Save Your Breath (Morgan Dane #6)(59)

“We’re lucky,” Morgan said. “My grandfather lives with us. It makes it easier. Plus, one of my sisters is nearby. Do you have any siblings to help you?”

Kim shook her head. “My brother helps as much as he can.”

“Support is important.” Morgan thought about support. “Is Olivia close to any other authors? Anyone she might have discussed her book research with?”

“Not that I know of.” Kim frowned. “I get the impression she’s a loner. I offered to take her to publishing parties, but she always declined. She told me she’d rather go home, put on pajamas, and have a cup of tea.”

Which was Morgan’s idea of a perfect evening.

“Do you know where her editor would be today?” Lance asked. “We’d like to speak with him.”

“I usually reach him by cell phone. He’s been working from home a few days a week. He mentioned some sort of family emergency last time I talked with him.” She picked up her cell phone from the black coffee table. “Do you have his number?”

“I think so.” Morgan checked her own phone and read the last few digits of the number they’d taken from Olivia’s contact list.

“That’s it.” Kim lowered her phone and stood. “Please let me know if you find her, or if there’s anything else I can do to help.”

“We will.” Morgan gathered her tote and got to her feet.

She and Lance thanked Kim and left her apartment.

Outside, they walked back to the garage where they’d left the Jeep. Lance handed the parking attendant their ticket, and the man disappeared inside.

“So Olivia’s editor and agent were both hounding her for her book proposal,” Lance said as they waited.

“Yes.” Inside the garage was colder than the street. Morgan shivered. “Kim looked upset.”

“She said she’d been sick.”

“That would explain her dark circles,” Morgan agreed. “But her nails were bitten to the quick, and she was picking at them when she admitted pressuring Olivia.”

“Maybe she regrets giving Olivia a hard time.”

Once they were in the vehicle, Lance turned the heater on full and aimed the vents at her.

Morgan pulled out her notepad. She wrote a few notes on the interview with Holgersen, then moved on to scan the editor’s background report. “Olivia’s editor, Jake Riley, is thirty-four. He was born in New York, went to college in New York, and currently lives in Brooklyn.” She plugged the address into the GPS for directions.

It took thirty-five minutes to drive the nine miles through Lower Manhattan and over the Brooklyn Bridge. On the other side, Lance cut off a taxi with a feral smile, then continued onto Middagh Street into Brooklyn Heights.

Morgan pointed to an upcoming intersection. “There’s the street on the left.”

Lance turned left and slowed down in front of an old brownstone. “Keep your eyes open for a parking spot.”

They drove around three blocks, like a shark circling for prey, before Morgan spotted a space. Lance parallel parked the Jeep, practically kissing the bumper of a MINI Cooper.

They walked back to the brownstone, and Lance led the way up the stone steps to the front stoop. He pulled on the handle of the double doors, but they were locked. Morgan shaded her eyes and peered through the glass panes. The building had a tiny foyer with a staircase running up one side. The paint was peeling, and the dark stain of the wooden steps and banister was worn through.

“It’s a walk-up.” She saw a resident carrying what looked like a racing bike down the steps. He wore an aerodynamic helmet and skintight cycling clothes. She backed up to scan the call buttons next to the door. There were eight apartments listed, two per floor. Morgan pressed the button for 4-B.

The cyclist opened the door.

Lance grabbed the handle and held it open while the man tipped the bike onto its rear tire and maneuvered it outside. It sounded like he was wearing tap shoes. “Thanks. Who are you looking for?”

“Jake Riley in 4-B,” Morgan said with a smile.

The man shook his head. “He’s not home. Haven’t seen him much lately. Try Riley’s Place.” He gave them directions. “It’s only about a half mile. You can walk from here.” His shoes clicked on the concrete as he lifted the bike down the steps, set it on the road, and pedaled off.

Morgan and Lance followed his vague directions and walked up Hicks Street to Atlantic Avenue. The sun came out from behind the clouds, and unlike in Manhattan, its warm rays actually reached the street in Brooklyn.

Ten minutes later, they approached Riley’s Place, which appeared to be a dive bar. They passed the narrow alley that ran next to the building.

“Morgan.” Lance stared down the alley.

In the back, the front end of an old black muscle car stuck out from behind a dumpster.

“Hold on.” Lance jogged down the alley and back. His eyes were bright. “It’s a Chevy Nova.”

“It was Olivia’s editor who knocked on her door Thursday evening.” Excitement flushed warmth through Morgan. Could this be the lead they’d been looking for?

Lance nodded. “It’s only a three-hour drive.”

They walked to the door of the bar.

Morgan glanced at her watch. “It’s ten thirty. I don’t see the hours posted. Do you think they’re open?”