FIRE AND ICE (8 page)

That left Harrington’s website. When she had looked at it during
her research on him, she had discovered that he provided visitors a place to leave comments. She decided to pull up the site and leave a written message. She typed in the address. His website was no longer there. She did a quick search and couldn’t find a trace. The website, like Harrington, was gone.

Okay, now it was getting really weird. She decided to make one last effort to get hold of him before dropping the matter. She had his home address—he’d given it to her during their interview Friday night—and since he didn’t live all that far from her, she decided to walk to his building, knock on his door, and demand some answers.

Harrington’s condominium was much farther than she had estimated. It actually took her forty-five minutes and a twenty-dollar cab ride after her feet started screaming because she had forgotten to change out of her three-inch heels.

Harrington lived in an exclusive neighborhood. His building was sleek and modern with reflective, tinted windows. The doorman wearing an impeccable gray uniform let her inside. A short corridor led to a palatial lobby with marble floors and walls covered in white linen. A thirty-something man with a buzz haircut and an extremely muscular frame was adjusting his tie as he rushed behind the granite counter to wait for her to approach.

He was either ex-military, she thought, or a bodybuilder. He reminded her of Bluto in the Popeye cartoons. His eyes seemed too small for his head, and his head seemed too small for his huge shoulders and arms. Receptionists were supposed to be friendly, but Bluto must not have read the job description. Stone-faced, he stared at her and waited for her to speak. He was neatly dressed in dark pants and a striped shirt. Sophie decided to give him the benefit of the doubt. Perhaps he was part of the building’s security team and was just filling in for the actual receptionist.

The security was impressive. She saw cameras tucked into the crown molding at every corner of the fourteen-foot-high ceiling. Somewhere, maybe through the door behind the reception counter,
there was a security center where computers recorded every person who came into the building.

“Can I help you?” he asked, his voice surprisingly pleasant and at great odds with his frown.

“Yes, thank you. Could you please call William Harrington’s apartment and tell him that Sophie Summerfield would like to speak to him?”

“He isn’t here,” he said, glancing over her shoulder to the hallway leading to the street.

Sophie couldn’t tell if the impatient man just didn’t want to be bothered or if Harrington really wasn’t home.

“Please call just to be certain.”

“He’s not home.” His voice was no longer pleasant.

His scowl didn’t faze her. “Do you know when he’ll be back?”

“No.” He looked toward the entrance again.

Was he worried the doorman would catch him being rude? He didn’t look the sort to worry about people’s impressions.

“Would you like to leave a message?”

“No, I think I’ll wait here until Mr. Harrington returns.”

“That’s out of the question.”

“Why?”

“Mr. Harrington won’t be home for a long time. He packed up and left for Europe. He didn’t say when he would return.”

“Why didn’t you tell me when I first—”

“We guard our tenants’ privacy.”

“Is there a way I could get in touch with Mr. Harrington? Do you happen to have his schedule or know where he’s staying in Europe?”

“No, I don’t. And if I did, I couldn’t give that information to you or anyone else. Like I said, we guard out tenants’ privacy.” Without pausing he added, “Would you like me to show you the way out?”

Sophie got the message. She didn’t answer him but simply turned around and left. She thought about telling the doorman how
rude the man at the desk was, but what could he do? Surely he already knew the man was rude.

Sophie felt she had gone the extra mile. She was now officially finished with William Harrington.

She rummaged through her purse for cash. She had enough to take a cab back to her apartment, but if she spent it, she’d be short for the rest of the week, and she certainly didn’t want to have to borrow later from the “purse fund” she kept hidden in her closet. She decided walking would do her good. Plus, she could window-shop along the way.

Although it wasn’t yet three o’clock when she walked through the doors of her building, Gil was already waiting. Her condo didn’t have quite the security Harrington’s building had, but it was still safe in Sophie’s opinion. There weren’t cameras at every corner, but there was a doorman and good locks and buzzers that worked.

The doorman knew Gil and had let him wait in the lobby. He was reading
The New York Times
when she walked inside.

Finding bugs wasn’t as easy as it looked in the movies. It took time and expertise. Fortunately, Gil was a pro and knew where to look, but he wasn’t complacent. He always checked and rechecked every possible hiding place. Their routine was simple. She turned on the television, plopped down on the sofa, and stayed there until he gave her the all clear. While he was searching, neither of them spoke.

Gil found three devices this time. Two were what he called standard issue, but he had never seen anything like the third device before. Alec would be interested in seeing this one, he told her.

It was past six by the time Gil finished, and Sophie rushed to dress for her date. He was picking her up at seven. She had promised to attend a charity function with Jeffrey Oakley, a friend and her go-with guy when she wasn’t dating anyone and needed an escort. Jeffrey was as sweet and as bland as a marshmallow, and for years he had been carrying a torch for Regan, but now that she was married
to Alec, the torch had been passed to Cordie. He professed his love for Cordie on a regular basis, and Sophie listened sympathetically.

Sophie’s own love life was a barren wasteland, but that was okay with her. She didn’t need the complication of a romance in her life right now.

