Maddox returned an hour later and after I finished fussing over Solomon — were his feet warm? Did the bandage need changing? — and issuing yet another instruction to Delgado to call me if he saw any improvement (or further deterioration), Maddox, Lily and I walked down to the parking lot.
Every corner we rounded, every elevator button we pressed, and every corridor we traversed, I told myself I could turn around anytime and run back to Solomon. Yet, I didn't. Much as I wanted to never leave his side, I was dying to know what was going on. Lily was right; investigating was absolutely necessary. I needed answers badly. I needed a ray of hope even more.
"Call me if you need me for anything," said Lily, hugging me. "Or even if you don't. Or you just want to leave the line open and cry or something."
"I saw Jord and the baby a few days ago," said Maddox as we walked across the parking lot, away from Lily and the hospital. "They're a nice family."
"I'm still amazed that my brother finally got it together and asked my best friend on a date, especially after pretending he wasn't into her for years."
"Apparently realizing you're about to lose everything important is the kick in the pants some people need before they are ready to go after what they really want."
I burst into tears, the fear and frustration rushing out of me in big, painful sobs. I pushed my palms against my eyes and squeezed my eyelids shut. "Hey," said Maddox, enveloping me in a big, warm hug. "Hey, I didn't mean what I said."
"It's not that," I sniffled against his chest, "it just suddenly came out."
"I thought it was my inability to articulate the right words. This is all going to be okay."
"And what if it's not?" I asked. "What if the shooter gets away? Or Solomon dies? The world can never be the same again!"
"We'll work through whatever we need to when we get to it. Just remember and believe me that you won't be alone," he said. His breath rustled my hair and he rubbed my back in a friendly way. I inhaled, getting a heady scent of his aftershave, something so familiar that was instantly grounding.
"Sorry," I mumbled, as he released me and handed me a tissue.
"Is that the first time you've cried?" he asked.
"Yes."
"Don't be sorry. Be angry. Be fricking furious someone did this to you and let that be the force that drives you, at least, for now. Let's get moving," he said. He pointed to his car in the next row. "What's the address of the lawyer?"
"It's a firm downtown," I said. I pulled the envelope containing Solomon's letter from my purse. The lawyer's address was stamped on the outside.
"I know it," he said as he handed it back to me. We got into his car and he leaned over. For a fleeting moment, our eyes were inches apart and I saw the sympathy and sadness in them. Then I blinked and Maddox was folding the seatbelt over me, clicking it into place.
"I thought you were heading out of town again?" I said, remembering our last conversation.
"My plans were delayed. I'm still waiting for the call."
"Do you have to go as soon as you're called?"
"No. I can stay here as long as you need me."
"Won't your boss be mad?"
"Let me worry about that."
"You're still not going to tell me what you're working on, are you?"
Maddox smiled to himself, then he looked over to me. "It's really bugging you, isn't it?"
"So much!"
"I'm working high profile crimes. International stuff, hence the frequent travel and having to be out of town so often."
"What kind of crimes? Murders?"
"No, although they occasionally happen sometimes. I can't tell you much, only that the crimes I'm investigating involve the top tier of society. Art. Jewels. That sort of thing."
"Wow!"
"I know. The thieves are top end too. I gotta tell you, Lexi, after my stint with the FBI, which wasn't what I thought it would be, I'm beginning to enjoy my life."
I frowned. "Aren't you still working for the FBI?"
"Yes, but I only have my desk at the local field office to maintain a cover. I'm rarely there, though if you ever need to find me, they'll make sure I get the message."
"Good to know." I rested my head on the headrest and dabbed my eyes with the tissue. "Who would have guessed that only a few years ago, this would be what we were doing now?"
"Not me," said Maddox. "I had very different ideas back then. I never saw myself leaving the police force. I thought I'd be a detective until the day I died."
"You're still a detective. Just a different kind of one," I pointed out.
"What about you? Did you envisage any of this when you got that job temping at Green Hand Insurance?"
I shook my head and laughed. "No! I had no idea what I wanted in life then. I was pretty aimless."
"Smart and bored. You could have been trouble."
"I was trouble," I recalled.
Maddox glanced to me. "You were never trouble."
"I don't think anyone else agrees with you," I said, joining him when he laughed.
"That's Hemingway, McCarthy and Gort's building," he said, pointing to a tall building only four blocks from the agency.
"Fancy."
"They're a fancy firm. All the city's high rollers use them. They're very rich, very discreet, and virtually, impenetrable."
"How do you mean?"
"Nothing criminal. They're just very protective of their clients."
"I'm here in regard to a client. They already knew about me."
"Doesn't mean they'll tell you anything. Want me to come in with you?"
"Yes, please. An FBI presence might motivate them to loosen their tongues more freely, even if they refuse to talk to me."
