Will put his head in his hands and prayed for self-immolation.
‘Oh stop it.’ Amanda stood up, indicating that sharing time was over. ‘Wilbur, I have known you for more years than I care to admit, and you have always been a raving idiot in your personal life. Don’t screw things up with Sara. She is too good for you, and you’d better find a way to keep her before she figures that out.’
She grabbed his hand and slid the ring off his finger.
He watched her stomp over to the desk and toss the ring into the trashcan. The metal made a dinging sound, like the hammer hitting the bell at the end of round one. ‘And don’t tell any of this to Faith. She has no idea her uncle is gay.’
The door opened. The receptionist said, ‘Mr Kilpatrick will see you now.’
‘Thank you.’ Amanda waited for Will to stand up and follow her.
Will put his hands on his knees and pushed himself up from the couch. His head was spinning through the slide show of everything Amanda had just told him, but he forced himself to stop the carousel and put it on a shelf. None of what she’d said mattered. Angie wasn’t dead. She was off somewhere, the same place she always went to, and eventually one day his front door would open and he would hear those familiar words.
It’s me, baby. Did you miss me?
A loud rebel yell shocked Will’s attention back to the present. Two young guys in sharp suits high-fived each other as they celebrated something agent-y. The quiet of the lobby was gone. Phones were ringing. Secretaries were murmuring into their headsets. The floating glass stairs were filled with people who looked like they had stepped out of a magazine spread. Overhead, a giant LED sign counted up the number of millions the company had made for their players so far this year.
Except for the staggeringly high number, not much had changed in the four months since Will had been here. The life-sized stickers were still on the walls. Every office door still had a beautiful young woman stationed at a desk outside. There were still photos of agents looking like Tattoo next to Mr O’Rourke as they stood by their star players signing multi-million-dollar contracts.
The surly receptionist handed them over to another blonde, this one a few years older, probably with an MBA from Harvard, because hot blondes who worked in offices like this weren’t just for show anymore.
The new blonde told Amanda, ‘I put your mint tea in the conference room, but Kip wanted to talk to you first.’
Will realized he should’ve asked Amanda what she hoped to accomplish here. It was normal procedure to talk to a building’s owner when a dead body was found on their premises, but this wasn’t Kip Kilpatrick’s first rodeo. There was no way he’d let them interview Marcus Rippy, even off the record.
It was too late to ask Amanda now. The blonde knocked on the office door, then let them in.
Kip Kilpatrick was sitting at a massive glass table in the center of his light-filled corner office. The ceiling soared twenty feet overhead. The dull marble slabs on the floor were broken up with heavy wool rugs shot through with strings of silk. The deep couches and chairs in the seating area had been designed for giants. Kilpatrick was not a giant. His small feet rested on the edge of the table, scuffing the backs of his bespoke leather loafers. He was leaning back in the chair, tossing a basketball into the air with both hands, talking into the Bluetooth earpiece stuck in his ear because he wouldn’t look douchey enough speaking into a regular phone.
Kilpatrick had other clients—a top-seeded tennis player, a soccer player who had helped the US take home the World Cup, but it was clear from his office who the real superstar was. It wasn’t just the regulation NBA Marcus Rippy backboard mounted high on the wall. They might as well have been standing in a Marcus Rippy museum. Kilpatrick had framed jerseys going back to Rippy’s youth league days. Signed basketballs lined the window ledge. Two Rippy bobbleheads sat on opposite corners of his desk. Championship trophies were on a specially designed floating shelf that had a pin light wrapping every inch of gold. There was even a pair of bronzed size-fourteen basketball shoes that Rippy had worn when he helped his college team win the Final Four.
Will had always assumed that Kilpatrick was a failed player. He was not too short, but not tall enough, the kind of guy who puppydogged the team, trying to be friends with the players while they walked all over him. The only difference now was that he at least got paid for it.
‘Heads up,’ Kilpatrick said. He passed the basketball to Will.
Will let the ball hit him in the chest and bounce across the room. The sound echoed in the cold office. They all watched the ball dribble into the corner.
Kilpatrick said, ‘Guess you’re not a player?’
Will said nothing.
‘Have I met you before?’
Will had spent seven months hounding Kilpatrick and his people over the Rippy investigation. There was probably a dartboard in the break room with his face on it. Still, if Kilpatrick was going to pretend they had never met, that was fine with Will.
He said, ‘Drawing a blank.’
‘Me too.’ Kilpatrick bumped the glass table as he stood. The bobbleheads nodded. ‘Ms Wagner. Can’t say that I’m happy to see you again.’
Amanda didn’t tell him that the feeling was mutual. ‘Thank you for moving up our meeting. I’m sure we’d all like to get this straightened out as soon as possible.’
‘Absolutely.’ Kilpatrick opened a small refrigerator packed with bottles of BankShot, an energy drink that tasted like cough syrup. He twisted off the cap. He took a mouthful and swigged it around before swallowing. ‘Tell me, what’s “this” again?’
‘ “This” is a murder investigation that is currently taking place at Marcus Rippy’s nightclub.’ When he didn’t respond, Amanda said, ‘As I told you on the phone, I need information about the development.’
Kilpatrick chugged the drink. Will glanced at Amanda. She was being unusually patient.
‘Ahh.’ Kilpatrick tossed the empty bottle into the trashcan. ‘What I can tell you right now is that I’ve never heard of this Harding guy.’
‘So the name Triangle-O Holdings Limited means nothing to you?’
‘Nope.’ Kilpatrick grabbed the basketball off the floor. ‘Never heard of it.’
Will had no idea where Amanda was going with her question, but for her benefit, he explained to Kilpatrick, ‘The triangle offense was made famous by Michael Jordan’s Chicago Bulls under coach Phil Jackson.’
‘Jordan, huh?’ Kilpatrick smiled as he palmed the basketball. ‘I think I heard of that guy. Like a really old Marcus Rippy.’
Amanda said, ‘Dale Harding was living in a very nice home owned by Triangle-O Holdings.’
Kilpatrick threw the basketball toward the hoop. It hit the backboard and he took the rebound for another shot. ‘Nothin’ but net,’ he said, like he couldn’t simply walk up and touch the bottom of the net with the tips of his fingers.
Amanda said, ‘Triangle-O Holdings is registered in Delaware to a company that is registered in St Martin, then St Lucia, all the way through to a corporation held in Copenhagen.’
Will felt a tickle in his brain. The construction signs outside Rippy’s nightclub had a Danish flag in the logo.
Amanda had obviously noticed the same detail, but earlier and when it could better serve her purpose. ‘I’ve got the state department making an official inquiry into the names of the corporation’s board and shareholders. You could make this a lot easier if you would just tell me.’
‘No idea.’ Kilpatrick tried to spin the basketball on the tip of his finger. ‘Wish I could help you.’
‘You could let us talk to Marcus Rippy.’
He coughed a laugh. ‘Not a chance, lady.’
Will sneaked a glance at Amanda again, wondering what she was up to. She had to know they had lost their one shot at Marcus Rippy.
She asked, ‘What about the name Angie Polaski?’
Kilpatrick finally got the ball to spin. ‘What about it?’
‘Have you ever heard of her?’