I jumped up so quickly that the cat yelped. I opened the door and sagged with relief at the sight of him.
“Malone!”
When he turned around, he was on his phone, his eyes inscrutable behind the aviators.
But something seemed . . . off.
“I can’t talk now,” he said before turning back to his door.
He’s already done with you.
My brain told my inner child to have a seat and then brought some reason to my would-be pity party.
Slightly different aviators. Black suit, not navy. Ridiculously expensive shoes. Hair hanging over the collar of his suit in an odd way. His beard was more neatly trimmed than the day before. A glint of sunlight dancing on a watch worth more than my car.
He wasn’t my Malone.
Based on the resemblance and the fact that he had a key to the apartment, I could only surmise I’d found the elusive Blake.
I texted Trista first, wishing I had the papers in hand because I’d serve him then and there. Unfortunately for me, I needed to get those from her lawyer’s office, and I hadn’t done so because I’d been busy avoiding Malone, then even busier not avoiding Malone. Either way you looked at this situation, I needed to get my act together.
If I had a GPS tracking device, I’d be sorely tempted to put it on whatever vehicle he was driving, illegal or not.
Brené Brown gamboled along beside me as I paced, unsure of whether I should break up whatever was going on in the apartmentacross the way. Was he doing something to Malone’s computer setup? Was he desperate enough to hurt me if I tried to stop him?
Even worse, I didn’t have Malone’s phone number. I’d been about sixty seconds away from knowing him biblically, but I couldn’t text or call him.
Well, youcan.
With the information I had, I could learn a lot about Malone, including that pesky Social Security number I didn’t really need. I hadn’t researched him because I didn’t have “permissible purpose.”
But surely he would want to know about this?
I was in the process of pulling up Malone’s number when I heard the apartment door slam.
I’d missed the opportunity to stop Blake.
If I were smooth, I’d have plants on my patio that I could pretend to water while actually checking to see which vehicle Blake got into.
Note to self: Get a fern. Those things always need misting.
Screw it.
I went outside anyway. What did I care if Blake thought I was nosy? For all he knew I was looking for his cousin, and I was eventually getting paid to be nosy about him.
He zipped through the parking lot in a Hyundai Sonata, and I studied the license plate, chanting it until I got back into the apartment and could write it down before plugging it into one of my databases.
“Dammit.” Vehicle registration showed the vehicle belonged to one of the umpteen rental car agencies at the Atlanta airport. I turned my attention to my Malone and typed in his information.
He had more than one phone number.
Of course he did.
After trial and error and leaving messages with who knew whom, I called each number enough times that Malone eventually picked up. “Who is this?”
“Malone, it’s me.”
“Stark?”
