Page 84 of Daddy Down Under

He squeezed my hand, the gentle pressure sending warmth through my chilled fingers and straight to my heart. When he let go, the loss of contact left me oddly bereft, but he made up for it by stepping ahead to hold open the gleaming glass door of the imposing FBI building.

The stark, utilitarian lobby held none of the elegance I was used to in corporate buildings—all function, zero aesthetics. We surrendered our IDs to a stern-faced security officer who scrutinized them with laser focus before issuing us visitor passes that hung around our necks like bright-yellow badges of temporary belonging.

The security screening reminded me of airports, but more intense: emptying pockets, removing watches and belts, stepping through metal detectors while grim-faced officers waved wands over us with practiced efficiency. Our bags went through x-ray machines, examined from every angle. The heightened security made sense—One World Trade’s sleek silhouette loomed visible through the windows, a constant reminder of why such vigilance was necessary in the heart of New York’s financial district.

Agent Harold Thompson—the FBI agent I’d spoken to on the phone the day before—was a tall, broad-shouldered man with close-cropped gray hair and an intimidating handshake. His piercing blue eyes seemed to look right through me as if he had x-ray vision, which wouldn’t be a bad thing in his line of work.

“Mr. Sullivan,” Thompson said, gesturing for us to take a seat in his austere office. His gaze landed on Ocean with laser-like focus. “And you are?”

“Palmer Levine.” Ocean settled into the chair with his usual fluid grace, but I noticed the slight tension in his shoulders. “Preston Levine’s son.”

Thompson’s eyebrows shot up. “Interesting.” He shuffled some papers on his desk, then leaned forward. “Very interesting. We’ve been keeping tabs on Mr. Levine and his company for some time now.”

My heart skipped a beat. “You have?”

“I can’t disclose the details of ongoing investigations, but your information about potential corporate espionage fits a pattern we’ve been seeing.” Thompson’s pen tapped against his desk. “Tell me exactly what happened with your accountant.”

I laid out the situation, explaining how Bill Markowitz, my accountant, had conducted the audit for Krause Group, and then, somehow, Preston had known details about my offer that only someone with inside knowledge could have known. “Garrett Krause confirmed he had not made his desire to sell his company public and had wondered how Mr. Levine found out about it.”

Thompson jotted down some notes on his notepad. “And you’re certain your accountant was the source of this leak?”

“Mr. Krause confirmed Mr. Levine’s offer was barely above mine. Enough to beat me, but curiously close for someone who shouldn’t have had that much knowledge about the Krause Group since he hadn’t accessed their books yet. He made a blind offer that was enough to beat mine. And this wasn’t the first time. I’ve lost out on several deals in the last six months that, in hindsight, must’ve gone wrong because Markowitz shared numbers with Mr. Levine. He or one of his friends or business partners managed to get every deal I lost out on.”

I’d done some digging on the plane and had discovered that each deal I’d missed out on had been snapped up by either Preston or a known associate of his.

“That’s pretty damning,” Thompson agreed. His sharp gaze shifted to Ocean. “You said you’re Preston Levine’s son?”

“Yes.”

“Judging by your presence here, I’m assuming you’re not close with him?”

“I haven’t seen him since I was nineteen, almost five years ago.” Ocean’s voice was steady, but I caught the slight tremor in his hands. “And that was when he assaulted me with a baseball bat.”

Thompson’s pen stopped moving, and when he met Ocean’s eyes, they were narrowed and sharp. “He assaulted you?”

“Yes.”

“Was there anything specific that triggered that event?”

“He’d found out I was gay.”

“Jesus fuck,” Thompson muttered, the first crack in his professional and detached demeanor. “I’m sorry, kid.”

“Thank you.” Ocean swallowed. “But even before that, I barely saw him. He’s been an absent father for most of my life.”

Thompson played with his pen again, a deep-thinking frown on his forehead. “Do you remember the exact date of the assault?”

“March fifteenth. Kind of hard to forget.” Ocean’s laugh held no humor. “Why?”

“New York has a five-year statute of limitations on aggravated assault.” Thompson’s eyes held Ocean’s. “You still have time to press charges, but not much. If that’s something you want to do, you’d have to talk to the NYPD soon.”

The silence in the room was heavy. I wanted to reach for Ocean’s hand but held back, not sure if he’d want that display of affection here. “I’ll think about it,” Ocean finally said, his voice rough.

Thompson nodded, then turned back to me. “About your accountant, I assume you’re planning to fire him?”

“I’ve been considering it. But I’m worried if I do, he might destroy evidence.”

“Smart thinking.” Thompson tapped his pen against the desk. “Give us two weeks to build the case. We’ll need to get a subpoena to collect and preserve any evidence before you make any moves.”

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