Chapter 29
Since Kat had to return the Chick Trawler anyway, she and Stacy decided to meet up in the lobby of the Lock-Horne Building. Stacy wore a black turtleneck, sprayed-on blue jeans, and cowboy boots. Her hair cascaded down in ideal just-mussed waves, as if she simply got out of bed, shook her head, and voilà, perfection.
If Kat didn’t love Stacy, she’d hate her so much.
It was near midnight. Two women, one petite and lovely, the other huge and dressed flamboyantly, exited an elevator. Outside of them, the only person in the lobby was a security guard.
“Where should we talk?” Kat asked.
“Follow me.”
Stacy showed her ID to the security guard, who pointed to an elevator alone on the left. The interior was velvet lined with a padded bench. There were no buttons to press. No lights told them what floor they were approaching. Kat looked a question at Stacy. Stacy shrugged.
The elevator stopped—Kat didn’t have a clue on what floor—and they stepped onto an open-space trading floor. Dozens, maybe hundreds, of desks were laid out in neat rows. The lights were out, but the computer screens provided enough illumination to give the whole place a sinister glow.
“What are we doing here?” Kat whispered.
Stacy started down the corridor. “You don’t have to whisper. We’re alone.”
Stacy stopped in front of the door with a keypad. She typed in a code and the door unlocked with an audible click. Kat entered. It was a corner office with a pretty great view up Park Avenue. Stacy flicked on the lights. The office was done in early American Elitism. Rich burgundy leather chairs with gold buttons sat atop a forest-green oriental carpet. Paintings of foxhunts hung on dark wood paneling. The expansive desk was pure oak. A large antique globe rested next to it.
“Someone has serious cash,” Kat said.
“My friend who owns the place.”
A wistful look crossed her face. The media had a short period of speculation about the CEO of Lock-Horne Investments and Securities, but like all stories, it died out when nothing new fed it.
“What really happened to him?” Kat asked.
“He just”—she spread her arms and shrugged—“checked out, I guess.”
“Nervous breakdown?”
A funny smile came to Stacy’s face. “I don’t think so.”
“Then what?”
“I don’t know. His business used to take up six floors. With him gone and all the layoffs, it’s down to four.”
Kat realized she was asking too many questions, but she pushed past that. “You care about him.”
“I do. But it wasn’t meant to be.”
“Why not?”
“He is handsome, rich, charming, romantic, a great lover.”
“I hear a but.”
“But you can’t reach him. No woman can.”
“Yet here you are,” Kat said.
“After he and I were, uh, together, he put my name on the list.”
“The list?”
“It’s complicated. Once a woman is on it, they have access to certain spaces, in case they need time alone or whatever.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Nope.”
“How many women would you guess are on this list?”
“I don’t know,” Stacy said. “But I’d guess there are quite a few.”
“He sounds like a nutjob.”
Stacy shook her head. “There you go again.”
“What?”
“Judging people without knowing them.”
“I don’t do that.”
“Yeah, you do,” Stacy said. “What was your first impression of me?”
Airheaded bimbo, Kat thought. “Well, what was your first impression of me?”
“I thought you were cool and smart,” Stacy replied.
“You were right.”
“Kat?”
“Yes?”
“You’re asking me all these questions because you’re stalling.”
“And you’re answering them all because you’re stalling too.”
“Touché,” Stacy said.
“So where is Jeff?”
“Near as I can tell, Montauk.”
Kat’s heart felt as though it’d been kicked. “On Long Island?”
“Do you know another Montauk?” Then in a softer voice: “You could use a drink.”
Kat shoved the memory away. “I’m fine.”
Stacy moved toward the antique globe and lifted a handle, revealing a crystal decanter and snifters. “Do you drink cognac?”
“Not really.”
“He only drinks the best.”
“I’m not sure I’m comfortable drinking his expensive cognac.”
Another sad smile—Stacy really liked this guy—hit her face. “He would be upset if he knew that we were here and didn’t imbibe.”
“Pour, then.”
Stacy did so. Kat took a sip and managed not to gasp in ecstasy. The cognac was God’s nectar.
“Well?” Stacy asked.
“That’s the closest thing I’ve had to an orgasm in liquid form.”
Stacy laughed. Kat had never considered herself materialistic or someone who reveled in expensive tastes, but between the Macallan 25 and this cognac, tonight was definitely changing her thinking, at least on the alcohol front.
“You okay?” Stacy asked.
“Fine.”
“When I said Montauk—”
“We were there once,” Kat said quickly, “in Amagansett, not Montauk, it was wonderful, I’m over it, move on.”
“Good,” Stacy said. “So here’s the deal. Eighteen years ago, Jeff Raynes leaves New York City and moves to Cincinnati. We know that he got into a brawl at a bar called Longsworth’s.”
“I remember that place. He took me there once. It used to be a firehouse.”
“Wow, great story,” Stacy said.