Chapter 3 - The Penthouse With Two Locked Doors|
By the time they reached the private elevator, Genevieve had called her apartment fourteen times without receiving an answer.
The building's security desk had also stopped responding.
Her neighbor, Mrs. Donnelly, an elderly widow who watered her plants during undercover assignments, finally answered on the fifteenth call.
“Genevieve, sweetheart, there were men at your door.”
Genevieve closed her eyes.
“When?”
“About twenty minutes ago.”
“Did they hurt you?”
“No, but they told me they were federal agents, and one of them had a photograph of you.”
“What did you tell them?”
“That you moved to California.”
Genevieve almost laughed.
“Mrs. Donnelly, I've lived across the hall from you for four years.”
“I know, dear, but those men looked like they needed to hear something disappointing.”
Genevieve felt tears burning behind her eyes.
“Please lock your door and don't open it for anyone.”
“I already called the police.”
“Good.”
“And Genevieve?”
“Yes?”
“Whoever those men are, don't let them make you afraid to come home forever.”
The call ended.
Genevieve stood motionless inside the elevator.
Mateo had heard enough to understand.
“She's brave,” he said.
“She thinks everyone deserves a second chance.”
“Even me?”
“Don't push your luck.”
The elevator doors opened into an enormous penthouse overlooking the East River.
Floor-to-ceiling windows framed the illuminated Manhattan skyline.
The living room contained dark leather furniture, shelves of old books, and a piano beside a marble fireplace.
It was beautiful.
Genevieve hated that she noticed.
A woman in a charcoal pantsuit approached them.
She appeared to be in her early forties, with sharp eyes and the exhausted expression of someone accustomed to solving impossible problems.
“Penelope Park,” she introduced herself.
“Attorney for Mr. Viscanti and several of his companies.”
Genevieve folded her arms.
“Then you know I'm a federal investigator.”
Penelope glanced toward Mateo.
“Unfortunately, he mentioned that.”
“I also assume you've already contacted someone to make this entire situation disappear.”
“No,” Penelope replied.
“I've contacted a criminal defense colleague to prepare for the possibility that my client does something extraordinarily foolish.”
Mateo removed his jacket.
“She's charming once you get to know her.”
“I'm billing you for that sentence,” Penelope answered.
Genevieve looked between them.
The easy familiarity was unexpected.
So was Penelope's next statement.
“Ms. Sinclair, you're not being detained here.”
She placed a phone, a set of keys, and a handwritten list of emergency numbers on the table.
“You may leave whenever you choose, although I strongly recommend arranging police protection first.”
Genevieve examined the phone.
“Is it monitored?”
“Not by us.”
“And the keys?”
“Your bedroom and the private stairwell.”
Mateo nodded toward the hallway.
“My room is at the opposite end.”
“Good.”
“Try not to sound disappointed.”
“Try not to get arrested before breakfast.”
Penelope cleared her throat.
“Can the two of you postpone flirting until we've determined who is trying to murder you?”
Genevieve opened her mouth to object.
Mateo looked entirely too amused.
Penelope raised a hand.
“Never mind.”
They gathered around the dining table.
Genevieve removed her right earring, carefully opened its hidden compartment, and placed the tiny memory card on a clean linen napkin.
Mateo watched without speaking.
Penelope's expression sharpened.
“What is that?”
“The reason Arthur Pendleton wanted me taken alive.”
Genevieve explained how Mara Chen had approached her after discovering fraudulent transactions inside the Aster Foundation.
The charity claimed to ship emergency medical supplies to hospitals and disaster relief organizations.
Its annual fundraising campaigns featured photographs of sick children, grateful families, and smiling volunteers.
But millions of dollars had been transferred to overseas companies that had never delivered a single shipment.
Some invoices carried the names of legitimate Viscanti shipping vessels.
Others referenced warehouses that had burned down or been demolished years earlier.
“Mara said the files contain proof,” Genevieve explained.
“But they're encrypted, and she was supposed to provide the authentication details tomorrow.”
Penelope leaned forward.
“Do you know where she is?”
“No.”
“Does Kesler know she contacted you?”
“He knows I had a confidential source, but not her identity.”
Mateo's gaze darkened.
“Arthur may have figured it out.”
Genevieve looked at him.
“Why?”
“Because Mara Chen submitted her resignation at nine tonight.”
“That doesn't mean anything.”
“She withdrew eight hundred dollars from her bank account, left her phone at home, and vanished before the gala began.”
Genevieve stared at him.
“How do you know that?”
“My security people were tracking suspicious movements around the foundation.”
“Your security people were watching my witness?”
“They were watching Arthur's accountant.”
“That's not better.”
“No,” Mateo admitted.
“It isn't.”
The honesty unsettled her.
Penelope connected the memory card to an isolated laptop.
Several encrypted folders appeared.
The file names were ordinary enough to resemble accounting archives.
One folder, however, caught Genevieve's attention.
HARBOR_47_2014.
Her father's death year.
Her father's warehouse.
Genevieve reached across the table.
“Open that.”
Penelope attempted to access it.
A password field appeared.
Then a warning.
SECONDARY AUTHENTICATION REQUIRED.
“It's protected by another credential,” Penelope said.
Genevieve stared at the screen.
Mara had told her there would be a second part.
She had never explained what it was.
Mateo moved closer.
“What's in that folder?”
“I don't know.”
“But you suspect.”
Genevieve swallowed.
“My father was investigating fraudulent medical shipments before he died.”
Mateo became very still.
“Martin Sinclair worked for the Port Authority's safety division.”
“He was assigned to review hazardous cargo declarations.”
“Did he ever mention the Aster Foundation?”
“Only once.”
She remembered sitting at the kitchen table at seventeen, watching her father fold a newspaper article about a charity fundraiser.
He had looked tired.
Angry.
Frightened in a way she had never seen before.
“He told me that people who steal money are dangerous,” Genevieve said.
“But people who steal from the desperate are something worse.”
Mateo said nothing.
For a moment, the only sound came from the rain striking the windows.
Then Penelope's phone rang.
She answered, listened, and slowly stood.
“What happened?” Mateo asked.
Penelope's face had gone pale.
“The security office at the Baccarat Hotel just contacted me.”
Genevieve leaned forward.
“Why?”
“An employee found something inside the service corridor after the police finished their initial search.”
“What?”
Penelope swallowed.
“A catering supervisor's identification badge.”
Genevieve recognized the name before Penelope finished speaking.
“Luis Navarro.”
“Yes.”
Genevieve had worked beside Luis for three weeks during preparations for the gala.
He had been the one who showed her how the service elevators operated.
He had also helped her reach the foundation's private administrative office.
“Where is he?” she demanded.
Penelope lowered the phone.
“They found blood beside his badge.”
Mateo reached for his jacket.
Genevieve immediately stood.
“I'm coming.”
“No.”
She turned toward him.
“Excuse me?”
“Arthur is waiting for someone to chase that clue.”
“Luis may be dying.”
“And walking into another trap won't save him.”
Genevieve stepped closer.
“You don't get to decide what risks I take.”
Mateo held her gaze.
“No,” he said quietly.
“But I can ask you not to mistake courage for a suicide note.”
The words stopped her.
For one second, she saw something behind his practiced composure.
Fear.
Not for himself.
For her.
Before she could respond, every light in the penthouse flickered.
A muted alarm sounded from the security panel.
Gabriel's voice came through Mateo's phone.
“Boss, someone just disabled the cameras on the service floor.”
Penelope hurried toward the windows.
Genevieve snatched up the memory card.
May you like
The lights went out completely.
And from somewhere beyond the hallway came the unmistakable sound of a door being forced open.
