Beast in the Tower

by Julie Miller

  This time Kit didn’t wait for explanations or goodbyes. She circled around J.T.’s bulky frame and pushed the elevator button. “Is this working now?” A little of her brother’s sarcasm filtered into her voice. “There may be others up here, too. I hope you’re rounding them up and giving them the same friendly advice about their safety as you’ve given me.”

  “You saw someone else up here?”

  A glance behind her revealed the construction chief peering down the length of the hallway. The buttons on the elevator weren’t lighting up. Maybe she was wasting her time waiting. “I can show you the rooms if you like.”

  “No!” he answered far too quickly before wrapping his beefy hand around Kit’s arm. “No.”

  Again? What was this, Grab Kit Snow day? “Hey.”

  He tucked his clipboard beneath his arm and escorted her into the stairwell with as much finesse and patience as Dr. Sinclair had shown with Henry.

  “Now I have to walk you down myself to make sure you’re safely clear of the danger zone. We could have hot wires, unstable floors, falling debris.” He took the steps two at a time, forcing her to double her pace so he wouldn’t drag her off her feet. “What if something happened to you? My men aren’t even scheduled to begin work on the thirteenth for weeks.”

  “You were there,” she pointed out.

  He stopped on the landing between the tenth and ninth floors and planted his chalky breath right in her face. “Don’t get smart with me, lady. I’m doing my job. You’re lucky I’m not calling the cops. Stay off the upper floors.”

  “I pay good money to live in this building.” Kit jerked her arm from his grasp.

  He snatched it right back. “Stay off the upper floors. It’s for your own good.”

  KIT CHOPPED the red pepper in two, ripped out its seeds and ribs, then sliced it into strips. She turned the strips on her cutting board and chopped them into bite-size pieces. After scooping the bits into a bowl, she pulled another pepper from the counter and attacked it.

  Where the hell did J. T. Kronemeyer get off throwing out threats like that? Stay off the upper floors. Kit shook her knife in the air and muttered, “Or else.”

  I mean, who was he really protecting here? The boss up in the penthouse? Himself? Was he that concerned about someone else getting hurt under his command? Or was there something up there he had been looking for? Something he didn’t want Kit or anyone else to find.

  Damon had tried to get her off the thirteenth floor, too. But, mistaken as he was, she’d had a real sense that he believed he was protecting her from Henry. Kronemeyer had just wanted to get rid of her.

  A third pepper fell under her knife as Germane pushed open the swinging stainless door. “Is it safe for me to come in?”

  Kit grinned. “Don’t worry, you’re not on my hit list yet.”

  “Thank God for that. The veggies in this kitchen aren’t safe when you get your dander up like that.” He flashed a sympathetic smile. “What’s eatin’ you today?”

  “Men.”

  “Oh. Then I shouldn’t tell you there’s a man out front who’s come to see you? Three-piece suit. Subtle comb-over.”

  “To see me?” Now what? Oh, God, please have nothing to do with Matt. “Is he a cop?”

  “Dressed too nice for that.” He arched an eyebrow in an expression that recommended caution. “I poured him a cup of coffee, but you’re the only thing he ordered.”

  Kit carried her knife to the sink and washed her hands. “And there’s no sign of Henry yet?”

  “I tell ya, girl. He never showed.”

  She’d sent him down the elevator two hours ago. The fact he’d gotten lost between the lobby elevator and the diner’s interior entrance worried her. “Do you think his talk about his wife is a sign of something serious? Like Alzheimer’s?”

  Germane waved her toward the door. “I can’t answer that. But I’ll make a couple of calls to see if I can find him.”

  “Thanks.” Kit cupped his cheek in a grateful gesture. “I won’t be long.”

  Kit took a moment behind the front counter to smooth her apron and scan the diner. It was still a little early for the lunch rush, so only two of the tables were occupied. The stout, balding man, scrolling through images on a small computer screen, sitting in one of the red vinyl booths was easy to spot.

