He let his breath out. Fuck Roy Oxford and his pristine public image. The reminder only made Jay’s attempt to secure a confession more imperative.
“Nathan’s connections, all the local detectives he trusts, are waiting nearby.” Tony’s eyes bore into his. “If anything feels off, if you need to abort, say the words Tick Tock. We’ll be there in seconds.”
He nodded, heart thumping against his chest. What would Roy do? Beat him with a baseball bat?
“You have to leave the gun. His guards will pat you down at the turnstiles.”
He pointed at the seat pocket in front of him. “It’s there. If I took it in, I’d blow his fucking head off.” There would’ve been an extraordinary amount of satisfaction in that, but spending the rest of his life in jail wasn’t what Charlee wanted for him.
He swung open the door and jumped onto the sidewalk. As he strode toward the front doors, he wondered if Charlee’s boots had ever touched down where his did, if she’d walked into her prison either time or if she was carried in through a lower level. The thought incensed him, heating his muscles, and fortifying his backbone.
Inside, a glass wall blocked the corridor to the elevator and a security guard rose from the desk at the center. “May I help you?”
“I’m here to see Roy Oxford.”
“Do you have an appointment?”
“Tell him Jay Mayard is here.” He let his resolution ripple through him, bracing his feet, raising his chin.
The guard picked up the phone, pressed a button. “Mr. Oxford…Yes, sir. I’ll send him up.” He swiped a badge on the nearest turnstile. After a pat down and a few passes with a hand held metal detector, he waved Jay through.
Another guard met him on a waiting elevator, swiped a key card, and punched the button for the sixtieth floor. It lurched up, as did Jay’s stomach. He rolled back his shoulders, determined and clear of mind.
The elevator doors opened, and a familiar face waited on the other side. The dark-haired, dark-eyed gunman from New York. Jay smirked. “I see the earlobe still hasn’t grown back.”
The man bared his yellow teeth. “Follow me.”
Through a formal living room and down a long corridor, Jay’s escort halted at the second door to the last on the right and opened it.
“Leave us, Salvador.” The voice from inside was cool, soft, and way too fucking calm.
Jay’s escalating heart rate heated his blood. His muscles went taut. He stretched his fingers at his sides, breathed deeply through his nose, and walked through the door.
Brown leather wallpaper veneered the walls. Mahogany bookshelves wrapped the huge slab of a desk. Behind it, Roy Oxford sat straight and still. “Have a seat.”
“I’d rather stand.” An unnecessary rebellion, but he preferred to look down at Charlee’s abuser.
His black hair was neatly coiffed, smoothed away from his pale face. His shirt buttoned to the collar and pinched with a red tie. Despite his put-together appearance, there was something identifiable in his expression, creasing his eyes and drooping his lips. Seeing his own pain mirrored on Roy’s face would be something to reflect on and savor later.
Roy brushed a nonexistent hair from his face and returned his hand to his lap. “I saw your concert in St. Louis.”
A cringe twitched his shoulders. “You were there?”
“You’re a loyal employee, Mr. Mayard, out there making me money rather than petitioning Human Resources for a bereavement leave.”
Jay forced back the emotion simmering through his chest.
“Your tattoo was a nice touch. Windsor Records has seen a thirty-five percent increase in revenues since the show. I made a shrewd call reinitiating production on your albums.” He tapped a finger on the desk. “She limned that design in her little sketchbook. You must’ve been the musician she was penciling it for.”
She’d drawn it while with Roy? His heart hurtled into his throat, and his hands shook from the ache of it. He shoved them in his jeans pockets. Keep him talking. Get the fucking confession. “I met her the night you killed Noah Winslow. The night you kidnapped her in St. Louis.”
A dim haze passed over Roy’s eyes, and his fingers circled over a thick bundle of papers on his desk. “You don’t fool me, Mr. Mayard.”
Ice raced down his spine. He blanked his face and cocked his head.
“You walk in here with your shoulders back and purpose in your step, but in truth, you’re crawling on your belly, wallowing in your delusions of purpose. It’s only a matter of time before all the what-ifs and should’ve-beens lure you in and smother you.” Roy’s gaze turned inward, and his hand stroked the papers, back and forth.