plain brown envelope and stuffed the folder inside.
I stood up and took the note and the envelope. “Does your wife suspect anything?”
“I hope not.” His lower lip trembled. “I hope to God not.”
I didn’t tell him the odds were not in his favor. It’d been my experience that most women knew when their men were stepping out on them. My money was on a nasty divorce within the next year or so for David Brayton.
He swallowed loudly. “I need this done quickly and quietly.”
I stuffed the envelope into my messenger bag, trying not to feel dirty. “Let me get going. The faster I get there and back the faster we’re done.”
With Michael Hanover , my inner voice snapped.
I gestured at the phone on his desk. “Give me your business card. I’ll call if there’s any problems.” I tapped my pocket and the cell phone inside.
He handed over the gold-embossed card along with a couple of twenty-dollar bills. “For the cabs. Don’t worry about giving me any change back; keep what’s left.”
I looked at him with my best professional face on, the one I reserved for troublesome clients. “Let me point out that if I find you’ve coerced her into this, any part of this, in any way, I will not only advise her not to sign but I’ll help her find a good lawyer and rip you to pieces. Hanover might be purchasing my services but neither of you can afford my soul.”
It had to be said. I wasn’t going to be part of any deal forcing this woman to do anything against her will.
I could deal with Hanover’s blackmail.
I wouldn’t be responsible for pushing an innocent woman down an unwanted path.
Another beaded line of sweat appeared on his forehead.
I walked out.
The receptionist gave me a respectful smile and nod as I passed her spotless desk.
A long line of cabs waiting at the taxi stand, politely waiting to be called into service. I waved the first car over with a wave and watched the driver leap behind the wheel and drive toward me.
The hairs on the back of my neck tingled.
I turned back toward the crystal palaces surrounding me. Someone was watching me. It could have been a curious visitor staring out of a window waiting for his chance to dump more money into the investment game.
It was more likely Hanover making sure I was busy dancing to his perverse tune.
I resisted the urge to wave and got into the cab.
* * *
Much to my surprise the hotel wasn’t one of the dives on Lakeshore Boulevard, selling rooms by the hour, but a clean respectable one off of Yonge Street. Tucked between a movie theater and a pricey shoe shop, the hotel catered to tourists looking to stay right in the middle of the city’s downtown action.
The doorman gripped the brass doorknob as I exited the cab. He touched the brim of his cap and smiled.
This wasn’t any cheap dive. This was a luxury hotel catering to rich visitors.
“Welcome to the Belmont Arms.” He swept his arm inward. “The front desk is right over there.”
I almost tripped over the deep, luxurious scarlet carpet, anchoring a series of chairs and couches that definitely weren’t from the secondhand store. The décor was typical tourist chic with framed pictures of Lake Ontario and other scenic Toronto highlights circling around on the walls while low classic music hummed out of invisible speakers. Two large groups clustered around the front desk, elderly tourists waiting for their guide. The harried clerk waved her arms in the air as she tried to herd one group to the side.
I bypassed the desk and headed for the elevator. Molly Callendar was on the second floor at the far end of the corridor, right by the emergency exit stairs.
A breakfast tray sat on the floor by the door, the remains of stuffed French toast and coffee waiting to be removed.
My stomach growled, reminding me I’d rushed out before grabbing anything to eat. I made a mental note to stop by the hot dog vendor when this was all over.
I rapped on the door and waited. Darkness covered the
I stood up and took the note and the envelope. “Does your wife suspect anything?”
“I hope not.” His lower lip trembled. “I hope to God not.”
I didn’t tell him the odds were not in his favor. It’d been my experience that most women knew when their men were stepping out on them. My money was on a nasty divorce within the next year or so for David Brayton.
He swallowed loudly. “I need this done quickly and quietly.”
I stuffed the envelope into my messenger bag, trying not to feel dirty. “Let me get going. The faster I get there and back the faster we’re done.”
With Michael Hanover , my inner voice snapped.
I gestured at the phone on his desk. “Give me your business card. I’ll call if there’s any problems.” I tapped my pocket and the cell phone inside.
He handed over the gold-embossed card along with a couple of twenty-dollar bills. “For the cabs. Don’t worry about giving me any change back; keep what’s left.”
I looked at him with my best professional face on, the one I reserved for troublesome clients. “Let me point out that if I find you’ve coerced her into this, any part of this, in any way, I will not only advise her not to sign but I’ll help her find a good lawyer and rip you to pieces. Hanover might be purchasing my services but neither of you can afford my soul.”
It had to be said. I wasn’t going to be part of any deal forcing this woman to do anything against her will.
I could deal with Hanover’s blackmail.
I wouldn’t be responsible for pushing an innocent woman down an unwanted path.
Another beaded line of sweat appeared on his forehead.
I walked out.
The receptionist gave me a respectful smile and nod as I passed her spotless desk.
A long line of cabs waiting at the taxi stand, politely waiting to be called into service. I waved the first car over with a wave and watched the driver leap behind the wheel and drive toward me.
The hairs on the back of my neck tingled.
I turned back toward the crystal palaces surrounding me. Someone was watching me. It could have been a curious visitor staring out of a window waiting for his chance to dump more money into the investment game.
It was more likely Hanover making sure I was busy dancing to his perverse tune.
I resisted the urge to wave and got into the cab.
* * *
Much to my surprise the hotel wasn’t one of the dives on Lakeshore Boulevard, selling rooms by the hour, but a clean respectable one off of Yonge Street. Tucked between a movie theater and a pricey shoe shop, the hotel catered to tourists looking to stay right in the middle of the city’s downtown action.
The doorman gripped the brass doorknob as I exited the cab. He touched the brim of his cap and smiled.
This wasn’t any cheap dive. This was a luxury hotel catering to rich visitors.
“Welcome to the Belmont Arms.” He swept his arm inward. “The front desk is right over there.”
I almost tripped over the deep, luxurious scarlet carpet, anchoring a series of chairs and couches that definitely weren’t from the secondhand store. The décor was typical tourist chic with framed pictures of Lake Ontario and other scenic Toronto highlights circling around on the walls while low classic music hummed out of invisible speakers. Two large groups clustered around the front desk, elderly tourists waiting for their guide. The harried clerk waved her arms in the air as she tried to herd one group to the side.
I bypassed the desk and headed for the elevator. Molly Callendar was on the second floor at the far end of the corridor, right by the emergency exit stairs.
A breakfast tray sat on the floor by the door, the remains of stuffed French toast and coffee waiting to be removed.
My stomach growled, reminding me I’d rushed out before grabbing anything to eat. I made a mental note to stop by the hot dog vendor when this was all over.
I rapped on the door and waited. Darkness covered the
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