THE CRANK CALLS STARTED
early Monday morning. Sophie didn’t even have time to put her purse in her cubicle desk drawer before the first call came in.

“Sophie Rose?” A muffled voice hissed her name.

“Sophie Summerfield,” she corrected. “Who is this?”

“You can’t hide from me.”

“Who is this?” she repeated forcefully.

“Your father took my money, and he’s not going to get away with it.”

“Tell it to the police,” she suggested.

She was about to hang up when he said, “I’ve come up with a better idea.”

Don’t ask,
she told herself.
Don’t ask.
“What could that be?”

“I’m going to hurt you. Soon, Sophie. Real soon. And then your daddy will know what it’s like to lose.”

Slamming down the receiver in its cradle, she dropped into her chair. That was a new twist, she thought. Whenever her father was being blamed for something, the callers threatened to get even, and she was supposed to pass the message on to dear old dad. This call had sounded more sinister, and she wasn’t sure what she was going to do about it.

She decided to concentrate on work until her nerves settled. This creepy caller had scared her, and that hadn’t happened in a long time. Work would help her put things in perspective.

The first order of business was William Harrington. She headed to Bitterman’s office to report what had happened. But what could
have been explained in five minutes took fifteen because, once she started, she couldn’t stop. The longer she talked, the angrier she got. Bitterman let her rant about her wasting her time while he enjoyed a frosty Kelly’s Root Beer, then gave her two more ideas to replace the Harrington story.

Bitterman wanted to discuss each one at length, so by the time she got back to her cubicle, there were three messages from the switchboard operator waiting for her. Two were from Regan, and one was from Cordie. All three were marked urgent.

Her friends had left messages on her cell phone as well, but she didn’t get a chance to listen to them because she was summoned to the production room to answer some questions. When she returned to her desk, Bitterman was shouting at her. This time he used her name, and that could mean only one thing: whatever he wanted was bad.

Gary tried to follow her, but Bitterman waved him back, pulled Sophie into his office, and shut the door in Gary’s face.

The television was blaring. He turned the volume down and said, “It just hit the noon news.”

“It?” she questioned.

Nodding to the television, he said, “There’s a press conference going on.”

Sophie knew what he was going to say before the next words were out of his mouth.

“The FBI has just named your father as a person of interest.”

Again.

D
ADDY WAS ON THE LAM AGAIN.
Bobby Rose would never make the FBI’s Most Wanted List. He loved his country; he loved his hometown, Chi cago; and he loved his fellow man. He had never raised a hand against anyone; he didn’t own a firearm, and he didn’t believe violence ever solved a problem. He certainly wasn’t a threat to any law-abiding citizen. He had style and charisma and was always a gentleman. And oh, yes, he was a thief.

As much as the authorities wanted to put him behind bars for various thefts they were convinced he had committed, they had yet to come up with a single shred of proof.

One disgruntled investigator was quoted saying Bobby Rose was nothing but a common criminal. Chicago disagreed. There wasn’t anything common about the man. He did steal, but he had his standards. He only took from those men and women who had accumulated wealth through illegal or immoral means. Bobby knew, before any law enforcement agency, who those men and women were and, more important, where they hid their money. The law
had been outsmarted time and again by Bobby Rose, and they didn’t like it.

To most of the public, he was a modern-day Robin Hood. When times were tough, they needed to believe in him. And times were tough now. Families were finding it harder and harder to stretch the dollar. Prices for necessities were up, and salaries were either frozen or down. Home foreclosures were at an all-time high; outsourcing had become a hot-button topic, and it seemed that every other week another company closed its doors, putting more and more men and women out of work while greedy CEOs pocketed millions.

Fear, frustration, and anger were the staples these days, and the “get-even” stories about Bobby Rose gave them hope.

Sophie stood next to Bitterman with her arms folded across her chest, her stance rigid as she watched the live press conference. She didn’t recognize the man standing in front of the microphones, but that really didn’t matter. Her father’s accusers all looked the same to her. Dressed like senators in their designer suits, their hair as perfect as the knot in their ties, their speech as polished as fool’s gold, their expressions always righteous and indignant—they had to practice in front of a mirror to be perfect—they pounded on the podium with their fists vowing to bring Bobby Rose to justice.

Her father got blamed for everything but the weather. And whenever the finger-pointing started, Sophie received invitations from the Chicago Police Department or the FBI, and sometimes the IRS, to sit down and have a chat about him. These weren’t invitations she could decline. If she didn’t cooperate, she would be dragged out of her office chair and taken into custody for obstructing an investigation.

In other words: same old, same old.

Bitterman awkwardly patted her shoulder, then squeezed past the crates and banged his already bruised elbow as he dropped into his chair.

“Move those papers off that chair and take a seat,” he suggested.

Too anxious to sit, Sophie turned her back on the television,
leaned against the side of the desk, and said, “I don’t want to listen to another pompous speech about how terrible my father is. Please, just tell me what he’s been accused of now.”

Bitterman hit the remote’s mute button and began to absent-mindedly rub the sting out of his elbow while he explained.

“Kelly’s Root Beer. That’s what this is all about.”