“Welcome to my life,” he says, lifting his glass and downing the contents. “I spend way too much time watching, and waiting, for assholes to become idiots.” He refills his glass and mine. “And unfortunately the smart ones, like Adrian Martina, aren’t easily spooked. They’re smart and calculated, but that makes catching them all the sweeter.”

A message pops up on the computer screen from Nick, as it has many times tonight, and we both lean in closer to read it: Derek just arrived at Martina’s restaurant.

“Houston, we have contact,” Seth murmurs, cutting me a look. “Looks like your brother decided he needs to consult the real boss. Let’s hope this is a prelude to some sort of action at the pharmaceutical branch.”

“Let’s hope it’s not, because that would mean Sub-Zero really is inside our facility.” The house phone for the hotel rings from inside the kitchen and my brow furrows. “That’s odd,” I say, already moving in that direction. “You didn’t order room service, did you?”

“Hell no,” he calls out. “I just ate two pizzas.”

I walk to the wall by the fridge and grab the handset. “Mr. Brandon,” the front desk clerk says. “I have a Lana Smith here to see you.”

“Here? As in, she’s in the hotel?”

“Yes sir. She’s standing right here.” And then she must grab the line because I hear, “Shane. It’s Lana. Or I guess he told you that.”

“How the hell do you know where I live?”

“I know the receptionist at your office and she let it slip at a happy hour months ago.”

And Lana is nothing if not an opportunist. “Why are you here?”

“There are some things going on at BP and I didn’t think I should go to the office to tell you and alert anyone.”

“That’s why they make telephones.”

“I didn’t think that was smart either. Please, can I come upstairs?”

I generally believe most things Lana does are rooted in manipulation, but she works with William, and I need information. “Wait there,” I order, ending the call and turning to find Seth has joined me.

“Problem?” he asks.

“That’s one way to describe her. Lana Smith from BP is downstairs, insisting she has information we need to know. I told her we’d come and get her.”

“On my way,” he says, already on the move, while I round the bar to the kitchen and decide a pot of coffee, not a bottle of booze, is now in order. That, and about ten grains of salt, might get me through another encounter with Lana. The pot has just finished brewing when the door opens, and I forget the coffee, and claim a spot at the end of the island. Seth and Lana enter the kitchen, and as usual, Lana’s dressed to seduce in skintight black jeans with a T-shirt that scoops low to expose her cleavage. She’s a five-alarm fire, burning hot, and ironically, that very quality drew me to her in the past but does nothing but scream trouble to me now.

She approaches the island, but instead of stopping on the other side, she rounds the counter to stand by the sink a few steps from me. “Sorry about dropping in on you,” she says, hugging herself and actually seeming a bit awkward.

“If there’s a problem, I need to know,” I say, offering her cautious encouragement. “What information do you have for us?”

“Us?” she asks, glancing up at Seth and back at me. “You. I’m not telling anyone but you.”

“Anything you can say to me, you can say to Seth.”

“I’m sorry,” she replies. “But I don’t know him and I need to talk to you alone.”

I clench my teeth, but she has access to BP in a high-profile position, and if she knows something about illegal activity, I can’t blame her for being guarded. I eye Seth, giving him a silent command. He nods and without a word, heads for the door.

“All right, Lana,” I say as the door opens and shuts. “We’re alone.”

To my surprise, she wastes no time proving she’s here for a real reason. “A man visits William every Monday and he always has a large envelope in his hand when he enters William’s office, but not when he leaves.”

“He could be a supplier.”

“He could, yes,” she agrees, “but I don’t think he is.”

“And you base this on what?”

“For one thing,” she says, “he’s very secretive and nervous, often going outside to make calls.”

“That could be personal.”

“No. Something isn’t right with him, Shane. Look. I’m smart and observant and this man is my boss. I wouldn’t make an accusation if I wasn’t truly concerned.”

“I need more than you being smart and observant to believe he’s guilty of some unknown misstep.”

“I know.” She reaches into her purse where it hangs at her hip, and removes a piece of paper. “That’s why I brought this.” She steps closer and flattens it on the counter. “I made copies of two versions of the same inventory report, side by side.”

“Two versions?”

“Right,” she confirms. “The left is the one I found on his desk. The right is the one that got uploaded into our database. They don’t match.”

“Maybe the first wasn’t final?” I ask, digging for an answer that doesn’t end with the Martina cartel.