We parked a block away and walked over. Pondering what I wanted to say or ask, I hadn't gotten too much further than when, why, where, and how, by the time we walked through the revolving doors and stepped into an expansive, very expensive and luxurious, marble lobby. There was a security and help desk in a semi circle but people walked to and from the bank of elevators unimpeded. I nudged Maddox and we walked toward the elevator. "The sign over there says that Hemingway, McCarthy and Gort occupy floors eleven to fourteen," I said.
Maddox pressed the number eleven and we rose to the floor rather quickly before stepping into a smaller lobby. "Good morning," said the shiny-haired receptionist. "Do you have an appointment?"
"With Thomas Gort," I said.
"And you are?"
"Lexi Graves."
"I don't see your name in Mr. Gort's calendar. Is he expecting you?"
"We spoke earlier about a legal matter," I said. "He should be expecting me."
"Please take a seat," she said, indicating the leather couch against the wall. She tapped her headset and spoke while watching us. Maddox sat down and I joined him. The artwork on the wall opposite us was splashed with different colors, the hues moving from light to dark across the canvas. I felt sure someone could have had something very clever to say about the painting but it didn’t matter to me. I found it attractive and interesting. Fixing my gaze on the walls, a woman in a pencil skirt suit walked into the lobby and approached us.
"I'm Mr. Gort's assistant, Cordelia," she said. Maddox and I both stood up to greet her politely. "Mr. Gort is engaged at the moment but he sent me out to thank you for your visit and said he hopes all is well with the package he issued to you."
"It's very important that I speak with him."
"Mr. Gort isn't taking any new clients at this time."
"Perhaps he'd like to think that over again," said Maddox. He held up his badge and the woman paled. "That way, is it?" he asked, pointing to the corridor she just exited. Taking my hand, he began pulling me along behind him. The assistant followed us, then started knocking on a door and letting herself in before Maddox could.
"I tried to stop them," she said breathlessly.
"Special Agent Maddox," said Maddox, holding his badge up again. "You've met Lexi Graves already."
"It's all right, Cordelia," said Mr. Gort, waving his assistant away. He stood up from his desk and held out his hand, shaking mine first and then Maddox's. "I don't get many visits from the FBI," he said before indicating we should both sit as he returned to his chair. "Was something wrong with the package you received, Miss Graves?"
"No, nothing's wrong with it," I replied, "but I need to know why it was given to me."
Mr. Gort frowned. "As I understood, the letter enclosed with it should have explained everything."
"Yes, it did sort of. I just don't understand why it was written at all."
"I believe that should’ve been explained too."
"Let's not waste our time running in circles," said Maddox. "What can you tell us?"
Mr. Gort leaned back in the big, leather office chair and steepled his fingers together. "Normally, I'd call security but since Mr. Solomon is my client, and I am aware that you are his fiancée, I won't. Mr Solomon spoke of you a number of times, and given his current predicament, I'm inclined to believe the right thing I should do now is to help you. That said, there isn't much I can tell you."
"Whatever you can tell me, please do. Like, when was this letter written? Was it really a year ago like the date indicates?" I asked.
"I don't know for certain, but I do know the package and the instructions for its delivery were lodged with me a little over a year ago."
"Do you know if something significant happened to Solomon at that time?"
"I think you're in a more suitable position to answer that than I am."
I thought hard, but nothing came to mind. Solomon and I had handled a number of cases before that, but I couldn't see any one of them scaring him enough to consider his own mortality, especially not at the hands of someone else.
"Do you handle all of Solomon's affairs?" I asked, hoping to change the direction of the conversation.
"Yes, all of his personal affairs. We handle his business affairs too and we also consult whenever he requires any legal advice."
"Did he need any recently?"
"No."
"Did he mention anyone he might be afraid of?"
"No. He didn't appear to have any concerns at all."
"Is there anything else you can tell us?"
Mr. Gort contemplated me for a moment. "I suggested he consider a pre-nuptial contract before he got married."
"Oh!" I never expected that.
"We advise all our wealthy clients to do so when they marry someone less wealthy," Mr. Gort said matter-of-factly. "Please be assured it is not a personal judgment on you or any other person. Additionally, Mr. Solomon did not make an appointment or ask to have one drawn up. Will there be anything else?"
"Did Solomon leave a letter only for me, or was there one left for anyone else?"
"Yours was the only one in our possession."
"Thank you for your time," I said, standing. Maddox followed me. We shook hands and left, walking out quietly.
"Are you okay?" asked Maddox.
"I don't know how many times people have asked me that."
"I meant, about the pre-nup thing."
"I was surprised but I'm not upset by it. Like he said, Solomon has a lot and I have much less. It's perfectly sensible to protect his assets." Plus, he indicated he was giving me everything in his letter. It was a lot to take in.
"What was in the package?" Maddox asked once we hit the first floor.
"I didn't tell you? A check for a million dollars and a letter telling me that he wanted me looked after if anything happened to him. I thought Mr. Gort might know what Solomon was actually worried about."
