I gripped the handle of my briefcase. “He won’t have the chance. Because by the time he realizes the trap has closed, he’ll already be buried.”
The Ascension Tower was a monument to new money and terrible taste. It rose above the city skyline like a jagged, glass knife, practically screaming its arrogance to the streets below. I parked my old truck between a matte-black G-Wagon and a Porsche, the rusted fenders of my Chevy mocking the polished perfection of the garage.
I walked into the lobby. It was a cathedral of imported Italian marble, brushed steel, and the cloying, expensive scent of white lilies.
A concierge with perfectly coiffed silver hair and a tailored suit stepped into my path, holding up a manicured hand. “Excuse me, sir. Residents and invited guests only.”
I didn’t break stride. I simply reached into my breast pocket and handed him a heavy, embossed business card. It was an old one, bearing the state seal and my title: Chief Investigator, Financial Crimes Unit. The concierge glanced at it, his customer-service smile faltering. He looked at the card, then back up at my face. He swallowed hard. “Mr. Calloway?”
“Tell Mark Ellis his father-in-law is here,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper, but carrying the weight of a sledgehammer.
His hand hovered nervously over the brass telephone on his desk. “I… I will have to call up to the penthouse for authorization—”
“You can call him,” I interrupted, leaning over the counter until we were inches apart, “or you can call the police to arrest me for trespassing. But I am going up those elevators. Which call do you think will cause less of a scene for your residents?”
He quickly picked up the phone, pressed a button, and murmured rapidly into the receiver. A moment later, he nodded to me, gesturing toward a private bank of elevators. “Twenty-eighth floor, sir.”
The elevator ride was silent and fast. My stomach felt like a block of ice. I thought of Anna shivering on that wet cardboard, and then I looked at the gold-plated buttons of the elevator car. The contrast made my jaw ache from clenching it.
The doors slid open with a soft chime. The hallway was hushed, lined with abstract art and recessed lighting. At the very end of the corridor, double mahogany doors stood wide open.
Mark stood in the doorway. He was barefoot, wearing a navy silk robe over expensive slacks. He looked tanned, rested, and aggressively polished. He had a crystal glass of amber liquid in his hand. He was smiling—a thin, condescending smirk, like a man watching an old, crippled dog limp back to the porch to beg for scraps.
