For the second time since Kaylene’s and Kaydence’s deaths, Reid got up early and prepared to return to work. Yesterday he’d been in and out of the office with the trip to court and the time with Emilie Wesley. Now he needed to return to work as if nothing had happened. If he stayed away from the office longer, key clients would notice. It was harsh, but there were only so many big fish out there . . . Even if they were nice about it, his clients expected him to cater to their every whim the moment they considered it. And one or two of his colleagues would use any situation to move up.
Reid had carefully cultivated his pool over the five years he’d been in DC. He’d intentionally selected his mentor to learn how to develop his own list so he wouldn’t be dependent on anyone for crumbs.
Slowly, month by month, year by year, he’d done that. It wasn’t the perfect portfolio, but it gave him significant sums to manage for others. Sums he didn’t want to lose by disappearing, even with a justified absence.
It took a good forty minutes to commute to the downtown office in one of the high-rises off K Street. The area was known for its power brokers: lobbyists, lawyers, and special interests. It was the perfect place to position a firm designed to service financial needs of those too busy to focus their own energy and time toward the matter. As he stepped from the subway, he felt the smack of the humid, super-heated air.
Welcome to DC in August. All the weather was good for was dashing from the car to the Metro to the building, not to emerge until it was time to leave. Let people come to him.
As a family of sweat-soaked tourists passed, he considered telling them to abandon the sweltering monuments. They should stay indoors and explore the memorials as the sun lowered its way to the horizon, cloaking the scene in a velvet color that provided a stark contrast to the white marble of the lit edifices.
He pushed through the revolving door into the building’s lobby. A security guard, one he didn’t recognize, sat at a desk behind a surround of Plexiglas and nodded at him. Reid wondered if the screen was bulletproof and then decided he’d watched too many Jason Bourne movies. The security was one perk of working in a building with some kind of government agency hidden in its depths. It was great until Jimmy John’s couldn’t deliver.
He tugged his ID and lanyard from his pocket and swiped it across the gate, then hung it around his neck. As soon as the gate opened he walked through, joining the flood of worker bees heading to the elevators for the swoosh to higher floors.
Light ricocheted off the highly polished stone floor of the lobby as suits and professionals hurried toward the bank of elevators. A few palm trees were scattered around the space in an attempt to soften the edges, but Reid’s clients didn’t care one way or the other. They liked the high-security location—something many were used to in their everyday lives. The burden of having more money than Midas.
He stepped into an already-crammed elevator. It felt like they were part of a clowns-in-a-tiny-car exercise. He half expected someone to be filming the scene with a phone . . . perfect for a social media feed that would go viral.
Slowly they progressed, one halting floor at a time, one or two exiting at every floor until those remaining could breathe. Finally the doors opened on the nineteenth floor, and he slid through the stragglers and into the lobby of Fletcher & Associates, Wealth Management. Here nothing was held back to create the perfect image. A Remington sculpture sat on the large square coffee table, a row of pricey magazines on the ledge below. A chocolate-brown leather couch was offset by two deep chairs. Clients often complained about having to leave the perches for a meeting. A Persian rug of rich reds and blues lay beneath it all, the plushness quieting steps until people cleared it.
He strode across the space to the mahogany raised desk where the guardian of the inner sanctum sat. Priscilla Rand was a calm, almost boring woman in her midforties, in her prim navy suit with cream blouse, a colorful scarf with an abstract design softening her appearance slightly.
She stood as he came around and stepped toward him with arms open. He paused, knowing there was no escape.
“There are no words, Reid.” She gave him a quick hug, one that felt sincere while appropriately brief. “Are you sure you should be here?”
“I was actually here a bit yesterday. Had to come in before I drove myself crazy.” He covered the words with a rueful smile.
She frowned at him. “I must have been at lunch. But it’s too early for you to be back.”
“I need to do something.”
“And the sharks are circling.” She stepped back to meet his gaze. “Mr. Fletcher would hold them at bay.”
“That might not be enough when there’s blood in the water.” The common phrase had never been so real to him. “I’ll be fine.”
“Well, if you need anything let me know. Simone is trying hard to keep things for you.”
He nodded and then continued down the hall and up the stairs to the second floor. The double-story lobby provided a stunning visual space, but it also served as a barrier between the support staff and Marvin Fletcher and his key associates. It had taken five years for Reid to permanently ascend the stairs.
Simone Teal sat inside Reid’s office, tablet and stylus poised to take notes the moment he walked in the door. He paused, then removed his jacket and hung it on the hook behind his door, striding in his shirtsleeves to his desk. If he moved fast enough she wouldn’t repeat the scene with Priscilla. But the Howard University grad didn’t embarrass either of them by doing that. Smart enough to be an associate in her own right, Simone insisted she wanted to learn the ropes from someone before she decided about the trajectory of her career.
