The Private Concierge. Suzanne Forster

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      “Who are you? And why did you call me Lucia?” Haughty and unflinching, she seemed determined to brazen it out. The years had softened her facial features, but little else. Inside, she was probably still as tough as a wire cutter, but that had to be mostly facade. A woman who’d built a successful concierge service from the ground up knew what people needed, inside and out. She played on those needs, had to. She personified the private concierge. Lane’s early clients gushed her praises on the Web site, giving testimonials with the passion of religious converts. Apparently she’d saved them all in one way or another. Rick wouldn’t have been surprised if she’d delivered some babies.

      Her eye color seemed different than he remembered. It was still blue, but closer to royal than azure, and not nearly as sharp or crystalline. He wondered if this was part of her identity change, maybe contact lenses. But that could wait. Mimi hadn’t gotten back to him with the Nexus-Lexus results, so Rick had no proof of any adult priors. And this wasn’t the time to confront Lane about the murder-suicide or the package. But she was a woman under a lot of pressure—and he could apply more. Maybe she’d pop.

      “Because that’s your name, Lucia—Lucy—Cox. Is your mind racing yet? Just wait. If you’re telling yourself that your juvenile records were sealed and no one could possibly prove what you did back then, don’t be so sure. And in your case, it’s not going to matter, anyway. The rumors will be enough to muddy up your professional reputation.”

      She stiffened, caught somewhere between outrage and disbelief. He wondered how long it would take her to figure out that he wasn’t a robber, a rapist or a blackmailer. He was the cop who’d put her in juvie—and made sure she didn’t get out for a very long time.

      

      Lane touched the tattered rubber band on her wrist, knowing that nothing could jump-start her frozen heart. The intruder had her cell phone and it might as well have been a weapon. At first she’d detected something familiar about his brush cut and aviator sunglasses, but it could have been the military thing, which was burned into the American psyche and a staple in plenty of action movies. All the bad guys wore metal-framed glasses, rode motorcycles and looked like RoboCop.

      “Who are you?” she asked. “And what do you want?”

      He studied the cell’s display. “What kind of car do you drive?”

      “I prefer walking.”

      “I’m sure the security people know what you drive. Shall I ask them?” He held up the phone.

      “It’s a Lexus hybrid.”

      “Nice, a social conscience.” He nodded. “Where were you this afternoon at 4:00 p.m.?”

      She hesitated, wondering if had something to do with her visit from the police about Simon Shan, but no, that had been earlier, when she got back from lunch. “I was right here, working. Do I need an alibi for something?”

      “You might. Tell me about your clients—and start with Ned Talbert.”

      Lane had told no one but Darwin about Ned Talbert joining the service. Talbert may have told someone, but she thought it more likely that this man was trying to bluff information out of her. Still, that wasn’t her greatest concern right now. She’d already begun to ask herself if he could be the person behind the assault on her company. There was no way to know what his motive might be, but clearly, he was after her, too.

      There was a metal letter opener lying on her desk, but he would probably get there first. “I don’t discuss my clients with anyone,” she informed him. “And if I did, I’d have to have that person killed.”

      He tilted his head at her, as if she was a kid he’d caught in a lie. “Good thing your cell can’t talk. You’d have to have it killed. Priscilla Brandt needs a straitjacket and the police are asking questions about Simon Shan. And oh, yes, Jerry Blair of TopCo has a very spoiled daughter about to turn sixteen.”

      He stopped, as if to say, “Do you get it, Lane? I heard everything, and I can use it against you. It would be like swatting a fly.”

      Heat crept up Lane’s neck. Threats had the unfortunate effect of bringing out the street fighter in her. At the same time, she was aware that she’d put one of her favorite moody CDs in the music system. The Doobie Brothers soared into the chorus of “What a Fool Believes,” and she let the music work on her, soothe her. She’d given up any hope that this man could be easily dealt with. He seemed determined to be her worst nightmare, another action-movie cliché, except that they weren’t in a theater.

      “What do you want?” she asked him. “Is it money?”

      “I think that’s my line, isn’t it?”

      By the disdain in his tone, he must have been talking about sex, but she had no idea why. “Listen, I have a business to run, people to take care of. Just tell me what you want.”

      “People, right—all your hotshot clients?”

      “No, my staff. I employ hundreds, and they depend on me.”

      “Did Ned depend on you?”

      Lane flinched as the intruder reached inside his leather jacket. He came straight for her, and she ducked down, ready to fight if she had to. He’d pulled out a wallet-size card, she realized.

      “Maybe I’m looking for a private concierge,” he said. He handed her the card, and then returned her cell with a mock-courteous nod. “I’ll be in touch.”

      Lane glanced down at what appeared to be his business card. It had a company name and a phone number. She read the name Bayless Extreme Solutions with a slow-dawning sense of recognition, but she wasn’t ready to let herself believe it. This wasn’t possible. He was the part of her past she wanted to expunge, topping the list of people she never wanted to see again. How had he turned up in her life after all these years?

      She wasn’t sure how much time had passed, but when she looked up, he was gone. She was wet everywhere, filmed in perspiration. His card was twisted in her fingers, and the dampness at the back of her neck was icy cold.

      Never, she thought. Never assume a bad day can’t get worse.

      12

      Darwin didn’t fear death, dismemberment or even a mild case of herpes. He did fear spitting on Janet Bonofiglio when he kissed her. He tended to do that when he got excited, but only if he was talking, and he and Janet weren’t doing all that much talking right now. She was toying with the hair that had tumbled onto his forehead like a dark dust mop, pulling on the rubber-band curls and murmuring about how smart he was. He was trying not to suffocate from lack of oxygen.