Diner Knock Out (A Rose Strickland Mystery Book 4) (13 page)

The one I’d spoken to in the locker room last night—Mohawk—hadn’t respected Rob. He’d considered Rob a cheater.

“Did Rob always fight clean?”

“What do you mean?” She threw the soggy napkin on the counter and grabbed a fresh one.

“Did he do anything underhanded? Anything that might be considered cheating?”

“No, of course not.”

“What about Franco?” I asked. “He didn’t care for Rob.”

Her features hardened, her brown eyes growing cold. “You think Franco killed Rob?”

“I’m asking the hard questions. Franco fought with Rob a couple of weeks ago. You claim it was harmless. Maybe it was. Maybe not.”

She hopped off the stool and snatched her bag off the counter. “My brother didn’t kill Rob. If you want suspects, start with Will Carlucci.”

“Why? Rob was the golden goose.”

She flinched at my blunt words. “Because Rob won too often. No one bets against a sure thing.”

“What are you saying? Did Carlucci want Rob to throw a fight?”

“He mentioned it a few times. Rob refused. He needed every win. He was so close to that one hundred mark, he could taste it. He’d have been free of Carlucci, free of the club. And a quarter of a million dollars richer. No one else wanted to hurt Rob. Especially not Franco.”

My heart hurt for her as she walked out the door.

When I arrived at the Thomas Detective Agency, Andre stood in the doorway between the inner and outer offices. Seeing that I had Pete in tow, the edges of Andre’s lips curved down even further. “Miss Strickland, you’re late. And you’ve brought a friend.”

“Pete…” I didn’t know Pete’s last name. “Is my temporary bodyguard. Pete, this is my soon-to-be former boss, Mr. Thomas.”

“In my office. Now.” Andre did an about-face and retreated.

I pointed to a chair in the corner. “Make yourself at home, Pete.”

“Ward. Pete Ward.”

I made a little gun with my thumb and forefinger. “Got it.” Then I scampered into Andre’s office and shut the door. “I went to the fight club last night and found out oodles of info.”

He sat behind his desk, head forward, eyes angled, watching me. “Do tell. And sit. The way you’re bouncing around from foot to foot is making me nervous.”

I fell into the closest guest chair. “The club. It’s run by four men. Carlucci, Wyatt Sanders, whom I plan to visit today, some blond man whose name I still don’t know, and my boyfriend, Sullivan.”

His brows slid up his forehead at the news. “Go on.”

I explained the intricacies of the club, the money involved, the whole “Rob was a big fat cheater” comment, and my conversation with Blondie.

“Your boyfriend thinks Rob was killed too?”

“Yep. Sofia stopped by the diner this afternoon—
because you told her where I work
. That’s why I’m late. She’s beside herself with grief and still wants our help.”

“You mean
your
help.”

“Our help. I’m going to a fancy cocktail party tonight. Carlucci might show up. Either way, I’ll get chummy with his wife and daughter. Find out what they know about Rob.”

“These theories of yours are tissue-thin, Miss Strickland. How much more time should we devote to this case? The one that’s
not
paying the rent?”

He had a fair point. I’d taken this on my own without charging Kai a dime. Andre was losing money at this point. “I can do it alone. In my spare time. You don’t have to tag along.”

“On the contrary. You’ve used my name, my reputation. If we don’t turn up new evidence by Wednesday, it’s over. Understood?”

I made a noncommittal noise and stood. “I say we check out Wyatt Sanders first, since it’s so late in the afternoon. Tyler Godfrey afterward, and then I really need to get a new dress for the party. My mother will go apoplectic if I don’t show up wearing something appropriate.”

“Shopping?” He visibly paled. “Surely you don’t expect me to come with you?”

I stared at him like he had three heads. “Um, no. Just keeping you informed of my schedule. Calm down, no one’s taking your man card. Not today, anyway.”

Before we left, I did a quick data search on Tyler Godfrey, paying close attention to his driver’s license photo. At six foot four, he was a big guy. Not as bulky as Rob, but they weighed the same. With a strong jaw and tawny mane, the bent nose leant an edginess to his surfer boy good looks. According to the address on his license, he had an apartment in White Oak Towers, a très chic complex on the north side of town. It was bought two years ago by NorthStar Inc., Sullivan’s shell company, and leased to Tyler on a month-to-month basis. That nailed it. Tyler was in Sullivan’s stable. Fan-freaking-tastic.

