts and probably packs heat for his security job. I doubt he’ll appreciate being peppered with questions about Tiffany dumping him.”
Jordan pursed her lips. She’d ignored his warning about Vannini, which had come back to bite her in the ass. But Reeves had stalked Tiffany on her social media sites. Lied to her about his profession. Clearly demonstrated rage toward his ex-wives. What was his reaction after Tiffany dumped him? No hard feelings, see ya around. Not likely.
If Reeves still held his night security job, he’d be home right now. The afternoon shadows loomed, but it wasn’t dusk yet. How much trouble could they get into speaking to him in daylight? In his own neighborhood?
“I’ll ask a couple of questions, nothing that will freak him out. And you two will be there with me.”
“Your hour is now fifty-eight minutes. What else is on your list?”