“Yes. And we expect your cooperation.” His face looked grim again, as it had when she’d first stepped in here. “This trial starts in five days. We’ve had a serious breach, and we can’t afford another one. The opposition already has the advantage.”
“You act like you think the other side had something to do with Ollie.”
He didn’t respond.
“You don’t actually believe that, do you?”
He leaned back in his chair. “Have you met Gavin Quinn?”
“No.”
“He’s one of the city’s top heart surgeons. He’s spent his career saving lives, not ending them.”
She rolled her eyes. “Look, I’m not a juror here. I just dig up the facts and deliver them to you guys.”
“My client is one hundred percent innocent, and I probably don’t have to tell you how rare that is.”
“I’m aware.”
“Gavin Quinn didn’t murder his wife, and I plan to prove that at trial.” Logan’s voice was impassioned, and she felt like she was getting a glimpse of his opening statement. “And you know what else? I think the prospect of him being acquitted has somebody running scared.”
Somebody. In other words, whoever really killed Quinn’s wife? Kira was reading between the lines, but she felt sure that was what he meant.
“You’ve worked on the case,” he said. “What’s your take?”
“My take is that this doctor must be a pretty smooth talker for you to believe your own bullshit.”
Logan’s lip quirked. “Ollie mentioned you were outspoken.”
“My job isn’t to spin things, Mr. Logan. It’s to track down facts. And speaking of, I really need to—”
“I’ll get Bev.” He hit a button on his phone and stood up. “Welcome aboard. And since we’ll be working together, you should call me Brock.”
A woman strode into the room. She had short brown hair and a take-charge look in her eyes.
“This is Beverly,” he said. “She’ll take you by accounting. I’ll call and give them the heads-up.”
Kira exchanged pleasantries with Bev and then followed her through a maze of offices. Kira’s head was spinning. Logan, the investigation, the job offer.
The security team.
She’d deal with that later. Or maybe she wouldn’t. For now, she had to focus on the logistics of her bank account, which, according to the firm’s bespectacled accountant, was going to be getting a wire transfer by close of business today.
After leaving the accounting office, Kira ducked into a restroom to get away from prying eyes as she came up with a plan.
Brock Logan had hired her. He was about to pay her a boatload of money. All she had to do was figure out what Ollie had been working on right before he was killed.
Kira’s chest felt tight. Maybe this was wrong. Too soon.
But Ollie’s client needed her. And she needed the money. Her bank account was running on fumes, and the money Ollie owed her as of yesterday she could probably kiss goodbye.
I want an update by end of today.
Kira took a deep breath and straightened her shoulders. She could do this. She had to. She had to get through the day, the week. She could fall apart later when she had time.
She opened the door a crack and checked the corridor. Empty. She unhooked the helmet from her messenger bag. Holding it at her side as a prop, she strode through the reception area and past the shiny gold elevators to the corridor where the service elevator opened. She tapped the button to summon it and held her breath as she waited.
The elevator was empty, thank goodness, and she jabbed the button for U2, or parking level two. Her stomach plummeted as the car whisked down.
The underground parking garage was dim and humid and smelled of diesel fumes. She went straight to the stairwell, hurried up two flights, and stepped through the door into the blazing sun.
She blinked up, disoriented. Traffic hummed, horns blared, and the scent of hot dogs wafted over from a nearby food truck. She located the bicycle rack and race-walked toward it, relieved when she spotted her bike waiting for her. She knelt beside it and quickly unlocked the chain.
A shadow fell across the pavement.
Kira glanced up. A man towered over her, blocking out the sun.
He folded his arms over his chest. “Where we going?”
CHAPTER FIVE
EXCUSE ME?”
“You’re Kira Vance?”
She stood up, which put her eye-level with his neck. “Who are you?”
“Jeremy Owen. Wolfe Security.”
Kira stepped back to look at him. Shaggy brown hair, tanned skin. He had a square jaw covered with at least a week’s worth of beard.
“I’m head of your security detail,” he said. “We were supposed to meet upstairs at the briefing. Which you skipped.”
His blue eyes looked irritated and bloodshot and together with the scruff made him seem like he was coming off a weekend bender. Except for the gun. He wore jeans and an untucked black T-shirt that did little to conceal the holster at his hip.
“My detail?” she asked.
“That’s right. I’m—”
A jackhammer sounded nearby, drowning him out. Kira waited patiently until the noise stopped.
“Look, Mr. . . .” What had he said?
“Jeremy.”
“Not to be rude, Jeremy, but I don’t have time for this now. I have a police interview, and I’m late to pick up my car.” At least some of that was true, but he looked unmoved. “Let’s reschedule for tonight. Maybe around six? I should be clear by then, and we can go over whatever it is.” She stuffed the chain into her bag and jerked her bike from the rack.
He plucked it out of her hand, holding it by the frame.
“No deal.”
“Excuse me? You want to put that down, please?”
“No.”
“No?”
“Come with me.”
He turned and walked back to the building, carrying her bike like it weighed nothing. He held the door open and waited, clearly expecting her to follow him.
She snatched up her helmet and complied, ducking under his arm into the air-conditioned lobby, where he guided her out of the traffic flow and set down her bike.
“Rescheduling isn’t an option,” he said as she glared up at him. Damn, he was tall. “But I’ll make this quick if you want, and we can get to your interview.”
She crossed her arms.
“Let’s start over.” He held his hand out. “I’m Jeremy Owen, lead security specialist with Wolfe Security.”
It seemed petty not to shake his hand, so she did.
“Kira Vance.”
“Good to meet you.” He rested his hands on his hips and gazed down at her. “I understand you’re on the defense team that was targeted yesterday evening.”
“Yes and no.”
His eyebrows tipped up.
“It’s a long story.” She huffed out a breath. “Look, is this really necessary? I don’t need a bodyguard, and I’m very, very late for something, so can we—”
“If you don’t like the arrangement, take it up with your boss.”
“Brock Logan is not my boss.”
“His law firm, then. They hired us to protect Logan’s team, and I was told you’re on it. Or am I wrong about that?”
She thought of the wire transfer hitting her account right about now. By taking the money, she’d tacitly agreed to all this.
And she thought about the likelihood that Jeremy had driven himself here.