Chapter 13

I jotted down his address and left the office with Andre. I solemnly promised Pete that if he followed in the SUV, I wouldn’t ditch him.

In the car, Andre flipped the air conditioner to full blast, and as he drove, I dug out my notebook. “What’s our plan with Sanders? Are we going in all nice and polite or are we going to rattle his cage?”

“What would you suggest?” he asked.

“There’s every chance he saw Sullivan drag me out of the fight club last night, so the jig is up on that score. I usually start off nice, unless my subject is a dick. That’s when the gloves come off. We could do the old good cop, bad cop.”

“And which would I be?” I heard the amusement in Andre’s voice and tried to snatch a glance without him knowing. But other than a twitch of his lips, he looked as stoic as he always did.

“I think you’d make a better bad cop.”

“Mmm. Let’s try it your way, Miss Strickland. Start with politeness and see where it gets us.” He hooked a left on the highway and drove north.

Huntingford encompassed one hundred and three square miles of mostly suburban terrain. Head southwest, and you started drifting into industrial territory. An urban vibe took you from the southern tip of Huntingford into Glendale. And northward, toward the county line, long stretches of backcountry belonged to private developers.

The latter was where we found Wyatt Sanders’ office. A cantilevered glass structure of transparent rectangular boxes jutting out in peculiar directions. Shaded by a forest of white birch trees, it seemed far too modern for its setting.

The parking lot was a mulched area off to the side. I stood next to Andre’s car and glanced up at the building—actually,
into
the building would be more accurate. I had a clear view of every office, the free-floating glass staircase, and in the lowest box on the right, six people gathered for a meeting.

When Pete started to climb out of the SUV, I held him off. “No need to follow us in. You’ll be able to see everything. I’ll call if we get into trouble.”

I watched him mentally wrestle with his decision. While he hesitated, Andre and I walked the fern-edged dirt path to the front entrance. Two enormous double glass doors opened automatically, and we stepped into a sort of holding pen. Another set of doors stood before us. Closed with no handles.

“Hello,” said a computerized female voice, sounding friendly and warm—almost human. Andre might have met his perfect match. “Welcome to Sanders and Associates. Please state your name and the time of your appointment.”

Andre didn’t say anything, so I jumped in. “I’m Rose Strickland. I’d like to see Wyatt Sanders. Please.”

“I’m sorry”—pause—“Rose Strick-land, you don’t have an appointment. Please make an appointment and have a nice day.”

I gazed up at Andre. “Any suggestions?”

His eyes drifted to the ceiling, like the computer was hiding up there. “I’m Andre Thomas, formerly with the Huntingford Police Department. I want to see Wyatt Sanders. Now.” So commanding and forceful.

I nudged his arm and nodded. “Way to tell her.”

“An-dre Thom-as,” the voice repeated. “You do not have an appointment. Please make an appointment and have a nice day.”

Oh, for God’s sake. I pushed on the outer doors, leaving smudgy handprints. When they didn’t budge, I waited for them to whoosh open on their own, then tramped outside, through the thick mulch, all the way to the ice cube boardroom. Pounding my fist on the glass, I waited as all six faces turned in my direction. The four men and two women, all wearing shades of white or ivory, simply stared.

Let me in,
I mouthed, and hit the window a couple more times.

Finally, a woman stood and left the room. I hoped she was meeting us at the main entrance. Fingers crossed.

Andre stood near the front door and watched, his full lips pressed together in bemusement.

“What?” I asked. “Did you have a better idea?”

The computer started harassing us again when the woman from the boardroom hit a button on the wall and the forbidden inner doors glided open.

“Can I help you?” Her voice wasn’t as modulated as the computer’s, but I liked it better. A brunette with an asymmetrical bob, her dark hair was a nice foil to the blinding white sleeveless dress.

I hopped across the threshold. “We’re here to see the wizard. We’ve come such a long way.”

Andre sighed audibly through his nose and flashed his PI license. “We’re here to speak to Mr. Sanders. We have a few questions pertaining to the death of Robert Huggins.”

