Amelia glanced back at the winding driveway as lightning cracked the sky. There was the rip cord if she wanted it, but the valet had already left with Little Red, and in polite society, no one ditched a party that early. Then again, Amelia didn’t belong in that echelon. In a clearance rack cocktail dress, she didn’t even look the part.
“What if we make our rounds for an hour then leave?” she offered, and her mother promptly agreed.
Theysplitup inside to divide and conquer. Amelia cut through the kitchen or the mausoleum, as her dad called it to mock Rich’s brutalist taste. With its sparse countertops, the room wanted for a pulse that it only achieved during Rich’s parties.
In the great room, a sea of people milled about in glittering gowns and tailored suits. The hollowed-out space opened to the second and third-floor halls above and light installations reflected dully on polished concrete floors below. At the far end of the room, a tuxedoed man played a grand piano next to tall windows overlooking the lake.
Amelia edged along the museum-like walls accosted with abstract art but stopped at a new addition. Rendered in blood red and black, the painting depicted a demon, its face vaguely human except for luminous eyes that pierced the canvas. A gold plaque at the bottom of the frame read “Philippe Velasco Collection.”
Of course.The painting was salt in a wound for her father to find.
Several months ago, Amelia’s father secured a grand jury’s indictment for Philippe, the man at the helm of the Velasco family. “Flip-Flop Philippe,” the papers called him when he sought a plea deal. Rich Dauer was known for his defense of indefensible people, most notably Philippe. It’d caused strife with Amelia’s father, their ideological differences too much to overcome.
“It was a gift,” a man commented behind her.
Amelia turned to a barrel-chested stranger with a gap-toothed smile. He slicked back a tuft of unkempt brown hair, and fleshy belly peeked through the buttons of a wrinkled shirt.
“Philippe’s been offloading assets since the indictment.” He tipped his champagne flute to the painting and studied it up close. “Bold of Rich to flaunt this.”
“You must not know him very well.”
Rich would call it high art. He’d said that about his twelve-foot tall, blinding white canvas with a fist-sized red circle in the middle. “Looks like a Maxi-Pad on a light day,” Amelia had joked, but it’d gone over like a lead balloon, up in flames when it hit the floor.
“I know him well enough. Martin Kranski,” the man said and offered a limp handshake. “You’re Cal’s kid, right?”
“Yeah. Amelia.”
“He’s a good man, your Pop. I’ve known him for years. Burt too.” He pursed his lips and shook his head. “Shame what happened.”
Amelia agreed with a nod and an awkward beat of silence passed between them. Martin seemed pleasant enough but sipped his drink that looked unnatural in his hand—the glass too small, champagne not his drink of choice—and shifted unsteadily on his feet.
“Actually, I’m glad I ran into you,” he said and fumbled in his back pocket. “I was planning to reach out. I’ve got some questions about the work you did for Dauer and Shaw.”
Slotted between his index and middle finger, Martin handed Amelia a business card. A gold seal caught the light and glossy black letters announced his title—FBI Special Agent.
“I understand you were one of Burt’s interns and may know about a sensitive matter he was looking into at the time of his death.”
Warmth drained from Amelia’s cheeks, and she skimmed the room for a friendly face. Anyone would do. She stared at another wallflower a few feet away, an older gentleman in a paisley waistcoat eating a bacon-wrapped scallop.Please.The man glanced at her but wandered off.Fuck.
Amelia cradled her elbows and feigned ignorance. “I did basic research, case law and whatnot. I don’t know about a sensitive matter.”
The best lies were woven with truth. Yes, she did his research, made his coffee, listened to his stories. But there was also that folder and how Burt had somehow become dangerously entangled in the Velasco-Moriarty feud.
Martin narrowed his eyes and drifted closer. His thin lips sunk in a frown. “It’s very important we talk.”
Amelia stumbled into the demon at her back. She gripped the gilded frame to steady herself. Burt had warned her not to tell the police anything but said nothing about the FBI. Amelia didn’t know the conversion rate between the two, but it didn’t matter. She’d promised to keep his secret and would.
“It was nice to meet you,” Amelia said and meant to duck away, but Martin blocked her path.
“I know about the folder. Burt didn’t want your name attached to it, so he told you to leave it alone. He had the Velascos’ war plans, knew who’s pulling the strings from the great beyond, and now you do too. You need to understand the target this puts on your back, the danger you’re in.”
Amelia calmly shook her head with a wooden smile, but the business card crushed in her fist, and her voice wavered.
“I don’t know anything about that.”
“Come by my office on Monday. We need to talk.”
“I’ll be gone by then. Besides, you seem to have what you need.”