Reid knew it wouldn’t last, but he’d take her keen insights every moment she stayed.
“What have I missed?” She’d been out the prior day for a planned personal day, and he needed her download to get back in the flow.
With that, Simone launched into a systematic analysis of what had happened at the firm in the last week, before working him through a list of clients with immediate needs. “Mr. Devenue will require your personal assistance and assurance. He’s being hesitant.”
“Understood.” For a man who’d minted a small fortune launching a high-tech company in the shadow of AOL, Devenue was reluctant to move forcefully with his own funds. “I’ll get on the phone with him and get him on board.”
Simone looked uncertain. “There’s more involved this time than his usual reluctance.”
“I’ll handle it.” Calming the nerves of the wealthy who wanted to grow their assets was what Reid did well. Very well.
“Here are my notes. I also need to update you on a few other accounts.” Twenty minutes later she sat back and regarded him intently. “Are you sure there isn’t anything I can do to help you with personal matters?”
“I’m trying to unravel what happened inside my sister’s house. So unless you have some secret video feed that lets us know, there isn’t.” He tapped the stack of paper. “Thanks for all you did last week. I’ll get started contacting the ones you noted.”
Simone left him with a whispered, “Good luck.”
As Reid glanced over her notes, he knew he wouldn’t need luck. Luck had never done much for him, but hard work and prayer had. That’s what he relied on.
One of her notes made him pause.
Vincent told Fletcher he’d follow up on your accounts while needed. I told him I would do that, but Vincent got to Priscilla and convinced her to route your calls to him. He charmed Mrs. Maverick, and she’s considering transferring the account.
The words were practically gouged into the paper.
Vincent Ross was the type to take advantage of his absence no matter the reason. He’d proven he’d scrabble and step on anyone if they got him a rung closer to his goal. He had rushed into the small firm with a chip on his shoulder and thrust it around with everyone but clients. To them he could be as charming as the best used car salesman—no offense to those who were good at what they did. He was not. But he somehow managed to convince everyone he was by stealing other people’s analyses and work.
The Maverick portfolio was worth a small fortune. Reid logged into the firm’s system and started poking around. But when he tried to access the Maverick account and see what damage Vincent had done, he was blocked. He frowned and tried another avenue, with no success.
So, the man was intent on keeping him out.
He could do an end run of his own.
He picked up his phone and dialed George Maverick at his office. Odd that the call rang through to voicemail. He hung up without leaving a message and turned back to Simone’s notes. Everything else looked okay. That she’d managed to contain Vincent’s end run was impressive in and of itself. He made a note to give her a more visible role with select clients. She was ready, with him as her backstop, but knowing her work ethic, she wouldn’t need much.
He rubbed his temples and scanned his calendar. Other than a firm meeting that afternoon, his day was impossibly clear. The hazard of coming back unexpectedly.
Good. It gave him time to research and consider new ways to reach prospective clients, and a good reason to contact his book of business. Offer to pay for coffee for clients and their interested friends. Up it to a nice lunch at Old Ebbitt or someplace similar for key individuals. Mr. Fletcher had taught him that the right amount of wining and dining was a necessary expense.
He hopped on the phone and systematically connected with each client, watching his calendar fill up as he did. There was hesitancy in some voices, but the promise of a free lunch if they brought a friend worked. No matter how rich they were, people liked a meal on his tab. Then he called Jordan Westfall.
A self-made millionaire several times over, Jordan had the look and feel of a Mark Z, genius with the savvy to get the right people around him to make his ideas succeed. He liked to tell people he still tinkered at the high-tech firm he’d sold. Anybody else would call it creating the apps they relied on to manage their lives.
“You want what?” Jordan had the slightly distracted sound that conveyed Reid had caught him in the middle of a thought.
“To take you to lunch and update you on your portfolio.” He paused a moment. “We didn’t get a chance to talk about that yesterday.”
“That other guy’s not taking my account. You can stop worrying. And I still haven’t decided about Almost Home.”
“Okay.” Reid dragged out the word, a bit taken aback.
“Schedule time with David for basketball. I’ll be there.” He chuckled. “We can talk money then.”
“Will do.” Although they would not talk money then. Those conversations needed much more privacy than the local Y provided. And he felt awkward having business bleed into what had been a stress release for as long as he’d known David.
“See you then.” And Jordan was gone.
Reid held the phone in his hand, hesitating. David Evans had been there throughout college. They’d diverged for grad school, David going to law school while Reid got his MBA with an emphasis in finance at a top New York school. They had reconnected when he first moved to Virginia, diverging again when David made Ciara Turner his bride. Marriage tended to limit those easygoing nights of playing pick-up games of basketball that left both huffing and puffing.
It would be good to try, but now that David had a newborn daughter, Reid wasn’t holding his breath.