She barely glanced at his ID. His authoritative voice and the word “death” seemed to do the trick. “I’ll see if he’s available. Please come in.”

We trailed after her, and I was all agog, my head twisting left, then right, as I took in the view from the front of the building to the back, where a small courtyard had been built into the landscape. Then I glanced upward. The cockeyed architecture made me a little dizzy, all those irregular angles and corners. At the top, a canopy of green leaves sheltered the transparent roof, letting in tiny mosaics of blue sky. It was a futuristic tree house.

When I lowered my gaze, I realized I’d fallen behind and hustled to catch up on the floating staircase in the center of the office. Curving upward like a conch shell, it narrowed the higher we climbed.

The woman wound her way to the top, where the stairs were only wide enough for one person, and led us across the blond hardwood floor to yet another set of double doors. These were made of hammered steel. So the boss liked a little privacy, but the employees didn’t get the same treatment. Figured.

She pointed to a pair of Plexiglas ergonomic chairs. I tried one out. It was as uncomfortable as it was aesthetically unappealing. “I’ll see if Mr. Sanders is free.”

She grabbed one of the enormous abstract handles. Bracing herself, she tugged the door open. No automatic whoosh up here. Interesting. In my guesstimation, Wyatt Sanders was a total alpha asshole—had to be if he was running with the other Horsemen. Plus, this building was all about ego, not eco.

A moment later, out stepped the man in question. When Andre stood, I did too. “Mr. Sanders, I’m Andre Thomas.” The two men shook hands. “Sorry to drop by without an appointment, but we need to speak to you about Robert Huggins.”

I didn’t get a close look at Wyatt Sanders the night before. Lighting on the dais had been dim. Now that I could study him up close, I put Sanders somewhere in his fifties. He was ruggedly good looking with raw-boned features and a tall, lanky, wide-shouldered frame. Though he’d have looked powerful in a suit, he’d taken his wardrobe in the opposite direction: an ancient, faded denim shirt rolled up at the sleeves, revealing tanned forearms. He paired it with frayed jeans and worn work boots. His white wavy hair was cut ruthlessly short. But those arctic blue eyes were his most arresting feature.

Those wolfish eyes saw everything. They raked over me and dismissed me in a millisecond. At his cold, impersonal appraisal, goosebumps broke out across my arms. He didn’t seem to recognize me. Either he hadn’t seen me at the fight club or he had the best poker face I’d ever encountered.

I waited for Andre to introduce me, but he simply gestured with his left hand. “My assistant.” I didn’t even rank a name.

“Mr. Thomas, step into my office.” Wyatt Sanders had a sandpaper voice, hoarse and rough.

Andre barely glanced in my direction. “Wait here.” Together the two men disappeared behind the massive doors. What was he doing? That son of a bitch was trying to take over
my
investigation.

The brunette gave me a sympathetic smile. “It’s like you’re invisible. Mr. Sanders does that to me all the time.”

Then Andre’s strange behavior made sense. The chance that we’d get anything out of Sanders himself was slim. Out here, I could pump the secretary for info and maybe she’d give up some dirt. What had my mother said? Befriend a man’s wife and children and you get insight into the man himself. That went double for secretaries.

I rolled my eyes. “He forgets I exist unless he’s ordering me around.”

She nodded. “Let me show you the building. They may be in there for a while.”

Inside, I bopped around like my nephew after too much sugar. Outwardly—I stayed as calm as a hot summer day. “That’d be great. It’s a beautiful space.”

She led me down the stairs and stopped briefly in each room. “What’s this about a death?” she whispered.

“A man was found dead near Oka Lake. Rob Huggins. Have you heard the name?”

She shook her head. “No. Doesn’t sound familiar.” And in a louder voice said, “This is our research department.” Three men in white shirts and pale khaki pants glanced up, then returned to their work.

She led me toward a box that angled away from the building. “The data department.”

Two women barely smiled. They too were dressed in off-white. Was the color theme some kind of mandated uniform?

I followed her down another level. “I don’t think I caught your name.”

“Sorry, I’m Alice.”

“Rose.”

On the main floor she pointed out various departments. Finally, we reached the end of the tour. “Let’s get you a drink.” She walked into the break room, which was populated with more funky clear chairs and windows for walls.

