Page 7 of Velvet Vaughn

“I’m fine. Tell Hillary I said hi.”

“I will. Call me this weekend if fine turns sideways.”

“I’ll call you regardless.”

Leo handed his half-empty club soda to a passing server and approached the valet stand with the news alert an irritating weight in his pocket he couldn’t ignore.

The valet brought the Range Rover around, and Leo breathed a sigh of relief. After it had been stolen a few months ago by the man who had stalked Chloe, he was paranoid about leaving it with strangers. Leo slid behind the wheel and pulled onto Ladue Road before the valet had finished closing the door. The GPS offered him a route home to the Central West End. Leo ignored it and pointed the SUV toward Clayton instead.

The Pinnacle Sports Management offices occupied the top four floors of a glass tower on Forsyth, twelve minutes from Bellerive on a good traffic day and fifteen on a Friday. Leo drove with the radio off, which was unlike him. He usually had sports talk going or an audiobook or the classic rock station his father had raised him on. Today, he wanted the silence because his brain was trying to sort something, and it needed room.

Tony’s. Tuesday night. Vic Shaw in the corner booth closest to the kitchen door.

The memory returned in pieces. Leo had walked in for a late dinner after a client call ran long, and he’d spotted Vic from the host stand. He’d nearly walked back out. They had a history. Fifteen months ago, Vic had tried to steal a rookie wide receiver off Leo’s roster with a story about Leo overbilling for travel. Leo had come close to filing a defamation complaint before the kid came to his senses and stayed. Leo hadn’t spoken to Vic since.

Before he could cut a rusty dusty, Vic glanced up from his plate and lifted a hand. If he’d been cocky or sarcastic, Leo would’ve flipped him off and spun around to leave. Instead, he’d looked tired, his expression close to pleading.

Leo had taken the stool at the bar so he wouldn’t have to commit to a table. Vic had come over with his bourbon and slid onto the stool next to him without being invited.

“Leo. You got a minute?”

“I’ve got a steak coming.”

“I won’t keep you.”

Leo had studied him then, and what kept coming back to him now was his face. Vic had lost weight. Not gym weight. The other kind that fell off when someone stopped sleeping and eating, and started watching the door. His collar was too loose. The hand around the bourbon glass had a tremor Leo had assumed was the alcohol itself, but now that he played it back, the glass hadn’t been near empty. Vic hadn’t been drunk. He’d been scared.

Then there had been one comment Leo had written off at the time, but the words surfaced now with uncomfortable clarity.

“I know we’re not friends, De Luca. I know I’ve been a bastard. But I’m gonna ask you this, and I need you to remember I asked, okay? If something happens to me, and somebody tells you a story about why, I need you to not believe the first version you hear. Can you do that for me?”

Leo, halfway through a sip of club soda, had set the glass down and slid a sideways glance at him.

“Vic. Are you okay?”

“I’m just tired. Forget I said anything.”

Vic’s phone had buzzed on the bar. He’d glanced at it, and his face had done something Leo couldn’t quite define. He’d slid off the stool and walked out of the restaurant without finishing his bourbon or saying goodbye.

Leo had eaten his steak, paid his tab, gone home, and not thought about it again.

Until now.

The Range Rover’s tires hummed on the concrete. Leo’s grip on the wheel had tightened between the on-ramp and Brentwood before he realized it. He relaxed his fingers, flexed them, and made himself take a breath that went to the bottom of his lungs. “If something happens to me, and somebody tells you a story about why . . .”

The story was suicide.

Leo pulled into the parking garage under the Pinnacle Tower at 5:41. He took the elevator up to the forty-second floor and stepped out into a reception area that was three-quarters dark. The overhead lights had dimmed to the after-hours setting as the last of the daylight poured in through the west-facing windows in long, horizontal bars of amber. Most of the firm had cleared out for the weekend. The cleaning crew wouldn’t start their rounds for another hour.

Marcy Bell was still at her desk where she always was.

Marcy was sixty-five years old and built like a retired ballet instructor. She ran Leo’s professional life with a brisk efficiency that made other agents offer her twice her salary every six months to work for them. She never took the offers. A framed photograph of her late husband sat on her desk beside a coffee mug with the slogan, I’m not arguing, I’m explaining why I’m right. Marcy had been the first person at Pinnacle to welcome Leo when he walked in the door six years ago with a cane, a law degree, and no idea what he was doing with the rest of his life.

She glanced up when the elevator dinged.

“I thought you were golfing until seven.”

“Cocktails ran short.”