  Instead of wondering any longer about what a man in an expensive, tailored suit could want with her, Kit tucked a stray tendril into her ponytail and crossed the restaurant. “You wanted to see me, sir? I’m Kit Snow.”

  He closed his laptop before scooting out of the booth and standing with a grace that belied his portly belly. His smile and handshake seemed sincere. “Easting Davitz. Please, have a seat.”

  Like an old-school gentleman, Easting waited until Kit slid into the opposite seat before resuming his place at the table.

  “Davitz, huh? You’re the man I send the rent checks to.”

  He opened his briefcase on the tabletop and replaced the computer before pulling out an envelope. “I’m also chief operating officer at Sinclair Pharmaceuticals. I’m project manager, investment supervisor, executive liaison…and occasional messenger.”

  “I’m not getting evicted, am I?” Could Kronemeyer have put through a call already and filed a complaint? “You’re not closing down the diner so Kronemeyer Construction can sandblast the limestone out front or some other cosmetic thing, are you?” She leaned in. “We do a little better than break even with the restaurant. But I can’t afford a shutdown, even a temporary one.”

  “Relax. No one’s closing Snow’s Barbecue.” He smiled as he wiped the case with a paper napkin before setting it on the floor beside him. “As you may or may not know, Helen Hodges has been a longtime associate of the Sinclair family.”

  An uncomfortable suspicion replaced the defensive panic of a moment ago. Kit folded her arms across her stomach. Though no one had been eager to tell her anything about Helen, she’d finally been able to piece together that much. “I don’t know what her relationship is to the Sinclairs, but I gather she lives in the penthouse upstairs. I meant to get to the hospital this morning, but I got delayed, and then I had to start prepping for lunch.” Oh, hell. Just ask. “Has there been a change in her condition? She’s not…?”

  “Her condition remains unchanged. The doctor says it’s like she’s asleep. We just need someone to convince her to wake up. But she’s still very much alive,” he reassured her.

  Though she breathed a little easier at the news, Kit frowned. “Then what are you here for?”

  He laid the envelope on the center of the table and pushed it toward her. The green-and-white SinPharm logo stood out in bold print at the corner of the envelope. “This is a gift Dr. Sinclair would like you to have, to thank you for risking your life to protect Helen—and for staying at her side when he couldn’t be there for her.”

  You mean, when he chose not to be there.

  Kit opened the envelope and pulled out a check written for an obscene amount of money. “Oh, my God.”

  While she worked her mind around all the zeros, Easting Davitz continued with his spiel. “That should pay your lease in full for ten years. Since the Sinclair family owns the building and controls the rent, we can guarantee that the price is fixed and that that amount should be sufficient. Of course, if there’s something else you need—a new appliance, hiring more staff—”

  “I already got what I wanted from Dr. Sinclair.” A straight answer. A name to put with the voice and secrets and disturbing fascination.

  “You met with him? But I… Where? When?” Mr. Davitz seemed stunned by the news.

  If meeting in the dark corner of a hidden corridor and trading hushed, heated whispers counted as a meeting, then yes—it had been a meeting of executive magnitude. But Kit just shrugged. “I’ve bumped into him a couple of times.”

  “Really? He didn’t mention it.”

  Apparently, he’d made a far bigger impression on her than she had on him. But then,
crusading chemists like her, who spent their time studying and working and taking care of their families, rarely turned a man’s head. It had been like that in college, and it was that way here in K.C.

  But it wasn’t a bruised feminine ego that made Kit stuff the check back into the envelope. “He can keep his money.”

  Davitz tried another tactic. “Maybe you could apply it toward your brother’s education.”

  “How do you know about my brother?”

  “Dr. Sinclair pays me very well to know things.”

  Kit slid the envelope back across the table. “I am not taking Dr. Sinclair’s check.”

  “Perhaps there’s a charity you’d like to donate it to.”

