Perfect Victim (Nadia Stafford 3.6)

"That is my wife."

The cabbie eyed Jack and shrugged. "Maybe. But if it is? I'd suggest letting her cool down. Go buy her a lei or something. Maybe a bottle of champagne. Have it chilled for when she gets back. She'll appreciate that far more than you chasing her down after a fight."

Jack leaned forward, the gun under his jacket shifting, reminding him how easy it would be to resolve this issue. Which was the problem with guns--they made every issue far too easy to resolve. And sometimes--most times--that was just a fucking bad idea.

Jack hesitated only a moment. Then he swung open the door and got out of the cab.

Chapter Twenty-four

Nadia

Jack was trying to get hold of me. He'd called while I'd been in the cab, and I'd let it go to voice mail. Then he texted--he wanted to talk about the case. I replied that, yes, we should do that . . . as soon as I got back.

That's when my cab arrived at its destination, and I added a quick second text: See you soon! before turning off my phone.

Angela said she'd be coming directly from work to meet me. Therefore, "work" was the first place I'd look for her. I headed straight to the parking garage and found her car there, with no signs of tampering.

I sent her another text. Her phone now went directly to voice mail.

I unzipped my light jacket--easier access to my gun--and headed for the stairwell. The broken card reader meant I got in easily. I climbed to Angela's office without passing so much as a security camera.

When I reached her floor, I glanced down the hall to see her office door ajar. I took out my gun and proceeded, step by careful step, along the wall. Then I eased over and slowly pushed the door open a few inches. I listened for some response from within. The office stayed dark and silent.

Gun ready, I swung in.

The reception area was empty, lit only by the glow of the security system. The unarmed security system, the light solid green.

I started toward Angela's office. The door was wide open, and there seemed to be a light on inside. I rounded the reception desk and . . .

A foot protruded from behind the desk. A foot in a man's stylish leather loafer, topped by a patterned sock. I moved cautiously, gun poised. When I could see the rest of the body, I stopped. From the shoe and sock, I'd expected Angela's well-dressed receptionist, Richard. Instead, Howard Lang lay crumpled on the floor.

I hurried over. Even as I dropped beside him, I could see his chest rising and falling. He was fine.

I gripped his shoulder. "Howard?"

He groaned.

"Howard."

There was no blood, no sign of injury, so I gave his shoulder a shake. He lifted his head.

"Wh--what?" he slurred as he peered around. "Where . . . ?"

He looked over his shoulder and saw me. Three hard blinks. Then he shook his head and straightened.

"Nancy," he said. "What are you . . . ? Shit!"

He scrambled up but swayed and had to grab the desk for support.

I helped him sit and crouched beside him.

"Angela," he said. "Where's Angela?"

"I was going to ask you that. She was supposed to meet me for drinks, and she never showed. What happened?"

"She hit me over the head." He fingered the back of his skull and winced. "Damn it. I did not see that coming."

"Angela hit you?"