Page 30 of Sinful Fantasy

“Of course.” He extends a hand toward a long leather couch lining the far wall. “Come in, Annaliese. Sit down. Um…” He brings his gaze back to us. “Bethany Mandel.” He swallows so the bob of his Adam’s apple is visible for everyone in the room to see. “His aunt’s name is Bethany Mandel. That’s where he is this week. He was due back to the office on Tuesday. And to answer your previous question… no.” He brings his hand up and scrubs his clean-shaven jaw. “I never minded when he was out, because we have dealings in Florida, and he made his travels productive to save me from making the trip myself.”

“We’d like the information on your Florida projects.” Fletch sits forward in his chair and draws Alan’s attention. “Every deal, every contact, and every meeting for the past year. Whatever you can get to us.”

“You…” His brows pinch tight. “You think someone in Florida killed him? Why?”

Nope.I know that’s not the case.

Whoever killed him is Copeland-based. They snatched him here. Killed him here. And dumped him here. But the two closest people in Roger’s life have two completely different stories about his whereabouts this week, which means we have no fucking clue where he actually was—other than a broad claim that he was in the Sunshine State—or why he was there.

But we can’t say that, of course.

“Please send that information over as soon as you can,” I press instead. “We can come back with a warrant that would allow us to seize all computers, devices, and storage boxes, or you could hand them over voluntarily. This ends the same, no matter which way we do it, but a willing exchange is more pleasant. And much faster.”

“And the faster we move,” Fletch adds, “the easier it’ll be for us to find whoever hurt him.”

Fletch lifts his chin, hinting at the slight shift to come. “Mr. Renkin, can you think of anyone who might want to hurt Roger? Anyone who’s made threats?”

“No, I…” Alan drops his elbows on his desk, and his chin in his hands. “Everybody liked Roger.”

“What about clients? Any outstanding money issues?”

“Everyone is satisfied,” he groans. “We’ve turned a record profit this year. And every year since I came on as partner has seen a fifty percent increase, year on year. No one is unhappy around here, Detectives.” He peers to Annaliese like she could save him. Or help him. Or, hell, suck his dick and pat his hair when his wife isn’t looking. “Right? Things are good.”

“Yes, Detectives.” She fidgets on the leather couch and crosses one ankle over the other. “I’m on the phones every single day. I receive all incoming emails. I’m the first person anyone speaks to when they contact Wilco, and I can honestly say, no one is angry.”

“Sounds like the dream.” Fletch turns back to Alan. “So what happens to this company now that Roger is gone? Does his fifty percent automatically roll over to you? Or will it go to his family?”

Instantly, Alan’s face burns with rage. “You’re asking if I’d hurt him to make a little money?”

Fletch lifts his shoulders in faux nonchalance.

“No,” Alan sneers. “Yes, his share rolls over to me. But to put this as coldly and crudely as possible, Roger was worth far more to Wilco—and to me—alivethan he will be in death.”

“You just said profits are skyrocketing,” I insert. “Lucrative company is all yours now.”

“Yeah. And when word breaks of Roger’s death, those profits will plummet, and clients who are loyal to Roger are likely to jump ship. In fact, if you’re looking for a patsy, call Randall Sloane over at Sloane Associates. He’s been nipping at our heels for a year, following us around and sweet-talking our clientele. He wants what we’re cooking, and he’ll do anything for a taste. Roger’s clients are loyal to him, and mine are to me. But that doesn’t mean his will stay with me, now that he’s gone. And the only person who will benefit from this loss is that bastard Sloane.”

* * *

“Randall Sloane?” I flash my badge at the front door of a two-story brownstone and note the occupant is the only guy not working this Sunday.

While Randall studies my badge, I profile the man who, in many ways, sits firmly between the Wilco pioneers. Sloane is forty years old: not as youthful as Alan, but not as worn as Roger. He’s taller than Roger, but shorter than Alan. His skin is firmer than one, but not as firm as the other. He wears sweatpants and a shirt that shows every line of his somewhat ridged abdomen—a direct contrast to Alan’s suit and Roger’s soft roundness.

When he’s done scanning my credentials, he looks up and grins like our presence is a fun joke. “Homicide cops, Fletcher and Malone. I’ve seen you both on the news.” He rests his hands on the doorframe and shows off muscular biceps. “My family is inside, safe and sound. My dog is at the vet for a routine checkup, so she’s okay too. My mother was on the phone only a few minutes ago, healthy as a horse. And my father is banging his way across Barbados. So… I can ask you who is dead without freaking out.”

“Roger Wilson was found murdered yesterday.” Fletch releases the badge he wears on a chain around his neck and sets his hands on his hips. “During the course of our investigation, your name has popped up. So we were hoping to ask you a few questions about your relationship with Mr. Wilson. Can we come i—”

“You can’t come in,” he interrupts. “But I can answer your questions easily. I did not have arelationshipwith Roger Wilson. He was a man who worked in the same field I do, and his client base often encroached on mine. We were friendly enough, on the off-chance we passed in the street, and our business rivalry remained just that: business. I knew who he was, just as he knew me. I’ve lost clients who’ve gone to him, and he’s lost clients who’ve come to me. That’s just the way the dice roll sometimes. I don’t know who tossed my name in the hat, but whoever they are, they’re reaching.”

“Can you tell us where you were yesterday morning?” I ask.

When his eyes whip to mine and narrow, I shrug. “Just to make this easier on us all and put our concerns to bed.”

“I was at the office,” he snaps. “Meeting with the Smith Group. They’re a conglomerate of Chinese investors who want a slice of Copeland. The office is covered by CCTV and will have me there from approximately seven in the morning right through until dinnertime last night.”

“The Smith Group?” Fletch parrots. Then he frowns. “But they’re Chinese?”

“Mm. Global companies sometimes operate under a generic name, to avoid stereotyping and pushback in a world not always receptive to international ownership. It makes for a smoother transaction in what can be an ugly industry.” He stops and flashes a taunting smile. “I’d say that about covers me for an alibi during the time of your enquiry. Is there anything else I can help you with?”

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