Read Online The Lost Key by Catherine Coulter - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Catherine Coulter
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to Aristonâs private bank account.
Sophie hurried down the stairs past security, pulling her badge over her head and stuffing it in her pocket. Her heels clacked on the marble steps, then she was on the street, headed up to Lexington, then over to Fifty-seventh. It was a gorgeous day and everything and everyone seemed cheerful. The oppressive heat of the past few summers hadnât begun to swallow New York whole yet.
Sophie caught a glimpse of herself in the plate-glass window of a leather boutique, her dark hair pulled up into a ballerina bun at the top of her head, long legs, strong, moving fast. She was in the best shape of her life after all the yoga and running and kickboxing sheâd done over the winter. She wasnât terribly vain, but she looked good, no matter all the long hours of sitting in her small glass booth at the UN, listening, speaking, and repeating endlessly. Sheâd firmed up, lost weight, and jettisoned a husband along the way, too, the jerk.
She was happier now, helping her dad out on weekends when she could. Life was good. Sheâd find the right guy, someday.
She wasnât even out of breath when she arrived at her dadâs building. Sheâd grown up here, in the Galleria, with the stunning views of Manhattan and white-glove treatment. Sheâd insisted on getting her own place when she graduated, knowing if she didnât move out, sheâd suffocate under a stack of musty old books. Her dad wasnât thrilled, but he didnât stop her. Her trust fund was healthy and she could afford to move out, unlike many of her friends.
She wasnât too far from home, though, less than a dozen blocks, down in Turtle Bay. She made sure she saw her dad at least once a week. She usually caught him at the store, since he seemed to livethere these days. She felt a brief stab of guilt. Since her mom died, and her brother moved out west for school, it had been only the two of them, and sheâd been so busy lately, sheâd missed some of their normal dates.
No more, she promised herself. Once a week wasnât enough, not anymore. Divorcing the jerk had taught her a hard lesson about betrayal and loss, the importance of keeping those who really loved you close.
Gillis opened the doors for her, merely bowing, saying nothingâunusual, because he was normally chatty. She didnât realize something was wrong until Umberto rushed over to her, tears sheening his dark eyes.
âMiss Sophia, I am so sorry, so very sorry about your father, weââ
Sophie went still. âWhat happened? Was there an accident? Did he fall? Umberto, is he okay?â
Umberto was shaking his head. âIâm so very sorry, your father, heâs dead, Miss Sophia. The FBI is upstairs. They didnât call you? Forgive me, but I do not have the details.â
She ran to the elevator, ignoring everything else in a mindless chant of
No, no, please, no.
The elevator doors slid open, and she slammed down on the button once, twice. She knew it took exactly twenty-two seconds without stops to reach the twenty-third floorâa sign, her father always said, that this was truly their home. Twenty-three was the familyâs lucky number. For twenty-two long seconds, she didnât breathe, stood deathly still, counting.
She raced down the long hallway to the front door. It was unlocked. She burst in, saw a man and a woman, both with gunsclipped to their waists, speaking in front of the picture windows. She watched their hands go to their guns as they whirled around to face her.
âWhat happened to my father?â She knew she screamed the words. She was getting hysterical and took a deep breath and tried again, more calmly this time: âPlease, tell me what happened to my father.â
The man spoke first. He was British, not an American. âIâm Special Agent Nicholas Drummond, with the FBI. This is Special Agent Michaela Caine. Youâre Mr. Pearceâs
Sophie hurried down the stairs past security, pulling her badge over her head and stuffing it in her pocket. Her heels clacked on the marble steps, then she was on the street, headed up to Lexington, then over to Fifty-seventh. It was a gorgeous day and everything and everyone seemed cheerful. The oppressive heat of the past few summers hadnât begun to swallow New York whole yet.
Sophie caught a glimpse of herself in the plate-glass window of a leather boutique, her dark hair pulled up into a ballerina bun at the top of her head, long legs, strong, moving fast. She was in the best shape of her life after all the yoga and running and kickboxing sheâd done over the winter. She wasnât terribly vain, but she looked good, no matter all the long hours of sitting in her small glass booth at the UN, listening, speaking, and repeating endlessly. Sheâd firmed up, lost weight, and jettisoned a husband along the way, too, the jerk.
She was happier now, helping her dad out on weekends when she could. Life was good. Sheâd find the right guy, someday.
She wasnât even out of breath when she arrived at her dadâs building. Sheâd grown up here, in the Galleria, with the stunning views of Manhattan and white-glove treatment. Sheâd insisted on getting her own place when she graduated, knowing if she didnât move out, sheâd suffocate under a stack of musty old books. Her dad wasnât thrilled, but he didnât stop her. Her trust fund was healthy and she could afford to move out, unlike many of her friends.
She wasnât too far from home, though, less than a dozen blocks, down in Turtle Bay. She made sure she saw her dad at least once a week. She usually caught him at the store, since he seemed to livethere these days. She felt a brief stab of guilt. Since her mom died, and her brother moved out west for school, it had been only the two of them, and sheâd been so busy lately, sheâd missed some of their normal dates.
No more, she promised herself. Once a week wasnât enough, not anymore. Divorcing the jerk had taught her a hard lesson about betrayal and loss, the importance of keeping those who really loved you close.
Gillis opened the doors for her, merely bowing, saying nothingâunusual, because he was normally chatty. She didnât realize something was wrong until Umberto rushed over to her, tears sheening his dark eyes.
âMiss Sophia, I am so sorry, so very sorry about your father, weââ
Sophie went still. âWhat happened? Was there an accident? Did he fall? Umberto, is he okay?â
Umberto was shaking his head. âIâm so very sorry, your father, heâs dead, Miss Sophia. The FBI is upstairs. They didnât call you? Forgive me, but I do not have the details.â
She ran to the elevator, ignoring everything else in a mindless chant of
No, no, please, no.
The elevator doors slid open, and she slammed down on the button once, twice. She knew it took exactly twenty-two seconds without stops to reach the twenty-third floorâa sign, her father always said, that this was truly their home. Twenty-three was the familyâs lucky number. For twenty-two long seconds, she didnât breathe, stood deathly still, counting.
She raced down the long hallway to the front door. It was unlocked. She burst in, saw a man and a woman, both with gunsclipped to their waists, speaking in front of the picture windows. She watched their hands go to their guns as they whirled around to face her.
âWhat happened to my father?â She knew she screamed the words. She was getting hysterical and took a deep breath and tried again, more calmly this time: âPlease, tell me what happened to my father.â
The man spoke first. He was British, not an American. âIâm Special Agent Nicholas Drummond, with the FBI. This is Special Agent Michaela Caine. Youâre Mr. Pearceâs
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