Tuesday
Kevin’s move was both good news and bad news. Good news because Hollander hadn’t taken him with her wherever she’d gone; bad news because it implied she’d been planning to flee. Something was very wrong, and I suspected Gregory Parks’ death on the subway tracks had triggered it. But that left me in an awkward position. What should I do with the flash drive? Return it to Hollander’s boss? Delcroft’s Human Resources Department? Gary Phillips? And what should I say when I did? I would only be getting myself in deeper.
My cell buzzed. I picked it up. The caller ID was blocked.
“Ms. Foreman?” The caller had a gravelly voice. Probably smoked two packs a day.
“Who’s calling?”
“This is Warren Stokes. I work for Delcroft. I’d like to pay you a visit.”
What was going on? “I haven’t run into you before. What is your position at Delcroft?”
A slight hesitation followed. “I worked with Charlotte Hollander, and we’ve been reviewing the videos you produced for her. We think there’s a lot of good material in them, and I want to talk about how we can revive the project.”
Surprise temporarily had me at a loss for words. After everything that had happened, now they wanted to resurrect the videos? Then I smiled. There was something very satisfying about coming full circle. Still, I replied cautiously. “I’m open to discussion.”
“Good, good,” Stokes said. “May I come to your house, say, in two hours?”
Suddenly I was leery. “My house? You don’t want me to come downtown?”
“I was just trying to make it more convenient for you.”
No way was I letting a stranger, Delcroft employee or not, into my house. Who was this guy, anyway?
“What did you say your name was?”
“Warren Stokes.”
“And your title?”
“Head of security for Delcroft.”
“Security? What’s your connection to the video?”
“I’d rather explain that in person.”
A red alert buzzed in my head. “Well, I’m sure you’ll understand that I’d rather meet you someplace public. Do you know Solyst’s? It’s a pub in Northfield.”
“I can find it,” he said, but his tone indicated he wasn’t happy about it.
“Great.” I checked my watch. It was three now. “How is five?”
Solyst’s used to be a dive bar. Then the owner sold it, and the new owners remodeled the restrooms, bought a bunch of flat-screen TVs, and expanded the menu. Now it’s a semi-dive, and one of my favorite haunts. I arrived early and nursed a glass of wine at the bar.
At five pm sharp, the throaty sound of a car engine outside hummed. I peeked through the glass doors of the bar. Then I blinked to make sure of what I was seeing. The same SUV I’d seen twice now, staking out my house and at Hollander’s the other night, was pulling into the parking lot. The SUV that couldn’t be found on any of Georgia’s databases. I seriously contemplated an immediate departure. But we were in a public place. If he tried anything at all, I would have plenty of help.
A stocky man got out of the SUV. He disappeared from view for a few moments, then reappeared and pushed through the door. He wore a ball cap and was dressed in chinos, a heavy sweater, and a bomber jacket, as if he’d once been in the military. He appeared to be in his sixties. I was sitting on a stool near the entrance.
“Warren Stokes?” I called out.
He nodded and studied me, as if assessing whether I was a threat. I was dressed in sweats, sweater, and boots, and I thought I saw a trace of relief on his face as he took me in. Meanwhile I assessed him. His eyes were hooded and pale: maybe gray, maybe blue, but definitely not friendly. A tiny spiderweb of veins ran down his nose.
“You’re Ellie Foreman?”
I nodded, mentally debating how much to tell him. The people who’d been staking out Hollander’s house worked for Delcroft. Which meant Delcroft was spying on their own people. And me. I decided I’d had enough.
“So tell me something, Mr. Stokes. Why were you staking out my house in your SUV last week?”