Page 64

“What size lobsters?” he asked.

“The biggest you can find.”

CHAPTER 64

POE LOOKED OUT the side window of the cab as it slowed for a red light at Sixth Avenue and West 40th Street in Midtown. He tapped the plexiglass divider to get the cabbie’s attention. “Close enough,” Poe said. “We’ll get out here.”

The cabbie pulled over. Holmes paid the fare as Poe climbed out and headed down West 40th. He stopped in the middle of the block and waited for Holmes to catch up. The address was a nondescript three-story building across from Bryant Park, the snow-covered open space behind the New York Public Library. The building was squeezed between a glass-fronted yoga studio and an apartment building that was being gutted. Scaffolding and protective netting covered the renovation project from the roof to the sidewalk.

Poe walked up the short flight of concrete steps and pulled on the door handle.

“Locked?” asked Holmes.

“It’s New York City,” said Poe, “not Archer’s Branch.”

He looked at the names on the buzzer panel alongside the door. First floor: Austin Imports. Second floor: Hopkins Realty. The line for the top floor was blank. Just a strip of white label tape with nothing on it.

Poe looked up to see a well-dressed woman coming down the inside stairs and through the lobby. He pulled Holmes quickly toward the side railing, as if they were inspecting the construction next door. When the woman pushed the door open and walked off, Poe waited until the last second, then turned and stuck his foot into the space between the frame and the closing door.

“We’re in.”

The elevator was out of order. Maybe the demolition crew from the apartment building had sliced a cable. Or maybe the landlord was behind on maintenance. The lobby was run-down and grimy. The stairs were dished in the center from decades of traffic. Poe headed up, with Holmes right behind.

When they reached the third level, Poe looked left and right. The floor was newly tiled in expensive-looking slate, and the walls had a fresh coat of white paint. Up here, somebody had spent some money. It didn’t even feel like the same building. There was a single door at the end of the short corridor, but it didn’t look like a typical office entrance. It looked like the door to a bank vault.

Poe pulled out his cell phone and dialed the unlisted number Virginia had managed to locate. He put the phone on speaker.

Two rings, then, “SunForce Capital.”

“Jock Stapleton?”

“Who the hell is this?”

Poe had a good ear for voices. It’s him, he mouthed. Holmes nodded.

“I’m a potential investor,” said Poe.

“This is a closed fund. I’m not looking for investors.”

“Is Oliver Paul?”

Silence. Then, “Where are you calling from?”

“Two feet outside your door.”

About ten seconds passed. Long enough for anyone inside to check a surveillance camera and maybe make a quick exit down a fire escape.

Poe looked at Holmes. They’d been too hasty. “One of us should have covered the back.”

Just then, he heard the sound of metal sliding. The heavy door swung open. A familiar face poked out and immediately turned toward Holmes. “I assume they haven’t charged you yet. Or are you out on bail?”

“Two facts I would expect my lawyer to know,” said Holmes.

Poe and Holmes stepped into the office, which was clean and sleek, with glass-topped desks and blond wood trim. It looked like an Apple Store. But there were no other employees. A two-screen Bloomberg Terminal setup hung over one of the desks. The other desks were bare. Not even a phone console.

“What should we call you?” asked Holmes.

“Since you’re here, Stapleton would be fine. Jock if you prefer to be familiar.”