I snorted. It was all so very overly spy-and-intrigue, it seemed ridiculous. But Zay pushed off of the car and headed toward the elevator, pausing until I came up beside him.
‘‘Kevin. How are the wife and kid?’’ Zay asked when we were close enough.
‘‘Driving me to the poorhouse. And yourself?’’
‘‘Things are looking up.’’
Kevin nodded and I felt like I’d just watched a conversation from a movie where the words didn’t really mean what they were saying but were instead some sort of secret code. ‘‘It’s a pleasure to meet you, Ms. Beckstrom,’’ Kevin said. ‘‘Please follow me.’’
He used a remote to open the elevator door, and stepped into the mirrored interior.
Elevator. Groan. I hated elevators, hated small places.
Still, I had manners and knew when to use them. I plastered on a smile and stepped into the fun house of horrors. Zay stepped in after me and I tried not to look at him in the mirrors—reflected at every angle—’cause I couldn’t believe he looked good so many different ways. His dark curls were hidden by the ski cap. The light reflected by so many mirrors made his cheekbones cut a hard edge beneath his eyes, and chiseled shadows along the line of his strong jaw. But even the sweatshirt couldn’t cover the width of his shoulders, nor the long, lean angle of his torso and hip. And while I was trying not to look at him, he was looking right at me, brown eyes soft, wide lips curved just enough that I had the feeling he was enjoying my discomfort.
Kevin, on the other hand, wasn’t my type and wasn’t even what I’d consider handsome. His eyes were too large for his face, his chin too small. He was the sort of guy you would never expect could kill you in an instant. I knew his type. I’d grown up around guys like him.
Since the two of them weren’t saying anything, I kept my mouth shut too, and split my time between trying not to freak out that I was trapped in an elevator, and trying not to look at my reflection, which showed my own dark-haired and tattooed image, trying not to freak out that I was trapped in an elevator.
Instead I stared at my eyes, really looking at what Violet was going to get for a first impression of me.
For one thing, I looked like a woman who needed to learn how to apply her makeup on eyes, cheeks, and lips instead of drawing with kiddie markers down the side of her face and arm. Maybe I should have asked Nola for some cover makeup to blend in the marks the magic had left behind, although I doubted she’d have something that would disguise the marks, now that they’d gone psychedelic on the right and ink black on the left.
Well, I could either be flinchy about Violet seeing me all marked up by magic, or I could hold my chin up and make her think I was happy with how things had turned out so far.
I went for the second option. Chin up. Breathe. The doors would open any second, any second, any second.
And they did. I pulled a rich-bitch-princess move and shoved past Kevin to get out the doors, out where there was air and space and fewer things pressing in so close that I thought I was going to be crushed.
Kevin didn’t need to lead me down the halls—I’d lived here. ‘‘In the great room?’’ I asked over my shoulder.
‘‘Yes,’’ he said. ‘‘It’s to the right.’’
I kept a pretty good pace, letting the panicked race of my heart settle with the rhythm of my stride. With any luck I’d be calm and collected once I finished off the hallway and made it to the room.
The boys behind me chatted about sports, and this time it sounded sincere. I slowed, and stepped through the high-arched doorway into the great room.
The decor had changed since I was last here—new couches, new tables, new rugs and paintings. But some things were the same—the mantel spanning a fireplace that took up nearly half a wall, and, of course, the entire wall of one-way glass that revealed the city and its lights spread out below.
The other thing that had changed was the woman standing in the center of the room. Or more precisely, the girl.
Violet looked young enough to be a classmate of mine. Her red hair was pulled back in a clip, and she had really good cheekbones. She wore plain but fashionable glasses, no jewelry that I could see except a gold band on her left ring finger. And instead of the top-of-the-line designer dresses I was used to seeing my stepmothers in, she wore a pair of black slacks and a baby blue T-shirt.
‘‘Hello, Allie,’’ she said. ‘‘It’s good to meet you.’’
I stood there, frozen, trying to fit her into the idea of being my father’s wife. Good loves, she couldn’t be even a year older than me. I never thought my dad would be such a playboy jerk as to marry someone who could be his own daughter. How had Zayvion managed to leave that little detail out of the wedding rundown he’d given me?
Kevin moved off to one side, where I knew the bar was, and I commended him on his insight. I so needed a drink.
Zay came up behind me. ‘‘Hello, Mrs. Beckstrom,’’ he said.
She smiled briefly. ‘‘Hello, Zayvion. I trust it wasn’t too much trouble for you to come here this evening?’’
‘‘There were a few complications.’’
‘‘I’m sorry to hear that.’’ Violet tipped her head to the side and looked at me as if I were a specimen that was not reacting as she had expected. ‘‘Would you like to sit down?’’
‘‘Thank you, yes,’’ Zayvion said. He took a step forward and purposely bumped his shoulder against my arm, breaking the frozen shock I’d been stuck in.
‘‘Um,’’ I gracefully began. ‘‘Yes. Thanks.’’
