A Lot like Love (FBI/US Attorney #2)(51)
“What about his job?” Xander asked. “This real estate business or whatever that he owns.”
Mercks nodded. “Stanton is the sole owner of a real estate investment company that owns rental properties. He’s got a small office in Lakeview that appears to be staffed with two other employees, at least from what we’ve seen. Stanton gets to work every morning by eight thirty, leaves at six. Takes a half-hour lunch around one, seems to favor Jimmy John’s. Not sure if he likes turkey or roast beef—that didn’t seem necessary to the report.”
Xander scowled, not appreciating the humor. “And his relationship with Jordan?”
“We’ve been tailing him ever since your party, just like you asked. He spent that night at her house, and then they went for coffee in the morning. He saw her again yesterday evening—they had dinner with some of her friends who live in Andersonville. He brought her back to her house around midnight and spent about twenty minutes inside before he left.”
“He didn’t spend the night?” Xander asked.
“Maybe she had a headache.”
“Maybe she’s getting bored with him.”
Mercks shrugged. “You can decide for yourself. We’ve taken photos of the two of them together.” He tossed a manila envelope onto the desk. “They’re chronological.”
Xander pulled out the photographs. The first one in the stack was of Stanton and Jordan on the night of his party, judging from the purple dress he saw peeking out from underneath her coat. They were kissing on her front stoop and looked far from bored with each other.
He leafed through the remaining photos. Jordan holding hands with Stanton as they came out of a Starbucks. Stanton with his arm around her waist, whispering something in her ear as they waited on the front porch of an unfamiliar house, presumably her friends’ place. The final image was of Stanton, leaving Jordan’s house as she watched from the doorway.
“That last photo was taken last night,” Mercks said.
Xander put the photographs back into the envelope and set them off to the side. “I’m not convinced. And let me tell you why. I know a lot of people in this city, and I’ve been asking around about Nick Stanton. No one’s ever heard of the guy. So I’m supposed to believe that this nobody, who knows nothing about wine, comes out of the blue and just so happens to walk into Jordan’s store and sweep her off her feet? I’m not buying it.”
“People meet like that all the time,” Mercks said.
Xander jabbed his forefinger on his desk for emphasis. “People don’t meet Jordan Rhodes like that all the time. Her father has one point two billion dollars. Billion. I’m calling it now—this thing is some kind of setup. Stanton’s after her money. He’s probably a con artist or something.”
He pointed at Mercks. “You stay on Stanton until I say otherwise. There’s more to this story. I can feel it.”
THE FOLLOWING DAY in his fake office, Nick eased back in his desk chair. He grinned, amused with this latest report. “So Eckhart thinks I’m a con artist who’s after Jordan’s money. Good. That should keep him distracted for a while.”
He’d called Huxley after listening to the recording of the conversation. His partner had been stationed in the van a couple blocks from Bordeaux every day since he’d recovered from the stomach flu. Over the course of the past week and a half, they’d developed a good working relationship: Huxley listened live from the van to Eckhart’s conversations, then e-mailed for Nick’s review the digital audio files, along with notes of the minute and second markers for any conversations that were particularly relevant to their investigation.
Huxley took the day shift in the van, and they had two additional agents working the evening and early morning shifts—including Agent Simms, who, per Eckhart’s promise, had been fired from her bartending position the day after his party. The agents covering the second and third shifts similarly sent over audio files for Nick’s review, although thus far there’d been very little substantive evidence gathered through the recording devices during those hours.
They’d recorded a second conversation between Trilani and Eckhart, and this was good progress for their case. None of it, however, was particularly thrilling work. But Nick needed something to do while working at his fake office, and this kept him busy enough. Thus, they carried on: Huxley, holed up in a van seven days a week, weeding out hours upon hours of Eckhart’s tedious wine, nightclub, and restaurant-related conversations, and him, stuck in a stuffy office five days a week with two interns pretending to be “Ethan” the property manager and “Susie,” his office assistant.
Nick peered through the glass pane that separated his private office from the front office where the two interns worked. At least they were able to work remotely from their laptop computers, so the façade wasn’t a total waste of Bureau resources. Still, he could only imagine the excited looks on their faces when Davis had approached them with the chance to work undercover. A boring office job probably had not been what they’d had in mind.
“As long as you and Jordan keep Eckhart fooled about your supposed relationship, we should be fine,” Huxley said. “Still, I’ll feel better when we’re finished with the surveillance and can be done with this whole thing.”
Nick ran his hands through his hair, in agreement with that sentiment. The situation with Jordan was starting to seem too real for his comfort. This normally would be the point when he, sensing a possible attachment, would back away from the situation. But with her, he was trapped. Consequently, all he could do was carry on as usual, being that guy who didn’t let things become real, who was always handy with a quip but didn’t have feelings deeper than that.