Oh, really? I wasn't quite buying it. This guy had to be an undercover reporter or something. “Help with what?”
“With finding evidence of Mr. Ward's innocence, of course.”
“Why would you think I would know anything about that?”
His brow furrowed. “I've watched Mr. Ward grow increasingly erratic over the past half year. It was clear something was bothering him. Fleeing the country with a young woman is only the culmination of his behavior, and it is not entirely unlikely that he may have taken you into his confidence.”
“I wasn't,” I lied.
His face fell. “But... perhaps, as someone who knew his personal habits, you might have a guess?” I stared at him and he held his hands out, a gesture of vulnerability. “I admire Mr. Ward very much. He has been like a mentor to me. Please, help me?”
My eyes narrowed, but his face remained placid, pleading.
“You say your name is Morris Denton?” I said at last. “And you're the CTO of Malcolm's company?”
He nodded.
“Then I'm going to have to see some photo ID,” I told him, and crossed my arms.
I mean, come on. I'm not fucking stupid.
A flash of something crossed his face, but almost immediately it was eclipsed by a relieved smile. “Of course,” he said. He opened his fine coat and dug into the inside pocket, taking out his wallet. Opening it, he selected a card and handed it to me. I plucked it from his fingers and studied it.
That was a mistake. The first thing people do when they look at a license is study the face. It's right there. Is that the right face? we ask ourselves.
Yes, it was the right face. Dark hair, dark eyes, nondescript, thick brows, glasses. A nice face. The face in front of me. The right face.
My eyes drifted over to the information, and that was when my blood suddenly slowed to a sluggish crawl in my veins.
Right face. But not the right name.
I stared at the license. The name Donald Cardall stared back up at me.
I went numb. My instincts that this man was not who he said he was had been right, but in the wrong direction. But of course it was Don. Of course it was. It wouldn't be just like a movie if it weren't.
A click brought me back to reality and I looked up.
Might have to reevaluate the 'not stupid' part, I thought, staring at the gun Don Cardall now held casually aimed at my heart.
Chapter Sixteen
So there I was on the third floor of Malcolm Ward's house, totally defenseless with a gun trained on me by Malcolm's once bosom brother turned mortal enemy, Don Cardall, which, now that I thought about it, was totally a Mafia name.
Holy shit, I thought. Holy shit, holy shit, holy shit. I have to admit, I was really surprised. This guy was going to kill me. You don't just pull a gun on someone and expect them to stay quiet about it. And Jesus. I hadn't expected a fucking gun. I hadn't expected to get fucking murdered.
I mean, now that I was face to face with him and saw the tiny flame of desperation in his eyes, it made total sense to me. This was a guy who had everything to lose if I somehow managed to spill the beans. I suppose I should have been thankful that he came along to do the job himself—whack me good, just to make sure I didn't talk, see?—but it was kind of hard to feel anything positive when you're about to die.
I had to distract him somehow. Keep him from killing me long enough to formulate a plan. I'd taken self defense classes. They were all useless in this situation, of course, but I knew how to kick at least.
Reaching out he plucked his license from my hand and put it back in his pocket, all the while watching me with a wary air, clearly waiting for me to react. I was still stuck in my deer-in-the-headlights mode. Distract, I told myself. Distract!
So I did what I do best. I told him he was an idiot.
I mean, say what you like about me, but I'm really good at that.
“Why didn't you just send goons to kill me?” I snapped at him, proud that my voice didn't shake. “What kind of shrewd business dude are you if you don't know how to delegate?”
Right away I knew that was a mistake. His lips tightened and his eyes narrowed. “Who would I trust?” he demanded, and now his voice was completely familiar to me, the voice I'd heard over the phone, without any accent at all. “There is no one to trust. This is something I have to do myself, to be absolutely sure it's handled. Now, tell me where Malcolm has hidden the files.”
I struggled to maintain nonchalance. “Beats me.” I shrugged. “They could be anywhere.”
His eyes gleamed. “So there are files.”
Shit. All right. I had a problem with keeping my mouth shut. Maybe I was fucking stupid.
“Where are all of Malcolm's things? What has he done to this house? Why is it empty?” The barrel of the gun wavered slightly as he peered around, clearly unhappy with the stripped interior.