  “Perhaps you’re not getting the message.” Had Damon sent his COO with a check before or after she’d made it clear that money couldn’t buy the kind of dreams she needed fulfilled? The first option spoke of arrogance, the second of insult. “I would have done what I did for anybody. I want this neighborhood to be a safe place. I want this to feel like a home again. I want my brother to have hope that there’s a future for him here. I want to believe that if I were ever in that same situation, that someone would open their door and help me, too.”

  The bell above the front entrance jingled, alerting her to the six men who walked in. As they hung up their coats and looked to her expectantly for service, Kit expelled a righteous breath and stood. “I’m sorry. These men have a limited lunch break. I have to go.”

  “Dr. Sinclair will be disappointed that you didn’t take the money.”

  “I’m disappointed that he didn’t bring it to me himself. You know, a good neighbor shouldn’t be afraid to talk to another good neighbor.”

  “Dr. Sinclair doesn’t take public meetings.”

  No. He only had the courage to converse from the shadows or dark of night. Or through his checkbook. The infamous Damon Sinclair didn’t seem to care much for the real world or its problems—or its people.

  She was beginning to like the man in the shadows better than Easting Davitz’s cold, absent boss.

  “That’s his loss.”

  Chapter Five

  “You said he wouldn’t come out. He not only left the penthouse, he left the building.”

  “I underestimated his attachment to that old woman.” Though the alcohol would sterilize the questionably clean glasses, one whiskey and soda sitting on top of the box between them remained untouched. “Still, I believe there’s a way we can use his new boldness to our advantage.”

  “How? We’ve lost any advantage we had. That old woman’s seen my face.”

  “Idiot. She’s seen all our faces.” How irritating that all this emotional second-guessing could so easily distract a group of colleagues from a perfect, well-thought-out plan. A demonstration of staying cool, calm and collected was in order. “Has she said anything to the police yet? Has she said anything to Dr. Sinclair?”

  “Well, no. She’s in a coma.”

  The youngest member of their group suddenly grinned from ear to ear. “Yo—she doesn’t have to stay that way. She’s what, like, a hundred? A pillow could fall on her face or something like that, and no one would ever suspect a thing.”

  “Helen Hodges is seventy-nine.” Older than you’ll ever be if you don’t learn to control that mouth. “You stick to your computers and leave the strategy to me.”

  Leaving the drink behind, the one in charge rose and crossed to the window without touching anything. There had to be a way to make all this still work. A minor setback—a woman who should be dead still clinging to life—would not ruin this.

  But the black-haired man who had once been a charming equal was forever impatient. “I haven’t seen any return on my investment yet.”

  “I thought getting me on board was why you paid all that money up-front.” The sunset was particularly dull this evening. Probably an indication of more snow on the way. That thought was enough to make bones ache, but not enough to lose focus. “None of this works without an inside man.”

  “None of this is working, period. You promised me results eighteen months ago.”

  “Eighteen months ago you trusted the most important part of my plan to an incompetent.” A mistake that had been personally rectified and buried deep in the Sinclair Tower’s remodeling project. “I’ve done everything within my power to get us back on our original path. Be patient.”

  “Patient? I’ve been with you for two years on this. Where are the millions of dollars that are supposed to be coming my way?” Now the troublesome allies enlisted for the project turned on each other. “If you had taken care of her the way you were supposed to—”

  “Me? I do the technical work, man. You’re supposed to provide the muscle.”

  “It’s a damn good thing I was there that night to take care of collateral damage, or we’d really be screwed. Now that short-order cook is poking around the Tower like she owns the place. What if she stumbles onto what we’re doing? For an abandoned building, there sure is an awful lot of traffic.”

  “Stop it. Both of you. You’re behaving like children.” Their panicked bickering intensified a headache that was already debilitating enough. How tempting it was to pull out a gun and shoot. “Katherine Snow has no idea what’s going on. We need to focus. We are attempting to outwit one of the smartest men on the planet. We cannot afford any more mistakes.” Their technical expert needed to focus on his job, and nothing else. “Are you sure that Helen’s key card doesn’t work?”

