Sweat stung her eyes, and she squinted, wishing she’d remembered her sunglasses. She watched the gaps between bumpers, judging time and distance. Slicing between cars, she ignored dirty looks from drivers.
Kira loved her bike. It was fast and durable, and the tires felt grippy. She’d shelled out eleven hundred dollars for it back when she’d been riding three hundred miles a week as a court runner, racing legal documents around town. It was an investment in her first job, and it had more than paid off over the years.
The light ahead turned yellow, and the cars on either side of her surged to catch it. She pumped furiously, getting a burst of adrenaline as she made it through, just like old times. Glancing up, she saw a forest of steel and concrete, and the soaring glass skyscraper she wanted was just up ahead.
Kira shifted her weight, swerving around a van belching black fumes. She kept an eye on parked cars, careful not to get doored. She used the empty fire lane for the last half block and then hopped the curb and zipped through a concrete pocket park dotted with trees that grew through cutouts in the pavement. She glided between a pair of modern sculptures—big bronze arcs that had always reminded her of eagles. As she passed the giant fountain, she savored the cool mist on her skin and coasted to a stop by the wall of glass. Kira hopped off, lashed her bike to a rack with a heavy-duty chain, and rushed inside the building.
The air inside was an arctic blast, and she stood still for a moment as the sweat dried on her skin. Kira’s thighs quivered. Her car had spoiled her, and she’d let herself forget how it felt to ride all day—the sore muscles, the burning eyes, the layer of grime that clung to her skin like plastic wrap. But there was some good, too. The bike made her feel revved and alert. It brought out her competitive edge, which she desperately needed on a day like today.
Kira took off her helmet and shook out her long hair as she assessed the lobby. The building had fifty-nine stories served by eight elevators. Crowds of people waited in front of each one.
The lunch rush. She was later than she’d thought.
Kira attached her helmet to the strap of her bag and made a beeline for the service elevator. She caught it just in time, jumping through the doors to find herself alone with two large men—a maintenance worker and a DHL guy, judging by their uniforms. She didn’t recognize either of them, but her helmet and messenger bag said she was an insider, one of them, sure as hell not a stuffed shirt who worked inside one of the lofty offices with a city view.
“Floor?” DHL asked her.
“Thirty-seven.”
They soared up, and Kira held her stomach, afraid of losing the breakfast she hadn’t eaten. They stopped at thirty for the maintenance guy, and then it was a quick hop to her floor. The doors pinged open.
“Later.” Kira smiled and stepped off. She followed the corridor around to the real elevators used by people in suits and ties.
Across from the elevator bank, shiny brass letters spelled out LOGAN & LOCKE. The firm had the entire floor, and a young receptionist with blond corkscrew curls sat at a glass desk in the waiting room.
Kira stepped over. “Hey, Sydney. I’m here for—”
Sydney gasped. “Oh, my God. What happened to you?”
Kira remembered the cut on her face. And that she probably looked a bit disheveled, having just hopped off her bike.
“Looks worse than it is,” Kira said. She didn’t want to get into the whole story, but realization seemed to come over Sydney’s face, and Kira saw that it was going to be inevitable.
“Were you there last night? At Mr. Logan’s?” Sydney asked.
“Yes.”
“Oh, my God.” She pressed her hand to her chest. “I heard about Ollie. I’m so sorry.”
Kira’s stomach knotted. “Thanks. Listen, I’m—”
“One sec.” Sydney adjusted her headset. “Logan and Locke. How may I direct your call?” She paused. “One moment, please.” Then to Kira, “What were you saying?”
“I’m here for an appointment with Logan.”
“He’s in a meeting, but have a seat, and I’ll let him know you’re here.”
Kira bypassed the modern leather chairs and ducked into the restroom to smooth her hair and put on some lipstick. Once she was presentable again, she crossed the waiting room to the Keurig. She spun the coffee carousel and selected a pod. As the machine hissed and slurped, she noticed the man standing by the doorway watching her.
Tall. Bulky. He looked like a bouncer, only less friendly. He wore a dark suit and tie, and clearly he was some sort of hired muscle, because she noticed the bump of a gun at his hip but didn’t see a badge. Kira dumped sugar into her coffee as the man pulled out his cell phone and answered a call.
“Mr. Logan will be with you soon,” Sydney told her.
Kira walked back to the desk. “So who’s the beefcake?”
Sydney slid a glance at him. “Don’t know.” She leaned closer and lowered her voice. “They showed up an hour ago, right after the police got here. Speaking of.”
A pair of plainclothes detectives crossed the waiting room to the elevator bank. Kira recognized one of them from last night, but neither seemed to notice her. She was good at escaping attention.
Sydney’s phone bleated.
“You can go on back now,” she said. “Last office on the right. You can’t miss it.”
Kira took a long sip of coffee and dropped her cup in a trash can. “Thanks.”
She walked to the back, passing several offices with closed doors before she reached a windowed conference room with people seated around a long black table. Logan’s office was just across the hall, and Sydney was right—you couldn’t miss it. It was a corner office, and a desk sat in front of it, probably for an administrative assistant, who wasn’t there. Logan’s door was open, though. He caught her eye and waved her in.
The attorney was on the phone, and he didn’t get up as she entered. He looked shockingly similar to how he’d looked last night, in a light blue dress shirt with his sleeves rolled up. His left arm was in a sling, which was the only overt evidence of his near-death experience.
Overt evidence. The grim look on his face told Kira he was dealing with some fallout.
She glanced around his office, pretending to admire the decor as she collected details about the man, starting with his wall of diplomas and awards.
Brock Logan was a legend in legal circles. He had an Irish-American father and a Puerto Rican mother, and he’d been raised Catholic, or so she’d heard. She’d also heard he’d inherited his mother’s good looks and his father’s taste for booze.
Logan’s dad had run an auto-repair place in Beaumont that was rumored to be a chop shop. When he wasn’t knocking his kids around, he managed to make decent money. Logan wasn’t interested in his dad’s business, so he left home at eighteen and worked two jobs to put himself through school.
Kira didn’t like everything she knew about Logan, but she couldn’t help but be impressed with what he’d done for himself. Despite his well-heeled clients, he’d come from a working-class background, which meant that at trial, he typically had more in common with the people in the jury box than with the client sitting beside him at the defense table. Logan was fluent in Spanish—which became known during jury selection when he pronounced names correctly—and he had an instinct for people. Jurors found him relatable, which didn’t necessarily make them fall in love with his clients, but it helped.