The Long Way Down (Daniel Faust #1)(36)
“Hi, sorry, this is my first day,” I said, trying to look helpless as I held up the papers. “I’m supposed to bring these to Mr. Kaufman’s office right away, but I have no idea where the finance department is. Can you point me in the right direction?”
“One floor up,” one of them told me. “Take the elevators up, go to the end of the hall, and turn left. Shel’s office is right there. I don’t think he’s in today, though.”
I thanked them profusely and strode back toward the lobby, hitting the stairwell and jogging up the steps two at a time. I’d only have a few minutes before Meadow started to wonder where I was. Sheldon Kaufman’s office was dark, his Ikea-grade furniture shadowed behind a small glass window. The doorknob barely jiggled when I turned it, locked up tight, but I’d come prepared for that possibility. After a moment listening for any oncoming foot traffic, I fished my lockpick kit out of the valise and selected a tension wrench and a slender metal rake.
I gritted my teeth as I slid the tools into the lock and felt along the pins for pressure. If anyone happened to stroll around the corner right now, I’d be sunk. Fortunately, most office buildings have laughably cheap interior locks, installed under the assumption that all they need to keep out guys like me is a sturdy front door and an alarm system. That’s a lousy assumption.
The tumblers clicked. I slid my picks back into the valise and let myself in. I’d barely lifted my foot over the threshold when I froze, a sudden sharp pressure flaring behind my sinuses. Like any sorcerer worth his salt, Sheldon had warded the place. If I let my eyes go slightly out of focus, a webwork of delicate saffron-yellow threads glowed against the navy-blue carpeting.
I used the same kind of wards to guard my apartment. If I tripped the spell, nothing would happen to me, but he’d instantly know someone had set foot on his territory. If he was really good, he might even get a mental image of me or worse, echoes of my thoughts. I could slice through the threads like a knife through butter, attacking the wards at their root and cutting them off before they could sound an alarm, but then he’d know he’d been invaded the next time he came back to the office.
I didn’t have time to do this the right way, taking hours to gently unravel and replace each strand of magic, covering my tracks. It was brute force or walk away, no other options. I didn’t want to put him on guard…or did I?
By now Sheldon had to know his brother was dead. He’d had some hand in Stacy’s murder, giving Artie the soul-trap, so he’d be worried and wondering if any evidence at the house pointed his way. He’d also know Caitlin was on the loose. I realized I was playing this the wrong way. I didn’t want Sheldon relaxed. I wanted him terrified. Scared people make stupid decisions.
I gathered my focus, gaze fixed at the middle of the floor, slowly raising the knife edge of my hand high above my head. A knot of tension rose, burbling up, filling my hand with trembling energy until I let out a sudden exhale of breath and dropped hard to one knee. My hand slammed down on the carpet. The threads of his warding spell unspooled like the parting of the Red Sea, whipping away and dissolving into thin air. When Sheldon came back, he’d know he had an uninvited visitor.
I rummaged through his desk, not entirely sure what I was looking for but hoping to find some kind of lead. All of his folders and binders were distressingly mundane. Apart from the wards, you’d never guess Sheldon Kaufman was anything but an ordinary accountant.
I pulled out his bottom drawer and found a .40-caliber pistol, a Sig Sauer P226 with matte black grips. Definitely not standard accounting gear. I left it untouched and checked out the rest of the office, feeling every passing minute weigh heavier on my shoulders.
His desk blotter drew my eye. He had a calendar-style pad, most of the boxes filled with scribbled notes on meeting this person or that or his various lunch reservations, except for Tuesdays. Every Tuesday was carefully circled, the lettering clear as he listed his golf arrangements.
“Red Rock Country Club,” I murmured. “Tomorrow morning. Sounds great, Sheldon, I’ll see you there.”
That was all I was going to get. Not the windfall of information I had hoped for, but at least I knew where he’d be tomorrow, assuming he didn’t break his routine. It was the closest thing I had to a lead, so it would have to do. I locked the door behind me and jogged up the stairs to the third floor.
I heard a brusque voice as I approached Meadow Brand’s open office door, and slowed down to listen to the one-sided conversation.
“—no, I just want to know what you were thinking. Were you thinking?” she snapped. “You’d better be there tomorrow. Lauren’s flying in from Seattle tonight, and we will get this sorted.”
I poked my head around the corner, giving a little wave. Meadow Brand sat behind her desk, a larger woman who knew how to dress for her curves. She held her desk phone in one hand and an iPhone in the other, tapping out a text message as she spoke.
“I have a reporter here, I have to go,” she said, hanging up. She flashed me a million-dollar smile and rose to shake my hand, her grip reassuring and firm. “Sorry about that, please, have a seat. I was starting to think you got lost.”
“The receptionist said you needed a few minutes. I didn’t want to rush you.” I nodded to the telephone. “Problems?”
“Nothing newsworthy,” she said with a practiced chuckle. “When it’s finished, the Enclave Resort and Casino will be the new heart of Las Vegas. You don’t build a piece of history without the occasional miscommunication.”