Page 17

“What did he say to Rick?”

“The door was closed. He stayed about fifteen minutes, then left.” Linda writes her number on a card. “Please call if you find Connor. I’ll do the same if he contacts anyone here.”

I give her my number, then grip her hand for a moment. “Thank you for telling us. If you remember anything else, even a detail that seems unimportant, please call me.”

Outside, traffic rushes along the wet street while I compare Linda’s information with the planner entry. Andrei was supposed to meet Connor Tuesday night, then came to the bank looking for him yesterday. Rick knew both men had reason to speak but avoided admitting how much he knew.

“We have two possibilities,” Birdie says. “Andrei hurt Connor, or he’s trying to find him too.”

“Or both men are hiding different parts of the same story.” I pull the vineyard invitation from my purse and study the dark gold crest. “The tasting is Saturday, and this admits two guests.”

Birdie looks at the invitation, then at me. “Are we going to a luxury wine event to question a billionaire we’ve never met?”

“We’re going to ask Andrei Dragorin why my brother called me before their dinner and vanished afterward.” I slide the invitation back into its envelope. “If he refuses to answer, I’ll keep asking until he does.”

Birdie releases a breath of reluctant approval and tugs her braid. “I packed one dress, and it has paint on the hem.”

“I packed jeans and a sweater, so you’re already winning.” I step into the rain and turn toward Connor’s apartment. “We’ll solve the clothing problem after we figure out whether our host is a worried client, a liar, or the last person to see Connor before he disappeared.”

For the first time since Connor stopped answering, I have a person to confront and a place to begin, and whatever Andrei Dragorin knows about my brother, I’m going to make him tell me.

4

CASSIE

Birdie and I make it half a block toward Connor’s apartment before she moves beneath the shelter of a striped awning and turns to face me. Rain darkens the shoulders of her green sweater, and strands of damp hair have escaped from her braid, but her attention remains fixed on the bank behind us.

“Rick lied about knowing why Connor met Andrei,” Birdie says matter-of-factly.

“He avoided admitting he knew, which might not be the same as lying.” I hear the weakness in my defense and rub my thumb across the edge of Linda’s card. “Although people usually split that hair when they need room to crawl through it later.”

“You asked whether he knew why they met, and he answered as if he had to protect Andrei’s banking information. Linda says Andrei came here looking for Connor and spent fifteen minutes alone with Rick.” Birdie folds her arms, bunching her damp sleeves at the elbows. “Rick knew they had business together.”

People stream past us beneath umbrellas, moving around our small island of suspicion without slowing. A man in a blue suit checks his watch as he crosses the street, while a woman guides a rolling briefcase around a puddle without looking up from her phone. Everyone appears to know where to go, and I resent them for having mornings that make sense.

“Maybe Rick didn’t know about the dinner until Andrei told him yesterday,” I say as we resume walking. “That would explain part of it. It wouldn’t explain why he waited for Connor to miss two days of work before becoming concerned, why he assumed Connor was sick without hearing from him, or why he kept touching his wedding ring whenever I asked about the loans.”

Birdie steps around a woman walking a tiny dog in a yellow raincoat. “Are you making excuses for him or building a case against him?”

“I don’t know yet.” I slip Linda’s card into my purse beside Rick’s, keeping the two separated even though paper can’t contaminate paper through suspicious behavior. “His story has too many loose pages, and I want to know what he removed before he handed it to us.”

We continue toward Connor’s building beneath a sky the color of wet cement. Traffic fills the street with engines, horns, and tires pushing through rainwater. Connor walks this route every weekday, and knowing he should be here makes his absence feel even worse.

The lobby guard lets us pass after I use Connor’s key fob, leaving me to wonder how many people can enter this building with an old key or enough confidence to discourage questions. His apartment door remains locked, and I study the frame before opening it, searching for scratches or damage that weren’t there when we left.

Nothing appears different, but that offered little comfort last night too.

Murphy greets us with a complaint loud enough to reach the hallway, then winds around my ankles while I stroke his thick orange coat. He isn’t hiding now, and nothing inside the apartment appears disturbed.

“We need to call Bellucci’s,” I say, straightening as Murphy follows my hands with his head. “The waiter said the manager would be there before lunch.”

Birdie checks the time on her phone, then walks into the kitchen and opens the refrigerator. “Connor owns mustard, bottled water, and half a lime. How does he survive?”

“Routine and takeout.” I call Bellucci’s. “Please stop judging his refrigerator while I attempt to sound responsible.”

A woman answers on the fourth ring and identifies herself as Marisol, the day manager. Dishes clink behind her while a man asks where someone put the basil.

“My name is Cassie Brewster,” I begin, pacing between the sofa and the windows. “I came in last night looking for my brother, Connor. One of your servers said you might have been working Tuesday evening.”