I got moving across the marble floor, my tennis shoes squeaking until I hit the thick rug that did a fair job of wall-to-walling the room.
Violet sat in one of the reclining chairs and tucked one leg up beneath her. I slowed by the couch farthest from her, but she spoke up. ‘‘Please come sit closer. I hate yelling across this room.’’
I’d always hated that too. Which was cool. And weird. But since I didn’t feel like yelling either, I settled down on the love seat nearest her.
She studied my face and hands, a frown making only the barest of creases across her smooth forehead. This close, I could see that her youth was legitimate, and not bought off the operating table or maintained by spells.
‘‘What are those marks?’’ she asked.
‘‘Oh, I got into a fight with a tattoo artist.’’
She raised her eyebrows. ‘‘Okay, let’s take care of this right now. I loved your father. I know the age difference between us is a hard thing to deal with, and if my own father had married someone my age, I’d probably be angry too. However, since I am not going to judge you for how you treated him, I expect you to do me the decency of not judging me for how I treated him either.’’
Zay was right. She was a blunt little thing.
‘‘Terrific,’’ I said. ‘‘Then how about you tell me how much of the corporation you get now that he’s dead.’’
She blinked once and held her breath before letting it out. ‘‘About one quarter of it. You have just over half, and the rest of his ex-wives, combined, hold the remaining quarter.’’
Not enough of a stake in it for her to kill my father. Unless she and my father’s other ex-girls were banding together on this.
‘‘I could try to be tactful,’’ I began.
‘‘Don’t bother.’’
Kevin handed me a glass of red wine, and gave Violet a glass of white.
‘‘Did you kill him?’’ I asked.
She shook her head, took a drink of wine. ‘‘I was going to ask you the same thing.’’
‘‘No,’’ I said. ‘‘I’ve been angry with him for a long time, but not enough to kill him.’’
‘‘Teresa said you were furious when you left his office.’’
‘‘Teresa?’’
‘‘His receptionist.’’
‘‘Oh. I was furious. He’d just lied to me about a hit on a little kid I’d Hounded back to him. I told him I was advising the people involved to sue his ass off.’’
Violet smiled. ‘‘He said you were strong-willed. Said you took after Angela.’’
Wow. I hadn’t been compared to my mother in years. And certainly not by someone who spoke her name like maybe they’d met, or maybe they were friends. And what the hells kind of friendship would that be? Violet was old enough to be my sister, not my mother’s crony. I took a gulp of wine.
Okay. I had to admit there was one thing money could buy—really good wine.
‘‘How did . . .’’ I wasn’t sure quite how to bring it up. ‘‘Who found him?’’
‘‘Teresa. She was hysterical and called me first. I placed the call to the police.’’ She took another drink of wine. ‘‘It was horrible.’’ Her voice was much softer, and I could see the lines at the edge of her eyes and the circles beneath them. I got to thinking that even though she looked like a natural redhead, and I expected her to have a very fair complexion, she looked a little gray, as if maybe she really was grieving his death.
That would so not fit with my vision of one of Dad’s wives. Most of the women he’d married wanted the money and the limelight that came from being on Daniel Beckstrom’s arm. But then, why should things turn out how I thought they would? I’d been wrong about lots of things. Zay had said he thought they loved each other. I tried to picture this girl, someone who could maybe have been my friend if she wasn’t my stepmom, next to my polished, powerful, stern father, and just couldn’t make the image work in my head. Another image came unbidden into my mind—the idea of the two of them in bed together.
There were some things that should never be imagined. That was one of them. I took another swig of wine.
‘‘Tell me what you know about his death,’’ Violet said, ‘‘and I’ll fill you in on what you don’t know.’’
Zayvion, who had been standing over by the bar with Kevin, walked over and sat on the couch opposite me, settling against the leather cushions with a beer in his hand. Sweatshirt, blue jeans, and a beer. They all looked good on him.
‘‘I hope you don’t mind.’’ He held up his beer toward Violet. ‘‘It’s been a rough couple of days.’’
‘‘No, that’s fine. I want to hear what you know too, Zayvion.’’
Zay took a drink of beer and gave me a subtle, encouraging nod.
You better be right about her,
I thought. He must have gotten the gist of my sentiment because he raised his eyebrows like I was a recalcitrant child.
‘‘Okay,’’ I said. ‘‘I found out he died when I picked up a paper at a newsstand down on Third Street. I was on my way to get coffee. The last time I saw Dad was the previous afternoon when I accused him of illegally Offloading into the St. John’s side of town.’’
‘‘St. John’s?’’ She sounded surprised. ‘‘How interesting. I’ve seen the records, and the company hasn’t ever used in-city Proxy, and especially not out by St. John’s. That’s over the railroad divide. In the dead zone.’’
‘‘I was there. I Hounded the hit. It was his signature.’’
‘‘Really.’’ She glanced at Zayvion. What I couldn’t figure out was why she was all of a sudden so interested in St. John’s. ‘‘Who did you Hound for?’’