Chương 3
Marcus looked toward Elena, then toward the open doors and the dark hall beyond them. “The service elevator is private.”
“And monitored.”
“Not by anyone loyal.”
“No one is loyal at three in the morning. They’re merely tired and underpaid.”
Marcus’s jaw moved.
Elena forced herself not to react. Vivienne was not protecting her. She was protecting the shape of the crime, keeping it within the category of coercion, fraud, and assault rather than allowing Marcus to enlarge it into something harder to survive.
That distinction might be enough.
Marcus released Elena’s dress. She slid back to the floor.
“I need her passwords,” he said.
“You need to know what was sent,” Vivienne replied. “Those aren’t necessarily the same thing.”
He looked down at the broken phone. “Her accounts are connected.”
“Then bring her laptop.”
“It isn’t here.”
“Where is it?”
Elena remained motionless.
Marcus answered for her. “Her office.”
“Downstairs?”
“The Twenty-Ninth Street office.”
Vivienne looked at him with open disbelief. “You dragged her into your bedroom before checking whether she had an automatic backup?”
Marcus’s face hardened.
It was the wrong thing to say, and Vivienne knew it. She turned away before he could respond and walked to the bedside table. She set down her glass beside the white flowers. The base made a soft click against the wood.
Elena watched through the loose screen of her hair.
Vivienne picked up the room telephone. “I’ll ask security to bring the car.”
Marcus crossed to her and pressed the receiver back into its cradle.
“No calls from this room.”
“Then how do you intend to leave?”
“We wait until the staff change.”
“And do what with her until then?”
He did not answer.
Vivienne’s fingers rested on the phone. “She’s pregnant.”
“I’m aware.”
“Are you?”
Elena felt another tightening low in her abdomen. This one lasted longer. Her breath caught halfway in.
Vivienne saw it.
Marcus did not.
“Elena,” Vivienne said.
The use of her name sounded strange. They had met at dinners and previews for four years, yet Vivienne had almost always addressed her as darling, doctor, or our expert, each phrase delivered with a polished intimacy that required no actual affection.
Elena opened her eyes.
“Is the baby moving?”
Marcus turned toward Vivienne. “Do not start pretending to care.”
“I care about a dead woman in your penthouse.”
“She isn’t dying.”
“You’ve been wrong several times tonight.”
Marcus stepped between them. “Go downstairs.”
“No.”
The answer was quiet.
His surprise passed quickly, but not before Elena saw it.
Vivienne picked up her champagne glass. “You wanted me here because you thought she would listen to another woman. She didn’t. You wanted me to watch because you believed that made me responsible. It does not make me responsible for whatever you do next.”
“You arranged the transfer.”
“I arranged a dinner.”
“You created the holding company.”
“At your instruction.”
“You introduced Kessler.”
“Because you said the painting was genuine.”
Marcus laughed once, without humor. “Don’t insult me.”
“I’m trying not to insult myself.”
Their voices remained low. Neither shouted. The restraint made each sentence more dangerous because both were still choosing what not to say.
Elena shifted her hand beneath the edge of the bedspread.
The phone had broken into several pieces, but the case remained near her elbow. Inside it, clipped beneath a false lining, was a slim brass key. It opened the document drawer in her office, where the physical condition photographs and the original fiber sample were stored.
Marcus had taken her handbag downstairs. He had not known about the key.
She moved her thumb along the split edge of the case.
The key slid halfway free.
Marcus turned at the sound.
Elena let her hand go slack.
“What was that?”
“The phone,” Vivienne said. “It’s in pieces. Pieces move.”
He stared at Elena for another moment.
Then the doorbell rang.
Not the bedroom chime. The main penthouse bell, distant but unmistakable.
Marcus and Vivienne both froze.
The bell rang a second time.
“Who is that?” Vivienne asked.
“No one.”
“Someone appears to disagree.”
Marcus moved toward the doorway.
Elena pulled the brass key into her palm.
A man’s voice came faintly through the hall, amplified by the penthouse intercom. “Mr. Vane? Building security.”
Marcus stopped.
Vivienne looked at Elena.
Elena closed her fingers around the key.
The security officer spoke again. “We received a medical alert from this residence.”
Marcus turned slowly.
Elena had forgotten about the watch.
It was no longer on her wrist. Marcus had torn it off downstairs when she tried to call for help. But the device had detected the fall, then the elevated heart rate, then the lack of response. She had dismissed the first emergency prompt by instinct while he was threatening her in the gallery. Perhaps a second alert had gone through. Perhaps the watch was lying beneath a chair downstairs, sending data through the apartment network even now.
Marcus crossed the room and seized Elena’s wrist.
The pale strip of skin where the watch had been was visible beneath the scrapes.
“Where is it?”
She looked at him.
“The watch.”
“I don’t know.”
The bell sounded again.
Vivienne moved toward the doorway. “You have perhaps thirty seconds before they use the master key.”
“They can’t.”
“They can if they believe someone is injured.”
Marcus’s grip tightened around Elena’s wrist.
The security officer’s voice returned, firmer now. “Mr. Vane, please respond.”
Marcus released her and went into the hall.
Vivienne stayed.
For several seconds neither woman spoke. Elena could hear Marcus at the intercom, his tone shifting into the smooth impatience he used with employees.
“Everything is fine. One of my guests dropped a device.”
The officer answered, but the words were indistinct.
Marcus said, “No, that won’t be necessary.”
Vivienne looked toward the hall, then down at Elena.
“Where did it upload?” she asked.
Elena did not answer.
“I’m not asking for him.”
May you like
“I know.”
Vivienne’s face changed slightly. A small crease appeared between her brows. “Do you?”
