The Millionaires - Brad Meltzer [52]
Through the lens, Joey studied the cherry-paneled walls and Aubusson carpet that embraced the room with their deep burgundy hues. The room itself was filled with Asian artifacts: on her left, a framed calligraphy scroll containing a Japanese poem applauding spring; on her right, a pre–World War II step-tansu, which was a simple wood chest with small drawers; and straight ahead, behind Lapidus’s desk, the obvious pride of his collection: a thirteenth-century Kamakura Period samurai helmet. Made of carved wood and layered with shiny black lacquer, it had a forged-silver crescent moon embedded in the forehead. As Joey knew from an old college history class, the shogun used to use the silver insignias to identify his samurais and see how they were doing in battle. Just another boss who doesn’t like to get too close, she thought to herself.
“How do you get along with your employees, Mr. Lapidus?” Joey asked as she stuffed the camera back into her briefcase.
“How do I—” He stopped and watched her carefully. “Are you trying to accuse me of something?”
“Not at all,” she quickly backed off. But she clearly found her first button. “I’m just trying to figure out if anyone had a motiv—”
Across the room, the door to Lapidus’s office flew open. Quincy stepped in, but didn’t say a word. He just held tight to the oval doorknob.
“What?” Lapidus asked. “What’s wrong?”
Quincy glanced at Joey, then back to Lapidus. Some things were better said in private.
“Is he in there?” a hoarse voice shouted from the hallway. Before Quincy could answer, Agents Gallo and DeSanctis shoved their way into the room. Joey grinned at the interruption. Baggy suit… barrel chest… cheap shoes scuffed up from running. These two weren’t bankers. Which meant they were security or—
“Secret Service,” Gallo blurted, flashing her the badge on his belt. “Can you excuse us for a moment?”
Joey couldn’t help but stare at the swollen cut on Gallo’s cheek. She didn’t see it when he first walked in. His head was turned. “Actually, I think we’re all on this together,” Joey said, hoping to make nice. “I’m here from Chuck Sheafe’s place.” It wasn’t often that she dropped her boss’s name, but Joey was all too aware of how trust worked in law enforcement. Fifteen years ago, Chuck Sheafe was third in command of the Secret Service. To fellow agents, that meant he was family.
“So you’re working for the insurance company?” Gallo asked.
It wasn’t the reaction she was looking for, so Joey just nodded.
“Then that still makes you a civilian,” Gallo shot back. “Now like I said: Please excuse us.”
“But…”
“Goodbye, ma’am, it was n—”
“You can call me Joey.”
Gallo cocked his head with a predatory glare and once again revealed the bruise on his cheek. He didn’t like being interrupted. “Goodbye, Joey.”
Too smart to push, Joey tucked her notepad under her arm and headed for the door. All four men watched her as she crossed the room, which wasn’t something that happened often. With her relatively athletic build, she was attractive, but not gawking attractive. Still, she didn’t acknowledge any of them. She made her living knee deep in male egos. There’d be plenty of time to fight later.
As the door slammed behind Joey, Lapidus rubbed his palm against his bald head. “Please tell me you have good news.”
Quincy tried to answer, but nothing came out. He stuffed his hands in his pockets to stop them from shaking.
“Are you okay?” Lapidus asked.
“Shep’s dead,” DeSanctis blurted.
“What?” Lapidus asked, his eyes going wide. “Are you… How did he…?”
“Shot in the chest three times. We rushed in when we heard the noise, but it was already too late.”
Once again, the whole room was silent. Nobody moved. Not Lapidus. Not Quincy. No one.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” Gallo added.
Grabbing at his own chest, Lapidus sank in his seat. “W-Was it for the money?”
“That’s what we’re still trying to figure out,” Gallo explained. “We’re not sure how they got it, but