The doorman grimaced. “No. I just got here. You’ll want Williams. He’s in the security office. Stashed him there after the calls went out.”
“You’re his supervisor?”
“Yes, sir.” The man blew out a breath. “Al Moses.” He offered his hand. “I’m lead here at the Towers. Security and the doormen report to me.”
“We’ll want to talk to you and Williams both.”
“I figured.” The older man gave me a tired smile. “Also figured you want it quiet from the other residents.”
“You figure correctly.”
Marsden and I rode the elevator in silence. We didn’t need to prep. The team would need it, they were pros but this had a lot of threads. When the doors opened, I took my time to study thehall, the doors, the cameras—or lack. One visible camera pointed at the elevator.
“Do a walk through,” I told Marsden. “Mark cameras, ingress and egress. Stairs. Alarms. Everything. Get it ready for the unit when they get here.”
“Got it,” Marsden said, phone in hand. “You sure about going in there alone?”
This wasn’t a raid—it was a claim.
We were here tosecure the asset.
With a snort, I gave him a look and the other man shrugged it off. You interviewed suspects with two agents. It was a crime to lie to federal law enforcement. One agent could serve as a witness for the other.
“She’s not the one we’re investigating,” I reminded him. Not acknowledging the unspokenyet. Because we would definitely be investigating everything.
The hallway was clean. Too clean. Sterile in that moneyed, urban-chic way—nothing out of place, but everything too perfectly staged to be real. Her door was still closed, but the lights were on inside. Shadow passed behind the peephole, cutting off the light briefly before revealing it again.
I knocked.
Not loud. Just once.
The deadbolt clicked. Then the chain.
She opened the door and stared at me like she was daring me to say the wrong thing.
Mallory McBryan.
Meeting her the day before had confirmed the woman was every bit the looker she appeared on television. I’d seen the photos. Surveillance. News clips. Headshots from her network’s PR archives. Seeing her now, in the dark hours of early morning, sans any cosmetics, proved that none of them did her justice.
She was taller than I expected. Sharp-featured. Dark blonde hair pulled into a tight knot at the back of her head. Eyes like storm fronts—restless and relentless.
But the most striking thing was the fire simmering under her restraint.
She wasn’t panicking. She wasn’t afraid.
She waspissed.
I respected that. Didn’t mean I planned to indulge it.
“Mallory,” I said, stepping in and bypassing formalities, “you’re coming with us.” We were about to be the best of friends.
Her eyes narrowed. “I don’t need a babysitter.”
“This isn’t up for debate. You’re not safe here.”
She crossed her arms. “And what, you’re safe?”
“My safety isn’t relevant. Yours is.”
