Beast in the Tower. Julie Miller
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stupid enough to use the freight elevator, the noise of which would certainly alert those do-gooders who ran the restaurant on the ground floor that there were trespassers on the upper floors of the building.
“You took the stairs, didn’t you? I warned you to use the stairs.”
The words fell on deaf ears. “Look, the blast won’t affect us down here, but the cops’ll question anybody on the premises. Those fifteen minutes will go by faster than you think. We need to get out of here.”
Inhale. Exhale.
“It will take months—maybe years—of research to recreate Dr. Sinclair’s formulas from these notes. My investors may not be as patient as I—”
The little man dared to point a finger. “I brought you the files you specified, replaced them with the fakes so no one would know they were stolen, just like you said. And hell, yeah, I took the stairs.”
“I told you we’d need the codes.”
“They weren’t there! I turned that place inside out. They must be hidden someplace else. I don’t know where else to look, what else to do.”
“Yes, your incompetence is staggering.” The gun slipped from its waistband holster as easily as the decision to use it was made. Damon Sinclair was a crafty bastard, but he could be beaten. Though not if there was someone on the team who couldn’t get the job done. “It’s cost me more than I anticipated already.”
His gaze narrowed and focused on the gun. “What are you gonna do?”
Aim between the eyes. Pull the trigger before you can run. The leprechaun’s head jerked back. He hit the wall and slumped to the floor. Dead. “Get better help.”
Chapter One
The Present
“My wife will be worried if I’m late getting home. I’ve been out of town on business this week.”
“Take him straight to the shelter.” Hiding her sad smile, Katherine Snow wrapped a ten-dollar bill around the disposable cup of coffee and passed it through the open window to the taxi driver on the late-night shift. She shivered, missing the warmth of the cup the instant it left her hands. “I owe you one, Tariq.”
But the cabbie shook his head and tried to return the cash. “If this is your good coffee, it is payment enough.”
Kit pulled her fingers inside the sleeves of her sweater and tucked them against her chest. “You know I always brew a fresh pot for night owls like us.”
“The shelter is just a couple of blocks away.” He pushed the ten-dollar bill her way again. “Save this for Matty’s college fund. You should make Old Henry walk.”
One, she had no clue whether or not her teenage brother would make it through his last semester of high school, much less go on to college; two, even with her limited profit margin she could spare ten dollars; and three, “Old Henry,” as Tariq had dubbed him, was in no shape to walk anywhere. Especially since he thought “home” included a wife who had passed away a decade ago.
Henry would never find his way through the minefield of construction equipment that lined the streets and surrounded the Sinclair Building where her diner was located. “Two weeks ago, one of Kronemeyer’s electricians touched a live wire upstairs and had a heart attack. And what about that old concrete cornice that fell off the side of the building? If Henry hadn’t come inside to get out of the cold, he would have had his brains bashed in. Or the masonry worker who supposedly just walked off the job—without collecting his paycheck or telling his boss to shove it—and hasn’t been seen since? Believe me, I’m happy to pay for Henry’s cab,” Kit insisted.
Henry Phipps had come in for a free meal of leftovers and coffee to sober him up enough to allow him admission to the area shelter. And just like the other nights when he’d shown up at closing, Kit had refused to turn him away.
Tariq shook his head and argued, “You do too much.”
“I try to tell her the same thing. She doesn’t listen.”
Kit rolled her eyes up at the pepper-haired black man who’d helped her load their last customer into the cab’s backseat. “You’re not saying I’m pigheaded, are you, Germane?”
“I’m saying that once you set your mind to a thing…ah, hell.” He shrugged and surrendered to the inevitable. “You’re just like your daddy was.”
“A great cook?”
Germane snorted. “A sucker for every sad story that came through his front door. I wish you had more of your mama’s good sense. And who does most of the cookin’ around here?”
Kit grinned and linked one arm through his, bowing to the master short-order cook. Germane Knight had been a family friend for far too long to take any of his grousing seriously. Though they’d served together as combat medics in Vietnam, he was as big a softie as her father had been. “Fine. You run the kitchen, I run everything else. Like customer relations. It’s after midnight, below freezing and it’s snowing again. Good sense says it isn’t safe for anyone to be outside on his own.”
“I am giving in even if you are not, G.” Tariq raised his cup in a toast to Kit, then tossed the ten-dollar bill to a confused Henry in the backseat. “We will all freeze to death if we sit here and argue until she changes her mind.”
“Don’t I know it.” Germane had a surprisingly deep belly laugh for such a tall, slender man. He dodged Kit’s elbow to his ribs, reached out and thumped the roof of the cab, clearing Tariq to be on his way. “Be safe, my friend.”
With a wave, Tariq checked the light traffic, then whipped away from the curb in a U-turn to avoid construction in the lane ahead. Kit and Germane jumped back as sooty slush spun from beneath the tires up onto the sidewalk. Kit was still shaking the glop off her boots when Germane pulled her back toward the brightly lit windows of the Snow Family Barbecue Grill and Diner.
“C’mon, girl. We’d best get out of the cold air ourselves and get this place shut down for the night. I’m feelin’ the chill in my knees somethin’ fierce.”
“In a minute.” Giving his arm a reassuring pat, Kit pushed Germane toward the diner’s front door. “The dishes are already in the washer. Go ahead and turn off the neon signs and start cleaning the grill. I’ll be there in a sec to take care of the pans and count down the money.”
Kit huddled inside her cable-knit sweater and peered into the filmy shadows beyond the circles of lamplight dotting the street to the north and south. An older woman slowed her car and pulled into the parking garage next door. A pair of faceless figures buried their faces in their hoods and collars as they left the shelter of Hannity’s Bar and cut across the slickening street.
Could the young man in the red-and-gold Kansas City Chiefs parka be Matt? He wasn’t old enough to buy a drink, but that kid was rebelling with a vengeance against the forced parenting of his older sister. Kit had left graduate school and come home after their parents’ unexpected deaths, thinking he needed her. She knew she needed him. But they were each dealing with their grief in different ways. She thought Matt wanted a home, but apparently, her one-time Stanford-bound brother just wanted his space.
But a Chiefs parka was common enough this time of year in a football-crazed city like K.C. When the two bar patrons turned north away from the diner, Kit wondered anew where Matt could be at 12:00 a.m. on a Thursday night. She was going to have to do the tough-love thing and ground his tardy ass for being out so late on a school night.
Shivering at the pending sense of loss she couldn’t quite explain, Kit looked up and down the street one more time. She couldn’t see much else through the steel scaffolding and plastic sheeting that framed the building’s facade and curved into the side alley. Though the work on her own first-floor apartment and business had been completed three months ago, the construction team renovating the twenty-nine floors above her in the Depression-era Sinclair Building never seemed