Hot Asset (21 Wall Street #1)(58)

What the . . . ?

“Morning, Lara!” I turn and see Evie Franklin, Steve’s busybody assistant, coming toward me.

“Morning,” I say with a smile. “Love the hair.”

She lifts a hand to her halo of slightly frizzy blonde curls. “Some days just aren’t worth fighting the humidity. Did you know, back in the eighties, women used to pay for hair like this? What I wouldn’t give for a time machine.”

“Totally,” I say, trying to be agreeable.

She gives me a wry look. “With that straight hair? I don’t think so, honey. And were you even alive in the eighties?”

“I was.” Barely. “Plus, I watched lots of old music videos with my dad.”

“Old?” She puts a hand on her hip in mock outrage.

I hold up my hands in laughing surrender. “Unless you have a shovel so I can really dig myself a hole, I’m going to bow out of this conversation.”

“Yeah, yeah. I’ll let you off the hook if you show me how to use Instagram later. It seems to be my best chance of seeing pictures of my grandbabies, and I don’t get it.”

“Of course. I’ll swing by your desk at lunch.”

“Perfect. Now, go on in and see Steve as soon as you’re settled, ’kay? He’s free till ten and wants to see you.”

I feel a little stab of nervousness at the thought. I haven’t heard from him since turning in my report on Friday, and . . . it’s weird. The guy’s always been borderline anal about prompt communication, but with Ian’s case, Steve’s been either dodgy or annoyed any time I try to get him to even talk about it.

“Will do,” I say, setting my purse down and punching the power button on my computer.

“Nice work on the case, by the way,” she calls over her shoulder.

“Hey, Evie?” I say before she can leave. “Is something going on?”

She blinks in confusion. “What do you mean?”

“Everyone seems under the impression that I’ve done something . . . exceptional,” I say.

“Well sure, babe. You wrapped the case.”

“Yeah, but—”

“Evie!”

We both turn to see one of the VPs throwing his hands up in the air in impatience.

“Oh crap,” she mutters. “I gotta run, hon.”

I blow out a breath. “Okay.”

But she doesn’t even hear me; she’s already gone.

I start to unpack my box from Wolfe but decide to wait. If Steve’s got another case for me, I’ll just have to pack up again anyway.

I stop in the break room for a cup of coffee on my way to his office. When I take a sip, I wince. Let’s just say it’s not quite the caliber of what was in the Wolfe offices. There you could choose from three different machines, each one with a hundred different milk options.

And sometimes people would bring you fancy drinks from Starbucks.

You did not join a government agency to get pampered, I remind myself. It’s not like the FBI is known for its great coffee, either.

Shaking my head, I start toward Steve’s office, giving a faint smile at the few thumbs-ups and way to gos, trying to ignore the premonition that something is seriously wrong. His door is closed and Evie’s on the phone, but she motions for me to go in.

I knock and hear Steve’s sharp “Yallow,” which I’ve learned over the years means, “Hi, come on in.”

I open the door but draw up short when I see he’s not alone. “Oh! I’m so sorry.”

“No worries, Ms. McKenzie, I was just leaving,” the man says, standing and buttoning his suit jacket.

He looks familiar, and my brain scrambles to place him. Medium height, medium build, medium brown hair . . .

Nope, no chance.

He takes pity on me and extends a hand. “Jacob Houghton. I’m Steve’s—”

“Brother-in-law,” I say, shaking his hand as the pieces snap into place. “Of course. We met at Steve’s wedding. I apologize. I seem to have a bit of Monday morning brain fog, and this is my first cup.” I lift the mug of black tar.

He gives a good-natured laugh. “Understandable. You’ve had a busy few weeks.”

I look at Steve for guidance, a little unsure why his brother-in-law knows anything about my workload. The guy’s not SEC, he’s . . . I can’t remember, exactly. Something in finance, but not particularly high up any food chain, if memory serves.

My boss isn’t paying our conversation any attention, though, his focus on a document in his hand.

“Good seeing you again, Ms. McKenzie. Steve, I’ll call you later. Or Whitney will. One way or another we’ll get you and Katherine over for dinner this week.”

Steve gives a noncommittal grunt as Jacob closes the door.

Familiar with my boss’s inability or disinclination to multitask, I take a seat and sip my wretched coffee as I wait for him to finish reading.

A couple of minutes later, he sets the paper inside a file folder on his desk, then blinks a little in surprise, as though forgetting I was there.

“Right. Lara. How are you? Good weekend?”

The best.

“Yeah, it was all right. Yours?”

“Busy,” he murmurs. “Very busy.”

Guess that explains why you couldn’t reply to my e-mail on Friday.