‘Oh. Thanks.’
I delve into my pocket and see I have some messages. I have a voicemail from a number I don’t recognize with a transcript that begins, ‘This is Detective Anders,’ and a message from Shade. I read Shade’s message first and find out that he wants to drive to New York this afternoon. I guess it’s a good thing. Get it over and done with. Maybe we’ll get something out of them.
‘I have to go,' I say to Lu. 'I need to go to New York City with Shade.'
'Be careful, Daisybear,' she says with a thumbs up. ‘Tell me if you get anything out of the suits. Later.’
I nod, taking off my apron and stowing it in my locker in the back before leaving with Sauvage’s guys in tow.
I meet Shade out in the lot. He's in his Jag, and as soon as I open the passenger door, my henchmen shadows disappear.
He smiles as I get in the car, but his good mood quickly evaporates when I tell him everything that happened this morning with Applegate and then Marcus.
We leave Richmond in the rearview, Shade’s knuckles clutching the steering wheel in anger for at least the first half an hour. Traffic isn’t bad, so we get to the city in justunder two hours, though it takes another thirty minutes to find the place and get parked down the street.
The building that we arrive at is very Art Nouveau. It’s towering and spans the whole block, majestic and cold, with hints of intricate stonework and an air of wealth.
I shiver as we go up the steps and into a lobby where a doorman waits. I'm afraid he's going to ask us for identification, but he just nods, and we go up to the 11th floor where the lawyer's offices are.
We're buzzed in and find a well-appointed collection of rooms with fancy furniture and the kind of old-world elegance that is echoed through the rest of the building.
There's a receptionist at a desk by the door.
'Hi,' I say with my practiced smile. 'My name is Marguerite Evans. I’d like to see one of the partners, please.'
I’m hoping they'll know the name Evans because it was on that piece of paper we found in John’s desk.
The receptionist, a woman in her twenties with blonde hair, understated makeup, and wearing a dark pantsuit, blinks at me.
'What was the name?' she asks, as if she’s already forgotten.
I say it again, giving her another friendly smile.
‘Do you have an appointment?’ she asks.
‘No, I don’t. I was hoping to get some information.’
‘Just a moment,’ she replies.
I nod and turn away from her desk, looking at a painting on the wall beside it. I see Shade frowning next to me and I give him a questioning glance, not sure what the problem is.
'What is it?' I whisper.
He shakes his head. 'I don't know. It's just the way she looked at you when you said your name. She recognized it.I'm sure of it. I think we can already deduce that this is about you.'
I turn to face him more fully. 'But what could it possibly beabout?'
'Maybe your mom left you something in her will, and John didn’t want you to have it,’ he suggests.
‘My mom had nothing,’ I argue quietly. ‘Remember her diary. She pretty much married John to get us out of that hell hole in Philadelphia. I mean, she cared about him too,' I concede, 'but the diary doesn't lie. She was desperate. A desperate woman doesn't have, you know, savings or a nest egg or property.'
He shrugs again.
‘Well, hopefully they will tell us something.'
I turn and look at the artwork again with a frown, trying to make it out. It looks like ink blots and splatters. It has pretty colors though and I wonder if we could get something similar for our room under the club.
'I hope so,’ I murmur. ‘It would suck if we came all this way for nothing.'
