see me.” I looked at his clipboard. “You may want to call a few of those and tell them he’ll be running late.”
* * *
Michael Hanover had his own floor and private receptionist, both of which looked extensively reworked to look expensive. The young blonde woman smiled at me while offering Godiva chocolates and freshly brewed coffee or tea as I waited.
Interns rushed back and forth while I lounged on the black leather couch, stretched out and chomping on square after square of mouthwatering dark chocolate. I played with the wrappers, wishing I knew enough origami to turn them into tiny cranes or unicorns. I settled for a large foil ball.
It was after five in the afternoon, the usual quitting time for most of the world, but the floor showed no signs of clearing out. Instead it seemed to get even busier with more frantic interns dashing in and out of rooms with wild silent gestures to each other and nervous, sweaty faces.
“Rebecca.” Michael waved me over, standing in the doorway of his office. He sounded like he was about to order pizza.
Hanover had gone all out on the decorating, unlike Brayton. I felt like I’d stepped onto the bridge of a pirate ship.
The dark wooden panels covering the walls held picture after picture of Hanover with what I assumed to be important people. Shaking hands, cutting ribbons, digging a hole with a golden shovel.
There were no photographs of his family. Bernadette appeared in one or two in the background but there were none of Michael with Brandon catching fish or playing ball.
The oak desk was larger than most small cars, the polished surface covered with papers and folders, fat stone paperweights with fossils embedded in them holding down thick wads of reports. A tiny computer sat on a smaller desk with the screensaver running—a display of old tall ships ranging from the USS Constitution to the more recent ones used for racing.
He gestured to the two chairs in front of the desk while he wandered around to his luxury seat.
I sat down and crossed my legs.
“Rebecca,” Michael started then caught himself. He leaned on the desk, his arms pushing aside file folders and piles of Post-it notes. “Believe me when I say I have nothing to do with this.”
“On the contrary. You have everything to do with this.”
Michael nodded. “True. I am sorry I pulled you into all this. I didn’t foresee this being such a complicated affair.”
“Death usually is.” I pointed at the parade of photographs on the wall. “Is Molly Callendar in any of those? Might want to hide them when the cops come to visit.”
Michael frowned, the tufts of white on his temples twitching. “Why would they be interested in me? I already spoke to Detective Attersley and explained I gave your name as a favor to Brayton. Aside from that I have nothing to add to this whole horrible affair.”
Now it was my turn to lean forward. “You don’t think Brayton is going to keep his mouth shut forever about this deal? That you’re the one who had the affair with Molly, not him?”
He didn’t flinch. No blinking, no emotional change of any kind.
I’d hate to face Michael Hanover across a poker table.
“What makes you say that?” The cold reply chilled my bones.
“I saw the baby.” Time to roll the dice—but not to show all my cards. “He looks a hell of a lot like you. And Bran.”
He dismissed me with a wave of his hand. “All babies look the same. Cute, adorable, blah blah blah. You haven’t told the cops this insane theory, have you?”
I studied his face. So much like Bran’s but with an inner hardness that would shatter diamonds. “And if I have?”
Michael leaned back, touching his fingertips together. “I think you haven’t. Because there’s no proof.” He spread his hands. “Without proof, well...the police tend to nitpick about such things. And so do lawyers.” He tilted his head to one side. “Have you shared your theories with Bran?”
I mentally squirmed.
He studied me
* * *
Michael Hanover had his own floor and private receptionist, both of which looked extensively reworked to look expensive. The young blonde woman smiled at me while offering Godiva chocolates and freshly brewed coffee or tea as I waited.
Interns rushed back and forth while I lounged on the black leather couch, stretched out and chomping on square after square of mouthwatering dark chocolate. I played with the wrappers, wishing I knew enough origami to turn them into tiny cranes or unicorns. I settled for a large foil ball.
It was after five in the afternoon, the usual quitting time for most of the world, but the floor showed no signs of clearing out. Instead it seemed to get even busier with more frantic interns dashing in and out of rooms with wild silent gestures to each other and nervous, sweaty faces.
“Rebecca.” Michael waved me over, standing in the doorway of his office. He sounded like he was about to order pizza.
Hanover had gone all out on the decorating, unlike Brayton. I felt like I’d stepped onto the bridge of a pirate ship.
The dark wooden panels covering the walls held picture after picture of Hanover with what I assumed to be important people. Shaking hands, cutting ribbons, digging a hole with a golden shovel.
There were no photographs of his family. Bernadette appeared in one or two in the background but there were none of Michael with Brandon catching fish or playing ball.
The oak desk was larger than most small cars, the polished surface covered with papers and folders, fat stone paperweights with fossils embedded in them holding down thick wads of reports. A tiny computer sat on a smaller desk with the screensaver running—a display of old tall ships ranging from the USS Constitution to the more recent ones used for racing.
He gestured to the two chairs in front of the desk while he wandered around to his luxury seat.
I sat down and crossed my legs.
“Rebecca,” Michael started then caught himself. He leaned on the desk, his arms pushing aside file folders and piles of Post-it notes. “Believe me when I say I have nothing to do with this.”
“On the contrary. You have everything to do with this.”
Michael nodded. “True. I am sorry I pulled you into all this. I didn’t foresee this being such a complicated affair.”
“Death usually is.” I pointed at the parade of photographs on the wall. “Is Molly Callendar in any of those? Might want to hide them when the cops come to visit.”
Michael frowned, the tufts of white on his temples twitching. “Why would they be interested in me? I already spoke to Detective Attersley and explained I gave your name as a favor to Brayton. Aside from that I have nothing to add to this whole horrible affair.”
Now it was my turn to lean forward. “You don’t think Brayton is going to keep his mouth shut forever about this deal? That you’re the one who had the affair with Molly, not him?”
He didn’t flinch. No blinking, no emotional change of any kind.
I’d hate to face Michael Hanover across a poker table.
“What makes you say that?” The cold reply chilled my bones.
“I saw the baby.” Time to roll the dice—but not to show all my cards. “He looks a hell of a lot like you. And Bran.”
He dismissed me with a wave of his hand. “All babies look the same. Cute, adorable, blah blah blah. You haven’t told the cops this insane theory, have you?”
I studied his face. So much like Bran’s but with an inner hardness that would shatter diamonds. “And if I have?”
Michael leaned back, touching his fingertips together. “I think you haven’t. Because there’s no proof.” He spread his hands. “Without proof, well...the police tend to nitpick about such things. And so do lawyers.” He tilted his head to one side. “Have you shared your theories with Bran?”
I mentally squirmed.
He studied me
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