“I guess you don’t get much privacy with all this glass. Is it like working in a cage?”

She blinked at me. “Mr. Wyatt designed every inch of this building. It’s a testament to his genius.” She rattled off the words by rote, sounding like a cult member, not a secretary.

She reached into the refrigerator and pulled out a bottle of water, handing it to me.

“SanderSprings Birch Sap water. It’s good for everything from gout to cellulite to insomnia.”

Birch sap? What fresh hell was this? I unscrewed the lid and took a small swig.
Gah!
Disgusting. It left a bitter taste in my mouth that wouldn’t go away. I forced a smile. “Mmmm-
mmmm
. What is it, exactly?”

“Every bottle contains ten milliliters of fermented birch sap, collected from the birch trees surrounding the building.” She gestured toward the window. “It’s the latest in water trends. Here at Sanders and Associates, we feel it’s the most beneficial water you can drink.” Then Alice glanced around to see if anyone was listening, but no one stood within earshot. She stepped closer to me, and when she spoke, her lips didn’t move. “He’s always watching, always listening. Ask to use the restroom.”

Okay, then. This was all starting to get very weird.

“It’s just delicious.” I continued to flash my teeth, hoping it didn’t appear too much like a grimace. “Thank you. Hey, can you show me the restroom?”

Her smile was as artificial as the voice that greeted us at the door. “Of course. Right this way.” She clip-clopped into the hall and led me through a door that wound downward to the basement level.

The women’s restroom was blindingly white—counters, floors, walls. Upstairs, it was like walking around in an ice cube. This would be like taking a tinkle inside a cloud.

Alice checked under all ten stalls. When she was sure the coast was clear, she leaned against the counter and exhaled, exploding air out of her lungs. “Oh my God, you don’t know how exhausting it is to censor yourself all day.”

I propped my hip against the wall. “He’s got the whole place rigged?”

“Yes. Cameras and audio. People have been fired for the smallest infractions. One man was let go when he took home a used pad of paper. And it wasn’t even decent paper—it was that unbleached recycled pulp stuff. When an accountant privately criticized Mr. Sanders, she was cut loose the next day.”

I set the bottle on the counter. “What’s the deal with the birch sap? I’ve never heard of it.”

“It’s another one of his obsessive”—she peeked toward the closed door as she whispered—“all-natural ideas. He’s got a ton of them. What’s the scoop with this dead guy, anyway? What was his name, Robert something?”

“Huggins.” Andre and I should have come up with a backstory. Poor planning on our part. I had no idea what he was telling Wyatt upstairs. I didn’t want our versions to clash, so I kept it vague. “Mr. Thomas has been hired to sort out Mr. Huggins’ financial matters.”

Her brows furrowed. “What does that have to do with Mr. Sanders?”

I shrugged. “Mr. Thomas
never
gives me details. I just follow along like a good soldier. You know how it is.”

“Huh, I sure do.”

I crossed my legs, settling in for a nice long chat. “I heard Mr. Sanders is working on a fabulous spa. Surely you’ll get a discount for treatments. That’s something, right?”

“Yeah, if it ever gets built. He keeps running into obstacles. It should have been completed almost a year ago, but we’re still in the ground-breaking stages.”

How very interesting. “So what’s the holdup?”

“Wrong shipments, workers not showing up on time. When contracts get held up, the work can’t proceed. Sanders has been bugging about it, and it’s made him more of an ass than usual.”

That tingle in my bones started to hum. Was someone sabotaging Wyatt Sanders or was he in over his head on this project? “This building is pretty impressive.”

“Took over three years to complete. But four senior staff members have quit in the past few months, right after the move. No explanation, no notice. Ladies’ room talk says they didn’t agree with Mr. Sanders sinking so much money into the birch sap water facility. I think they just didn’t like the new building.”

I glanced around, my eyes sensitive from the lights bouncing off the tile. “Go figure.”

“I hate it here too. It’s not just the building, though. It’s Wyatt Sanders and his 24/7 surveillance.” Sounded like two other Horsemen I knew. Carlucci and Sullivan were equally as paranoid. It was almost like the fight club honchos didn’t trust each other. No honor among criminals?