Saxon pulled up beside them in his truck.
They approached the main entrance together and found the door unlocked. Their boots scuffed against polished concrete as they crossed the lobby. The receptionist’s desk was unmanned and the office shut down for a Saturday.
“Hello?” Rowan called out, his voice carrying in the empty space. “Anyone here?”
A door opened down a hallway, and a young woman emerged. Her hair was pulled back in a neat bun, and she clutched a stack of papers against her chest. Her eyes darted between the three men. “Can I help you?”
“We’re looking for Ralph Rousseau,” Martinelli said, displaying his badge. “Official police business.”
“Mr. Rousseau isn’t here.” She frowned. “He didn’t come in this morning.”
“When did you last see him?” Martinelli asked.
“Yesterday afternoon. He left around four and told me to cancel all his appointments for today. I came in to finish up the paperwork on a couple upcoming closings.”
“Did he say where he was going?” Rowan said, refusing to glance at his watch. But he still had time.
“No, but…” The woman hesitated, her voice dropping to barely above a whisper. “There were some men here yesterday. They didn’t look like clients.”
“What did they look like?” Saxon said.
“Professional, but sort of scary. They wore expensive suits, but like tough guys. They went into Mr. Rousseau’s office and closed the door. When they left, Mr. Rousseau seemed rattled. He left shortly after that.”
Rowan glanced at Martinelli, who said, “Rattled how?”
“Like…I don’t know. Maybe like someone had just threatened him?”
Saxon and Rowan exchanged glances.
“Ma’am,” Martinelli said, “we’re going to need you to come with us to make a formal statement. And we’ll need access to Mr. Rousseau’s office.”
“Is he in trouble?” Her voice fell, quavered.
“We’re trying to figure that out,” Martinelli said.
They followed her down the hall to another office. When she opened the door, she gasped.
“This his office?” Rowan asked.
She nodded, her hand to her mouth.
Desk drawers hung open, papers were scattered across the floor, and a wall safe stood empty with its door ajar. The chaos said panic.
“Looks like he was gathering documents,” Martinelli said, walking into the room. “Don’t touch anything.”
He said it to Rowan, maybe, but he wasn’t an idiot.
Or maybe he said it to Saxon, because he’d picked up a business card from the floor, studying it. “This is interesting. TerraCorps Mining Solutions.”
“They’re one of our clients,” the woman said.
His phone buzzed with a text. He glanced at the screen, expecting an update from the surveillance team. Instead, he saw Sierra’s number.
Sierra
Huck’s asking for you. Competition starts in 30. Where are you?
Shoot. He needed to go. But they still didn’t have Rousseau in custody.
