I don’t cry, and that surprises me. Instead, I get up off the floor, take a deep breath, and go looking for Fletcher Novak.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
I head to the elevator and take it down to fifteen. The walk down the hallway to his suite—his free suite that my hotel provides for him—feels longer than it should considering it’s only thirty feet. But by the time I pound on the door, my heart is racing, my armpits are sweaty, and my mouth is dry.
No answer. I press my ear against the door, almost afraid I’ll hear the moans of women in the throes of passion. But there’s nothing but silence from the other side.
He’s not here.
Well, he’s here, I bet. Somewhere in this hotel. And I’m gonna find him.
I go back downstairs and peek into the restaurant, but Cole and that blonde woman are gone. Thank you, God, for small favors. I cannot see him yet. It’s not his fault he was a pawn in Fletcher’s game. I mean, we weren’t a couple, right? Cole was just doing what men do. Trying to get as much as he can from as many women as possible.
I can almost forgive him for that. It’s in their nature, after all.
But Fletcher is something altogether different. Fletcher is a conniving liar, a conman, and a grade-A scumbag for what he did.
And he needs to pay.
I dial his number, but it goes to voicemail. Does he know I’m on to him? That waitress had to know she said too much. So if Fletcher came by, she might’ve pulled him aside and given him a heads-up.
I try the front desk. There’s a young girl free at one of the computers and she greets me by name with a smile. “Good morning, Miss Preston. Are you having a nice day off?”
Her smile seems genuine, but I’m clearly not well-versed in the appearance of good intentions. I give her the benefit of the doubt anyway, and force a smile. “Have you seen Fletcher Novak? I have to talk to him about his schedule.” The one he will no longer have after I get done today.
“Oh,” the girl says, pointing at the door. “I think he just called the valet for his car. Try outside.”
Valet. It pisses me off to no end that Fletcher Novak thinks he can come into my hotel and—Later, Tiffy. Focus. “Thank you,” I say with my sweetest fake smile.
Then I power-walk over to the front doors of the lobby, searching the valet line for his blond hair and tall build.
I spot him getting into that classic red Camaro near the front of the line, and before I can even shout his name, he revs the engine and pulls out towards the street.
I whistle at a taxi that is just pulling away after dropping off guests, and he slams on his brakes as I run towards him and hop in the back seat. “Follow that red car, please.” I try to sound calm and not like some dame in a noir movie from the nineteen forties, but I’m not sure I succeed, because the driver shoots me a look over his shoulder. “I’m serious, don’t lose him!”
“Sure thing, lady.”
I sit back and try to keep the car in my vision. He gets ahead of us a few times as he turns corners, but we find him again on US-50 going north up the shore of the lake. The driver keeps glancing back at me, but each time, I just say, “Keep going.”
“What if he’s on his way to—”
“I don’t care where he’s going, we’re following him, understand? I’ve got a credit card, so you don’t need to worry about it. Just keep going.”
He shoots me the bitch look after that masterpiece of high-class manners. But I don’t care. We keep driving. We wind past the curve of Zephyr Cove, past Lake Tahoe State Park, and almost an hour later make our way into Incline Village at the northern tip of the lake.
He’s from here, I remember from our conversations. Hmmm.
I know very little about Fletcher Novak other than the few conversations we’ve had and the Wikipedia entry that may or may not be true. But I’m about to find out more.
We take a left onto Country Club Drive and then a right on Lakeshore Boulevard. The cabbie pulls over on a side street and we watch Fletcher’s car enter a gated community called Windshore Estates.
“Unless you got a house here, lady, this is the end of the line. That’s Billionaire’s Row, and it’s got security. What do you want me to do? Because I’m not going to jail for trying to get in.”
I take a deep breath and make a decision. “Wait here,” I say. “And leave the meter running. I’ll be back in a little bit.”
I don’t give him a chance to argue, simply slip out of the back seat and slam the door behind me. I’m looking both ways for traffic as I cross the road and then I walk up to the gate. I have an in, I realize. My father’s old friend lives in Incline Village, I know him well. My father even mentioned him a few times after the merger. Told me to look him up while I was up here. I just hadn’t gotten around to it. The guard is out of the gatehouse before I even get within ten feet.
“Can I help you, ma’am?” he asks, his hand on his belted radio.
“Hi, I’m Tiffy Preston and I was down the street at a friend’s house when I remembered that Montey Silverman lives in this community. My father is an old friend of his and asked me to look him up, so I decided to take a walk and—” I giggle and put a hand over my heart. “Oh, he’s probably not home, but can you call him up and tell him I’m here and see if he’d like a visit?”
The guard eyes me. I’m sure walk-ups to this private neighborhood are pretty rare. But if what I say is true, then he’ll be in a lot more trouble for refusing my request than he would if he discovers I’m an interloper.
“Wait right here,” he says, going back into the guardhouse, leaving the door open so I can catch the conversation. “Yes, this is the guardhouse. I’ve got a guest here for Mr. Silverman. Says her name is—” He looks at me for help.
“Tiffy,” I say. “Tiffy Preston.” I smile as he repeats my name and then begins to nod at whatever the person on the other end of the line is telling him. A few seconds later he looks at me. “They’d like to know if you need a ride up to the house? You can walk it, if you’re after the exercise, but they’ll send a golf cart.”
“I’d rather walk.”
He relays that back and then hangs up. “Just head left—” He begins to give me directions.
“I remember where it is,” I say quickly. “I’ve been here before when I was younger.”
“OK, Miss Preston. Come through the gate.” He motions to a walkway a few feet to the left of the guardhouse, and when I reach it, a buzzer sounds, letting me in.
I smile over my shoulder and set off at a brisk walk that turns into a run as soon as the pine trees block the guard’s view. God only knows where Fletcher is in this neighborhood. All I have to go on is his red car, and I’ll never find him if he’s got it in a garage.
I peek down all the driveways as I run. These lots are not too big. The lakefront real estate is premium. But I don’t see his car anywhere. There is a long hedge, easily six feet tall in height, that runs the length of several average-sized lots, and I peek down that driveway in the name of being thorough, not expecting to find what I’m looking for.
But my breath catches in my chest when the red paint flashes through a gap in the trees lining the driveway.
There is a gate at this house, but it’s open. Like a car just drove through. I slip past the invitation and creep up the pavement, looking over my shoulder.
What the fuck is going on? Who lives here that Fletcher knows?
I stop in my tracks when I hear the squeal of a little girl. Fletcher’s gruff voice echoes back, also laughing. I duck behind a tree when they come into sight.
“Hey, baby,” Fletcher says. He’s talking to a little girl, about eight years old, clinging to him like she never wants to let go. And then… and then…
And then he leans into a tall, pretty woman who looks so much like the child, there is no mistaking who she is. And he kisses her on the cheek as he pulls her into a hug.