  “I tried to get into Sinclair’s lab a dozen times last night and this morning. Either he reprogrammed the cards as soon as the old lady went down, or he’s already changed the access codes.”

  “Codes, codes, codes! I’m tired of hearing that word!” Pounding a fist against the wall only produced plaster dust and a half-dozen splinters. The tense silence that followed secured everyone’s full attention and allowed a moment to regather composure. “We should already have that regeneration formula in production. We should already be seeing profits by now.”

  “He knows what we’re doing. The man is on to us.”

  A smile drove the brainiac punk back a step. “Actually, he knows what you’re doing. He’ll never see us coming.” The one in charge pulled out a handkerchief and wiped the droplets of blood from the tiny hand wounds. “Run your program again tonight. Maybe we’ll get lucky.”

  “And if he locks me out or changes the passwords again?” He pinched his thumb and forefinger together. “More than once now, he’s come that close to backtracking the feed and locking up my computer.”

  “What we need is something to distract Dr. Sinclair.”

  “Impossible. That man’s obsessed with his work.”

  “Do not underestimate what I can do.” Yes, of course. But it would require a delicate touch. “Maybe your idea of an accident at the hospital has merit. Our miscues in the lab have produced some other interesting by-products. Did you bring the samples with you?”

  The black-haired man opened one of the boxes and pulled out a small plastic case that held a dozen vials. “We have the 423 and 428 formulas here. Are either of these what you’re looking for?”

  “The 428 will do. Hand me a syringe.”

  Though they’d yet to reap the fortune promised by Damon Sinclair’s stolen binders, those miscues in the translation of his encrypted equations had generated a few useful results. Nothing they could market to the public, but there were military applications that could be pursued. And then there was the whole untapped criminal world that would be interested in paying them a pretty penny.

  Success on the black market would be a profitable consolation prize, but not a victory.

  “You want me to visit the old lady tonight?”

  “No. I’ll take care of it.” It would be inordinately satisfying to eliminate the excess baggage that had been siphoning retirement funds and benefit gifts from the SinPharm fortune for years.

  With a careful precision to detail, the needle slid through the vial’
s rubber stopper and sucked up the clear yellow liquid. One dose. Two. Three, just in case.

  With the syringe loaded, a controlling calm settled in once more. “You—back to your computer. You? Get me into that lab. And you…?” One couldn’t help but smile at the drop of miracle potion glittering at the tip of the needle. “Our witness will never wake up.”

  “MY LOSS?” Damon completed three more reps with the hand weights as he listened to Easting’s report over the hands-free phone hooked to his ear. “She doesn’t have to use the money on herself. She could donate it to a homeless shelter, since she has such a penchant for helping them out.”

  “I made several alternate suggestions myself.” Easting cleared his throat—his way of telling Damon he wouldn’t like what he was going to hear. “She threw it back in your face, I’m afraid. Said she’d already gotten what she wanted from you—whatever that means.”

  A name.

  A truth.

  How could a woman who owned a rebuilt restaurant, had a brother to put through college and a degree to finish up herself not need a financial cushion? It just didn’t make practical sense.

  What could she really want from him?

  Damon took a seat on the weight bench and worked his legs while Easting continued. “Apparently, she won’t accept any kind of reward unless you present it to her yourself.”

  “Not gonna happen.” He’d already gotten entirely too close to Kit Snow. More than once. Like any faulty experiment, he intended to learn from the mistake. And keep his distance.

  “Then she proceeded to give me this lecture about the ills of society. She went on about how she and her brother don’t feel as safe in the neighborhood as they used to. It sounded as though she blamed you for it.”

  “Me?” Damn nervy woman. “Who does she think paid for all the security cameras around the building? The smoke detectors? Does she grasp the idea that I’m making this building more structurally sound, not just aesthetically pleasing? Taking ownership of the building in the first place is a big step toward upgrading the area and bringing in new people and jobs.”