The Rescue(22)

He glanced around the room again, taking in its simple but elegant decor and the dark, meticulously smooth hardwood floors. It didn’t look like the kind of place a private investigator could afford, and it was devoid of any personal touches or knickknacks. Had he missed something?

Admittedly, he’d fallen asleep on the ride back from Hemet and woken up in a parking garage—but he’d just assumed they were closer to the coast. He remembered getting in an elevator and stepping into the apartment, but that was about it. Was it a hotel? If it was, it was a very expensive hotel. He made his way to the bathroom to wash his face, noting the immaculate dark-gray tile and shiny black granite countertop. All very high-end.

Decker rinsed his face in the sink and took a long look at the tired man staring back. He could use another twenty-four hours of sleep in that luxurious bed, possibly longer, but he knew their window of opportunity would be shut by then. Getting to the bottom of what had really transpired with Senator Steele’s daughter would rely on maintaining a quick tempo.

They had to stay as many steps ahead of their adversaries as possible to keep them guessing. Hopefully, they could sustain the pace of their investigation long enough to find the next piece in the puzzle—before the Russians or this Aegis group shut them down.

Decker dried his face and examined the luxurious towel, looking for a hotel monogram. Nothing. Could she possibly own this place? He couldn’t stop thinking about it. On the way out of the bedroom, he glanced out the windows again. The Metropolitan Detention Center couldn’t be more than a mile or so beyond the small cluster of skyscrapers. The Japanese Village Plaza where he had shot the former SEAL was even closer. Nice as it was, he didn’t want to spend another night here if he didn’t have to.

When he opened the bedroom door, Decker stepped into a spacious central living area, which shared the same view of the city. Stainless steel appliances, more granite countertops, and a sea of gleaming hardwood served as the background for an apartment filled with Scandinavian-style furniture—most of it oriented to take advantage of the view.

Harlow sat at a light-finished wood table separating the kitchen from the glass-enclosed living room. He continued to study the apartment, not finding any framed photographs or items of a personal nature. Either the place was a last-minute rental or Harlow Mackenzie didn’t have much of a private life. At least not the kind she cared to display. His scan ended with a closed door next to the kitchen.

“Another bedroom?” he said.

“Office,” she said. “The master bedroom is next to the laundry room. Kind of sucks that it doesn’t have a view, but trust me, the lights and sounds of the city can keep you up at night. Always something going on downtown.”

Decker laughed uncomfortably, making his way over to the table. “Sorry. This is maybe going to sound a little assholish, but is this your place?”

She put down her coffee as he took a seat. “Huh. I see. You just assumed I was some struggling, do-gooder PI, torn between making a little scratch in the LA trafficking scene or paying the bills?”

“I don’t know what I thought, but this is a crazy serious place.”

“Brace yourself,” she said. “Yes. I own this apartment and a few others around LA. I’ve done pretty well for myself in this business. Nothing on the scale of World Recovery Group, but I’ve found a profitable and satisfying niche.”

“I’ll say you have,” he said, nodding at the coffee. “Can I?”

She passed the carafe.

“We can get an espresso on the outside, if that’s your thing. It’s still good coffee, though.”

He poured a cup and savored the smell. Really good.

“Kona blend?”

“Yes. I broke out the good stuff for you.”

“Thank you,” he said, lifting the mug toward her. “And thank you for—everything.”

“Don’t mention it,” she said before pointing to the bagels on the counter next to the toaster. “Self-service this morning.”

“This is fantastic. I haven’t had a bagel in a long time,” he said, happy not to be eating off a plastic tray.

“Can I ask you a question?” she said.

“Sure.”

“Last night you told me they did way more than blow up the house and set you up. What did you mean? I assume it had to do with what happened—” She stopped, a pained look on her face. “Sorry. You don’t have to talk about it. I shouldn’t have done that.”

He sat down with his bagel and took another sip of coffee. “It’s fine. It happened. Out of my control now,” he said, not even coming close to believing the words he’d just uttered. “Penkin said the crew that came into the club was pissed, and rightly so. The Russians were supposed to make Meghan Steele disappear for good, but they didn’t.”

“And you found her,” she said.

He nodded. “The group that delivered her, which Penkin simply refers to as the Americans, demanded that the Russians fix the problem.”

“Did he give any identifying details about the group?”

“Nothing we didn’t already know. Penkin said they were ex-military, like his own people. Special Forces or the equivalent.”

“Contractor types,” she said.

“Right. But here’s the kicker. Penkin claims the group orchestrated the house trap, from start to finish. Penkin’s people were gone five days before the doomed raid.”