Read Online Miranda Vaughn Mystery 01.00 - Chasing the Dollar by Ellie Ashe - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Ellie Ashe
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a reluctant smile and walked me to a different elevator that ran between the three floors that Patterson Investment leased and took my hand in his.
"It's just up on the twenty-second floor, but you'll have to hurry. Sounds like he's running out the door."
Perfect .
" So lovely to meet you, Lana. I look forward to seeing you tomorrow. And then maybe I can convince you to go to dinner with me."
I squeezed his hand and smiled. "You charmer," I said. "I'd love to have dinner with you tomorrow night."
He beamed and held my hand as I stepped into the elevator and didn 't let go until the door started to shut. Once the door closed, I hit the button for the twenty-third floor, letting out a deep breath and trying to calm my nerves.
The elevator passed the twenty-second floor, where Mr. Winthrop was waiting for Lana Parker to come introduce herself. He was going to be disappointed. The doors opened, and I stepped out into the lobby of the twenty-third floor, prepared to bluff my way to the suite belonging to the vice president of energy. The lobby area was silent, and the reception desk was empty. I walked toward it, my high-heels clicking on the marble floor.
When I reached the middle of the lobby, the sound of my footsteps echoed off the walls. I passed the receptionist's desk with the mute phones, and stepped onto a plush carpet that led down a wide hallway. It was the same layout as the twenty-first floor, where I'd met with Martin Templeton. The sitting area past the reception desk featured low modern couches and glass tables on which several financial periodicals were arrayed. The floor-to-ceiling windows featured the same view as on the main floor—a panorama of the city and the harbor.
I peered down the long hallway, expecting to have to produce my cover story—that I must have hit the wrong button in the elevator—but no one walked out of the offices that lined the corridor.
The hair on the back of my neck stood on end. There was something eerie about the deathly quiet space. It was close to 5 p.m., and the offices two floors down were packing up for the day. But this floor had the feeling of a space that had long ago shut down.
I moved down the hall, looking at the nameplates on the doors. The names were familiar because I had studied the employee roster for the energy section. The office doors were closed, and I reached out and tried a door knob, but it was locked. I grew bolder as I made my way toward the end of the hall, trying the doors and peeking into the offices that were unlocked.
They were all empty.
The plaque on the door of the corner office said it belonged to Vice President Bill Macias, and my fingers trembled a little as I turned the knob. Like the rest of the floor, it was empty. But unlike the other offices I had poked my head into, there were papers strewn everywhere. One wall was bookcases with long filing drawers beneath them. Several of the drawers had been pulled out and left open, the contents stacked on the floor haphazardly.
I approached Bill Macias's desk, a sense of foreboding flooding my body. His desk sat near the wall of windows. It was a massive wooden desk, an old-fashioned style that matched the built-in bookshelves and coordinated well with the Persian rug. The whole room had the feel of an antique library, not an investment analyst's office. The room was in such disarray that I expected to find a body on the other side of the desk, but there was nothing there but a large leather chair, resting on its back. I pulled it away from the desk and poked through the desk drawers. I had no idea what I was looking for—a forwarding address, maybe?
With a sigh, I looked around the empty room. This was not what I expected to find. What was going on? There was no indication downstairs that the energy group had moved or closed. But the twenty-first floor where Martin and other "front office" wealth managers worked had seemed rather sparsely populated, too. This floor, though, was sinister
"It's just up on the twenty-second floor, but you'll have to hurry. Sounds like he's running out the door."
Perfect .
" So lovely to meet you, Lana. I look forward to seeing you tomorrow. And then maybe I can convince you to go to dinner with me."
I squeezed his hand and smiled. "You charmer," I said. "I'd love to have dinner with you tomorrow night."
He beamed and held my hand as I stepped into the elevator and didn 't let go until the door started to shut. Once the door closed, I hit the button for the twenty-third floor, letting out a deep breath and trying to calm my nerves.
The elevator passed the twenty-second floor, where Mr. Winthrop was waiting for Lana Parker to come introduce herself. He was going to be disappointed. The doors opened, and I stepped out into the lobby of the twenty-third floor, prepared to bluff my way to the suite belonging to the vice president of energy. The lobby area was silent, and the reception desk was empty. I walked toward it, my high-heels clicking on the marble floor.
When I reached the middle of the lobby, the sound of my footsteps echoed off the walls. I passed the receptionist's desk with the mute phones, and stepped onto a plush carpet that led down a wide hallway. It was the same layout as the twenty-first floor, where I'd met with Martin Templeton. The sitting area past the reception desk featured low modern couches and glass tables on which several financial periodicals were arrayed. The floor-to-ceiling windows featured the same view as on the main floor—a panorama of the city and the harbor.
I peered down the long hallway, expecting to have to produce my cover story—that I must have hit the wrong button in the elevator—but no one walked out of the offices that lined the corridor.
The hair on the back of my neck stood on end. There was something eerie about the deathly quiet space. It was close to 5 p.m., and the offices two floors down were packing up for the day. But this floor had the feeling of a space that had long ago shut down.
I moved down the hall, looking at the nameplates on the doors. The names were familiar because I had studied the employee roster for the energy section. The office doors were closed, and I reached out and tried a door knob, but it was locked. I grew bolder as I made my way toward the end of the hall, trying the doors and peeking into the offices that were unlocked.
They were all empty.
The plaque on the door of the corner office said it belonged to Vice President Bill Macias, and my fingers trembled a little as I turned the knob. Like the rest of the floor, it was empty. But unlike the other offices I had poked my head into, there were papers strewn everywhere. One wall was bookcases with long filing drawers beneath them. Several of the drawers had been pulled out and left open, the contents stacked on the floor haphazardly.
I approached Bill Macias's desk, a sense of foreboding flooding my body. His desk sat near the wall of windows. It was a massive wooden desk, an old-fashioned style that matched the built-in bookshelves and coordinated well with the Persian rug. The whole room had the feel of an antique library, not an investment analyst's office. The room was in such disarray that I expected to find a body on the other side of the desk, but there was nothing there but a large leather chair, resting on its back. I pulled it away from the desk and poked through the desk drawers. I had no idea what I was looking for—a forwarding address, maybe?
With a sigh, I looked around the empty room. This was not what I expected to find. What was going on? There was no indication downstairs that the energy group had moved or closed. But the twenty-first floor where Martin and other "front office" wealth managers worked had seemed rather sparsely populated, too. This floor, though, was sinister
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