"I can think of a bunch of things that would worry him about you; but they don’t involve his own life," said Maddox. "A million dollars?" he added.
"Hold that thought," I said as my phone rang. "Hi, Fletcher," I said. "Do you have any news?"
"I do. I'm sitting with Flaherty and you're on speaker phone," he said. "We found the motorcycle but I’m afraid it's not good news. We found it near the old, unused train tracks, way out past Frederickstown. Unfortunately, someone burned it up."
"Deliberately?"
"Yeah, there's an empty can of gasoline a few yards from the bike. Someone definitely torched it. We think they must’ve had another ride waiting here, and drove the bike there to torch it before they hightailed it outta there."
"I suppose it's too much to hope that there were any cameras around?"
"Not so far, none that we are aware of," said Flaherty, "but there's a junk yard located around the corner. I think I saw a camera there aimed at the road. It's the only route out of the area, so if the camera was actually working, we might be able to see which vehicle left the area after the motorcycle arrived. After we're done here, we'll check that out."
"We're on our way," I said when Maddox nodded. "Fifteen minutes," I added as Maddox flashed his fist three times.
We jogged to the car but instead of continuing past the law office, Maddox took the next left and circled back around, aiming for Frederickstown. He preferred not to drive through the neighborhood – which was a badly thought out addendum to Montgomery. It was designed for commuters but unfortunately lacked any working public transport links to actually get the commuters anywhere. Maddox went around it, putting his foot down to accelerate.
"That must be the junk yard," I said, pointing to a building surrounded by rusty fencing topped with spikes. Cars were stacked high in piles, some partially crushed or burned out. A pair of blocky Rottweilers stood guard at the gates.
"It's run by the Pounder brothers," said Maddox. "A decent duo, but not too smart." We rounded the corner and found ourselves at the end of the road. I pointed to Fletcher's SUV. Maddox pulled in alongside it and we got out. We walked towards the two PIs. Fletcher waved to us and walked over to meet us, but Flaherty remained crouched on the ground, looking in the scrub brush behind a charred and twisted wreck.
"That's all that's left of the motorcycle?" I asked, wondering how they could have possibly identified the twisted chunk of metal as ever being a vehicle.
"They did a good job on it," said Fletcher. "Lucas managed to track the motorcycle's movements through Frederickstown but we lost them because the traffic cams were not operating. Someone has been taking them out on a regular basis and the city decided not to fix them anymore."
"It happened that many times?" Maddox asked.
"Seven times, to be exact. The last time they sent a maintenance guy out, some jerk duct-taped him to the top of the post! Emergency services had to be called in to cut him out and bring him down off the post. No one wants to fix the cameras now. Anyway, Lucas couldn't find any evidence of the motorcycle leaving the area so we took a drive around and that’s when we found this. The plates are still intact so we could identify it. I figured since it was stolen, no one much cared about removing the plates."
"Got something," called Flaherty before he walked over to us, carrying a small piece of leather draped over a pen.
Maddox pulled a pair of gloves from his jacket pocket and slipped them on. He picked it up, turning it over. "It's a wallet. Driver's license registered to Mikey Gibbs plus a debit card and twenty bucks. Where did you find it?"
"Over there in the brush, a couple of feet from the gasoline can."
"Do you hear that?" I asked as the sounds of sirens were getting louder. We all paused, waiting for a squad car, which turned the corner before it came barreling towards us.
"Get rid of the wallet quick!" ordered Maddox. "We don't want to be accused of evidence tampering."
"Take a photo of the driver's license first," I suggested. Maddox and I turned toward the police cars, stepping close together to cover Fletcher and Flaherty.
"No prizes for guessing why you're out here," yelled Garrett, getting out of the first car. "Is that the bike?"
"Looks that way," I told him. "Fletcher and Flaherty stumbled upon it. They called me and we were just about to phone it in."
Garrett harrumphed. "We got a tip an hour ago that a motorcycle was being burned out here."
"We think the license plate is still intact," I said. "Hopefully, that can be used as some evidence."
"I thought I saw something in the bushes over there," said Fletcher. "But I didn't look."
"Really?" said Garrett, shaking his head in disbelief. "I suppose I should thank you good citizens for not stepping all over a crime scene or leaving fingerprints on anything. Lexi, you really shouldn't be here."
"Consider me gone."
"That's not what I meant. I meant, you shouldn't be investigating..."
"I'm not," I said. "I was just curious. We'll get going now."
"Look after my sister," said Garrett as we filed past him, without saying whom he was addressing.
"I tossed it into the bushes right over there, where I found it," said Flaherty when we reached our cars. "But we got a photo and an address. I think maybe we got our shooter."
"Get to the junk yard and confirm it with their camera footage. Maybe this guy used a vehicle registered to him to leave the area, then call Garrett and tip him off," I told him.
"On it."
"I'd like to have a few private words with Mikey Gibbs. Find him!"