Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 73225 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 366(@200wpm)___ 293(@250wpm)___ 244(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 73225 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 366(@200wpm)___ 293(@250wpm)___ 244(@300wpm)
I pause, tempering my voice to something that won’t spike her nerves. “You need water. You rode the adrenaline wave, and now you’re dehydrating.”
She tries a shaky laugh. “Is that a medical diagnosis or a bodyguard one?”
“Both.” I hand her a chilled bottle from the minibar and wait until she’s taken two swallows. The color improves in her cheeks almost immediately. “Melanie’s expecting you?”
“She texted—wants to hit Vintner’s Lounge for girl talk.” Charlotte slides her phone across the counter so I can read the screen. No suspicious numbers, no coded language—just Melanie’s bubbly “Bring your cutest self, I’m buying the first round!”
“Stick to the main lobby route,” I say. “Bright, well-trafficked, CCTV everywhere. No side corridors.”
She salutes me—cheeky even when rattled—and disappears into the bedroom to freshen up. I set the note on the glass coffee table, snap a photo for record-keeping, then slip it inside a fresh evidence envelope from my kit and seal it. My brain runs concurrent subroutines: who planted it, why risk a public drop, what message exactly was intended? Fairytales don’t end well for liars—that’s literary flair, not brute intimidation. Someone clever. Someone who thinks theatrics matter.
Charlotte re-emerges in a teal wrap dress and wedge sandals, hair twisted up to reveal the graceful line of her neck. She looks composed, but her knuckles are still white on the strap of her purse. I force my attention away—client, Hawke, remember?—and do a 360° evaluation: clear earrings (nothing dangly an assailant can grab), shoulders back, eyes alert. Good.
“I’ll walk you to the lobby,” I say.
She arches a brow. “You’re not coming to happy hour? Might do you some good. You can scowl in the corner and intimidate the sommelier.”
“Tempting,” I deadpan, “but I’ve got calls to make.”
She opens her mouth, probably to protest that she doesn’t need babysitting, then thinks better of it. “Fine. Two-minute escort. Then you get to go be mysterious in your lair.”
In the hallway I keep my body canted slightly ahead of hers, a subtle shield. Charlotte keeps pace, her shoulders relaxing the farther we get from the suite. By the time we enter the elevator, she’s cracking jokes about how I breathed so much “predatory vibe” at the boutique owner earlier that the poor woman tried to upsell me beard oil. I play along, but my attention keeps snaring on reflective sconces, on the jogger who squeezes past in the corridor, on the too-long glance from a suited businessman checking in at the desk.
At the lobby’s marble threshold I stop. “Text when you sit down. Then every thirty minutes.”
“Yes, Dad.”
I lean in, lowering my voice. “If you feel eyes on you, or anything looks wrong, you call my cell. Speaker on, keep the line open. Understand?”
She nods, and something in her gaze shifts. For all her sass she likes knowing someone’s on the wall. Melanie appears, bright red lipstick and a sun-floral jumpsuit, and swoops Charlotte away. I watch until they disappear beneath the glowing arch into Vintner’s Lounge. Only then do I turn for the service elevator and punch the button for sublevel two—staff offices. Time to phone home.
I choose a maintenance alcove between the linen room and refrigeration. The scent of bleach masks conversation; the hum of air handlers provides natural white noise. I dial Dean’s secure line. He answers before the second ring.
“Talk to me, Hawke.”
“Got another escalation on the Sinclair front.” I drop the envelope on an upturned crate and angle my body so the corridor camera can’t catch my lips. “Typed note, windshield placement. Message: Fairytales don’t end well for liars. He can’t protect you forever. No fingerprints yet; I’ll run a dust later. Resort CCTV request submitted.”
Dean’s keyboard clacks in the background. “Fits the MO. Anything new on Sinclair’s location?”
“Keeping low profile. We crossed paths once yesterday—he was lurking near the stables, just ‘happened’ to watch Charlotte ride out.” I grind my molars remembering Prancer’s spook. “Guy’s plotting something. And he’s got resources here.”
Dean exhales a slow breath, no stranger to the scent of rot beneath boardroom polish. “I yanked more threads. Sinclair Group is leveraged to the rafters— bridge loans, personal lines, IOUs to private lenders you don’t wanna meet in daylight. One Cayman fund in particular traces back to Manzano cartel wash-throughs.”
My blood pressure spikes—just as I feared. “Cartel money.”
“Yeah. And they’re not patient. Wade stands to lose controlling interest by quarter-end if he doesn’t inject capital. Marrying Charlotte gives him a multi-million infusion overnight—dowry via joint venture, plus a PR bump to boost share valuation.”
“Desperation equals unpredictability.”
“Exactly. Our working theory: cartel silent-partners want a guarantee. They’re either pushing him to lock in the marriage or cut their losses and recoup via intimidation.” Dean pauses. “Any sign of direct surveillance teams?”
“Not yet, but the note’s tone suggests they’re close enough to watch. Could be testing our reaction time.” I glance down the corridor. It’s still empty. “What’s your next move?”