Page 58 of Only the Devil
“Let me think about it.”
I force my voice to stay level, calling on every terrible corporate meeting I’ve ever endured. Smile. Nod. Be mature. Play it cool. But my fingers keep finding my rings, twisting them—a nervous habit I should outgrow.
It’s one thing to take a contract job to better understand the inner workings of a criminal scheme. It’s quite another to take on an executive role. There might even be legal ramifications.
His phone hums. I can’t tell if that’s the ringtone he’s chosen or if that’s his vibration setting, but I empty the wine glass as he answers, a little blown away by what he’s offering. None of this is going according to my plan.
“No. Do not.” His clipped, deep tones catch my attention. Whoever he’s talking to is receiving a markedly different version of Phillip Sterling. He places his napkin on the table and slides out of the booth. “I’ll be there in twenty.”
He slides the phone back into his coat pocket and pulls out a wallet—leather so supple it probably had a birth certificate. The Platinum American Express business card he passes me catches the light like a small mirror, heavy and substantial in a way that feels more like a weapon than payment. Even his credit card is designed to intimidate.
“I’m sorry. No rest for the weary. Stay. Enjoy lunch. The company car will be ready to pick you up in a…what do you think…thirty minutes? Hour?”
“I’ll get a cab. Don’t worry about it.”
“Perhaps I can make this up to you with dinner sometime.”
I don’t need to fake a smile or any kind of response at all because he’s striding to the door.
A woman sitting across from us in a similar booth diverts her gaze when I catch her staring—diamonds at her throat flashing in the light. Her companions speak in that particular cadence of people who’ve never had to check their bank balance, words floating on air thick with entitlement and expensive perfume.
Not that there’s any reason for her or anyone else to stare. My boss got called out on an emergency. I suppose I can get his lunch boxed to go. If he doesn’t want it, I can bring it back to the condo and either Jake or I can eat it. We’re at an Italian place and he ordered an antipasto salad.
Of course, he just offered to pay me a twelve-million-dollar annual salary, and I’m thinking about the leftovers from lunch. Maybe I need to readjust my mindset.
Chapter 19
Jake
One thing is absolutely certain—I am not destined for a career in building security. As expected, Thompson let me take the routine rounds, as he seemed entirely content to sit in front of the computer gathering cost estimates for the equipment I outlined. But even with me making the rounds of the block and clocking blind spots, the routine felt like being stuck on guard duty at the world’s most boring checkpoint.
By midafternoon, a couple of hours after Daisy returned from lunch—alone—I jumped at the chance to walk the perimeter. Any excuse to move. And the thing is, that’s with me knowing a murderer was onsite within the last month and might be present today. Hell, I’ve pulled plenty of boring duty before. But at least then it mattered. I’m finding it hard to convince myself this matters.
Sterling’s building is all chrome and glass—the kind of corporate fortress designed to impress, not defend. Walking the perimeter feels like conducting a threat assessment on a house of cards. Every entrance an invitation, every window a sniper’s dream. The lobby’s marble floors echo with the hollow sound of my footsteps, each one a reminder that I’m playing dress-up security instead of doing real work. In Afghanistan, I’d be fortifying the twelve ways to breach this place before my first cup of coffee. Here, I pretend it’s impenetrable and I’m doing a worthy job walking along with a gun in my holster.
When Noah calls, I shoot him a text that I’ll call back, then step outside into the July heat to do just that. He’s still in LA, and I’m curious what he’s found, but I also just want a break because sitting in a room with Thompson messing with his phone has me all kinds of edgy.
“Hola,” I say after he picks up on the first ring. “I’m clear now. What’s up?” I sidestep a pedestrian in shorts and short-sleeved polo shirt, and round the corner to the back of the building and a side street.
“Found a guy who dealt directly with Sterling’s broker, not through Alvin Reed. He’s different than the others.”
“Different how?”
“Smarter. Only invested what he could afford to lose, didn’t buy into the lawsuit.”
“Interesting. Why not?”
“Says the broker was upfront about risks. Also didn’t think they had a chance. Makes me wonder if they’re more careful with certain clients.”
“Why would that be?”
“Not sure. But this guy seemed more financially savvy than the others I’ve spoken with. Only invested what he was willing to lose on a day at the races. And he contacted him by phone.”
“So it might not have been the same sales guy who went door-to-door?”
“Likely. Also, I met with the law firm that Alvin Reed had been speaking with.”
“And?”
