She walked slowly, hoping she wouldn’t need to follow through on the threat. It wasn’t a bluff. But if she really did have to call in backup, it would waste valuable time and irritate Decker. Still, she was committed now. Not giving a crap had its drawbacks.
CHAPTER TEN
She was just reaching for the door when Alana’s frazzled voice shot out of the speaker.
“Mr. Boatwright doesn’t want to make L.A.’s finest jump through any extra hoops. We can shift a few meetings around to accommodate you. I’ll buzz you in.”
Jessie turned back around and worked hard not to smirk as they walked over to the interior door. It buzzed as they approached and Trembley opened it for her.
When they stepped inside, all of the sterility of the waiting room was forgotten. The floor was a dark hardwood. The walls were decked out in a variety of pieces of art, from abstract paintings, to sculptures resting on built-in shelves, to wall coverings that appeared to represent Asia, Africa, and South America.
An attractive young blonde woman, about twenty-five, stepped out from behind the nook near the frosted window. She was dressed in a summer skirt and stylish tank that accentuated her tan skin and curvy figure. She wore glasses so thin that Jessie wondered if they were just for show, intended to make her look more serious. It occurred to her that Alana might be an aspiring actress working an office job to make ends meet.
“Can I offer either of you something to drink? Coffee, tea, soda, sparkling or still water?”
“I’m good,” Trembley said.
“Me too,” Jessie muttered as she studied the office, trying to glean anything useful about the man from how he decorated the space. So far, the vibe she got was “I’m super-rich and I want to make that obvious to everyone.”
“Then please follow me,” Alana said, leading them down the hall, past several offices with open doors and no one inside. “Everyone is in Miller’s office for a brainstorming session.”
Apparently once one got past the waiting room, he was “Miller” rather than “Mr. Boatwright.” As they walked closer to the office at the end of the hall, Jessie noted that the art on the walls gave way to posters of what she assumed were Boatwright’s movies. Even she recognized almost every title. When they arrived at the last door, which was slightly ajar, Alana knocked.
“Miller,” she called out chipperly, “your visitors are here.”
“Bring them in, Lanny,” a booming voice instructed.
Alana, or apparently Lanny to her boss, pushed open the door to reveal an expansive room. At one end were two large, curved sofas with a long, rectangular stone coffee table in between them. Against that wall was a huge screen. On the adjoining walls were two sizable, but comparatively unimpressive mounted TV monitors. One was showing CNN on mute. The other had on Bloomberg.
The middle of the room was comprised of four high-backed wooden chairs, which looked like something out of a royal court. Three of them were occupied by Boatwright’s staff. Two men and one woman, all in their thirties, stood up.
At the far end of the room was Miller Boatwright’s desk, which appeared to be modeled on the Resolute desk in the White House Oval Office. The man behind it got up from his large, red-leather chair as well. Looking at him now, Jessie thought he seemed vaguely familiar, the sort of person she’d probably seen on TV multiple times but who had never really registered.
Miller Boatwright cut quite a figure. Jessie guessed that he was about her height, five foot ten. She estimated that he weighed about 215 pounds. He was thick, with a barrel chest, but didn’t quite tip over from pudgy into obese. He wore a loose-fitting, untucked, black silk shirt and black jeans. He looked to be in his late forties or early fifties and had clearly spent some time with a plastic surgeon. The skin on his face seemed slightly tugged back, as if he was permanently on the first big drop of a roller coaster. His facial hair was perfectly manicured to look like two days’ worth of stubble. He was as tan as Lanny, but Jessie suspected he didn’t come by his as naturally.
“Welcome,” he said, extending his arms expansively as if he had been happily anticipating their arrival.
“Miller, this is Detective Alan Trembley,” Lanny said, impressively remembering his name without any notes. “And this is Jessie Hunt, a profiling consultant for the police. Folks, please meet Miller Boatwright.”