Kit appears to my right side, making his presence known. The doorman, a middle-aged, balding man, nods, walks to a phone at his check-in post, and places a call. Whatever is said to him, he glances at Kane and then cuts his gaze. A moment later, he hangs up and returns.
“Mr. Pocher said to send you up, but only you sir, Mr. Mendez, and Agent Love. The bodyguard will need to stay in the lobby.”
Kane’s lips quirk, but he gives a slight incline of his chin. He eyes Kit and motions him inside with us. In the lobby, our jackets are taken, Kit argues a bit about us going alone, and loses, which results in me and Kane walking to the elevator alone. “I assume he heard I intended to kill him after your crash,” I comment dryly.
Kane glances over at me. “A threat he obviously didn’t take lightly or Kit wouldn’t be in the lobby.”
“He shouldn’t take it lightly,” I say. “He’d be dead if I’d have gotten to him right after you crashed.”
Kane punches the elevator button and the doors open immediately.
Once we’re on the elevator, we don’t speak. Both of us know the cars have recording devices, especially in one that is not only Pocher’s second home, but in a building he owns. The ride is smooth and short and it’s not long before we’re at Pocher’s front door. It opens before we knock, and a big, burly Black man wearing a shoulder holster under his suit greets us. He backs up and points to a center table inside the enormous, tiled foyer with not one but two grand staircases.
“Weapons at the door,” the man states. “Rule of the house.”
“Well, we certainly don’t want to disobey,” I say. “That’s just not our style.”
Kane’s lips quirk and we move forward, silently complying. He pulls a weapon from his ankle holster and lays it on the table. I pull one from my purse and do the same. We both have additional weapons, but there’s no attempt to frisk us. I guess someone thought better of having his team put hands on my body. I did kill the last man Pocher sent my way. The man we all know he sent to rape and kill me.
It’s the wrong thing to think about when I still have another gun on me. But killing Pocher will require more finesse than today allows. And I’m not even sure that’s the right punishment. I think making a rich man poor hurts more than death. It’s a day of good ideas, and once again, I store this one for safekeeping.
The beefy doorman with the gun motions for us to follow him. Our destination is up one of the grand staircases covered in an expensive rug with a massive chandelier above that twinkles with a million lights. It’s beautiful but overdone, and probably worth twenty thousand dollars. Excess is often the sin of a man’s demise. It leads to gluttonous greed.
At the top of the stairs and to our left, we walk a hallway that ends at an open door. The bodyguard motions us forward. Kane steps in front of me, obviously ensuring it’s safe for me to enter. My hero, always trying to protect me when most people want to be protected from me.
Like Pocher.
I follow Kane into the room.
Pocher is sitting in a high-backed chair next to a crackling fireplace with two armed guards at his side. Behind me, I can feel the doorman step behind us. We are, for all practical purposes, rats trapped in a cage. And we came here willingly.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Ted Pocher is in his mid-fifties, with thick salt and pepper hair, aristocratic features, and sharp, intelligent green eyes that watch us for a reaction he won’t find. Neither me nor Kane rattle easily. Pocher’s also not a big man, thus why I assume he’s sitting in a chair, rather than allowing Kane, who is a big man, fit, and well over six feet tall, to tower over him. This way, at least I assume in his mind, it feels as if we are being presented to his throne of one of the richest men on planet earth.
He surprises me by meeting Kane’s stare and opening with a frank statement. “I wasn’t behind your chopper going down. I’m not a man who plays a fool’s game. Nor do I want your people on my doorstep.” His gaze shifts to me. “Nor do you want my people on yours, Special Agent Love.”
Bastard, I think. I want to say something about his history with choppers crashing and killing people, and I think he wants me to say it, too. But the bull in the china shop is not the right strategy to end Pocher. Not when he’s backed by the Society. Not when I want to make sure he dies, not us. But his is coming. Soon.
“I thought you might need a reminder of just how mutually aligned our interests are,” Kane states sharply.
“I do not,” Pocher assures him tightly. “But I do believe your future wife does.”
“The future wife is standing right here,” I snap. “And I’m quite clear on the situation. However, I’m also quite aware that while you may not be guilty of this, you’re guilty as fuck in general where I’m concerned.”
His lips quirk. “I’m sure you didn’t come here to tell me I am guilty as fuck, as you say, Special Agent Love.”
“I’m always up for reminding you of the facts, but ironically, I’m here to save your life.”
He arches a brow. “Really? I’m intrigued. Do tell.” He waves at one of the men. “Get them a drink.”
He doesn’t offer us a seat. I guess he doesn’t want us to stay.
Kane, in turn, waves off the offer for both of us and inclines his chin at me to continue. “I assume you’re aware of the recent murders. One here in the city and two in the Hamptons?” I ask.
“I knew about the Hampton murders. I didn’t know there was another here in the city. What do they have to do with me?”
“Did you know Rip Vaughn?”
“The name doesn’t sound familiar.”
Of course not, I think. Rip was beneath him. Most people are.
“What about Naomi Wells and Emma Wells?”
"Not familiar.”
I pull up the photos of Rip, Ann, Emma, Naomi, and Marilyn on my phone and motion to his guard. “Show him these photos.”
The guard doesn’t move until Pocher lifts a finger in his direction. Then, and only then, does the guard accept my phone and hand it to Pocher. Pocher glances at the photos and then holds the phone out to me directly. He’s living brave.
I close the space between us and take the phone, but like a good little FBI agent, I step back into my spot next to Kane. “Do you know any of them?”
“I don’t,” he states. “But I assume the man is Rip Vaughn. And I still don’t know what this has to do with me. Get to the point, Agent Love.”
“Rip was luring people in to pitch to him and potential investors, and telling them fake investors were interested. They’d lead the people on and those people would do anything they wanted. Then they’d tell them the investor backed out.”
“And I’m one of those investors,” he assumes.
“You are.”
“As am I,” Kane states.
Pocher’s attention turns to Kane. “Did this person take your chopper down?”