Page 61 of So Close

It doesn’t seem like the neighborhood would require such an intimidating elevator operator, but so many things in this world change their face when it’s dark.

“Second floor, please.”

He tugs easily on a pull chain that simultaneously lowers a gate from the top and raises its twin from the bottom, like a mouth snapping closed. He pushes the button, and we start our ascent.

I exit into another vestibule more aptly described as a landing and enter through the metal door distinguished by a placard denoting that Rampart is on the other side.

A pretty redhead wearing statement eyeglass frames in a bright blue greets me. “Hi! Can I help you?”

Her station is a vintage-looking metal piece reminiscent of a teacher’s desk. It’s squeezed in by the door, but beyond her is wide open space, with windows on every brick wall except the one at my back and columns holding the upper stories aloft. There are four rows of desks, two lining the outer walls and two down the middle comprised of desks placed side by side and face to face.

Unlike Baharan, Rampart affords no one the relative privacy of a cubicle. Instead, it’s a shared space, the desks boasting wood-veneer tops that can morph into standing workstations by levered brackets. At the opposite end, a glass wall and door provide delineation for a conference room. The windows are all open, allowing the scents and sounds of the city free rein.

“I have an appointment with Giles Prescott,” I reply.

She checks her monitor. “Ms. Armand?”

“Yes. Tris, isn’t it?”

She beams at me, inordinately pleased that I remember the name she gave me over the phone. “Yes.”

Hopping to her feet with excess energy, she rounds the desk and leads the way. “I’ll show you to the conference room and let Giles know you’re here. How are you doing today?”

“As well as can be expected.” I can’t imagine anyone coming to Rampart would have a pleasant reason for doing so.

“I love your dress, by the way.”

“Thank you.” Vaguely Grecian in style, the one-shoulder ruched dress in fire engine red is one of the few pieces of clothing in my closet that isn’t neutral. It hugs my waist and emphasizes my curves. With gold hoop earrings and nude kitten-heel slingbacks, it strikes just the right note of casually, effortlessly sexy.

I’ll change before heading to work, but the dress is perfect for my initial meeting with Mr. Prescott. I want sex to flavor his first impression of me; it’ll make him more manageable. Young men the same age or younger than my sons fill the room, but their eyes spark when I enter, and their heads turn to follow me.

“Can I get you something to drink?” she asks. “Coffee, water, soda? I can also bring you a menu for the smoothie place across the street.”

“Do you have sparkling water?”

“Yes. Perrier okay?”

“Perfect.” Going against my nature, I sit in one of the chairs on the side, closest to the head of the table. He’ll have to either sit directly beside or across from me. It’s essential to assume the position of power in any interaction, so I typically would take one end of the table but adopting a more vulnerable persona is the goal in this case.

Giles Prescott is a retired police officer. He’s hardwired for heroism. A damsel in distress should trigger that innate protective instinct. If I can also trigger his mating instinct, even better. The red dress has a one hundred percent success rate so far.

I scroll through my emails while waiting, but it’s not long.

“Ms. Armand.” The deep voice snags my attention. “Here’s your water. I’m Giles Prescott. I’m sorry to keep you. I had an offsite meeting earlier, and it took me longer to return to the office than anticipated.”

A strong hand sets a bottle of Perrier in front of me, along with a glass and napkin. The wrist is thick and adorned with a gold Rolex. Rolled-up shirtsleeves display powerful forearms, the muscles flexing under café au lait-hued skin. I note the broadness of the shoulders before finally allowing myself to study his face and meet his eyes. I expected I’d have to feign feminine interest, but my admiration is genuine. Giles Prescott is an attractive man.

“Thank you. And the wait was no bother. I appreciate your time.”

His smile is boyish, which softens the bluntness of his masculinity. He’s a mix of races, the result compelling if not classically handsome. A gifted barber crops his curls and precisely shapes his beard. His shoes are respectable, his dress slacks off-the-rack but tailored. He eschews jacket and tie and leaves the collar of his dress shirt unbuttoned. He wears a wedding band, but that doesn’t mean he’s unavailable …

I wait until he assumes his position beside me, at the head of the table. “Mr. Prescott, I’m Kane Black’s mother.”

He nods. “I know. I looked you up this morning. It helps me prepare. Did he refer you?”

“In a way. I want a better understanding of the investigation into his wife – if they’re even legally married, considering she’s operating under an assumed name. I’ve read your final report, but it doesn’t seem complete. She used the earliest alias you recovered in her late teens. What about before then?”

“Before then, she was the responsibility of a parent or guardian. She –”

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