The Stranger You Seek - By Amanda Kyle Williams Page 0,133

front of me. I ordered a drink and saw Larry Quinn walk in the door. He was alone. He always looked dressed for court. He glanced around and broke out his famous smile when he saw me.

“Keye! I been meaning to call you. Big Jim was so pleased everything turned out. I told him up front we didn’t usually do missing cows.”

I glanced at Margaret. She was nursing a martini. “Are you meeting someone, Larry?”

“Date. Wish me luck.” He shook my hand. “It was nice to see you, Keye. Hey, there she is now.”

To my horror, he walked straight to Margaret’s table. They embraced. I couldn’t let Larry have a date with Margaret Haze! I knew far too well how her dates turned out. And Larry was famous for his television advertising and personal injury suits—too close a connection to Margaret’s headline-greedy attorney father. I thought she had been trying to finally extinguish her father’s memory when she’d murdered Brooks. I didn’t want her working out her issues on Quinn too.

I whipped out my phone and found Larry’s number. I heard it ringing from my end but not in the restaurant. Was he carrying his phone or was it simply silenced? Then he pulled it from a pocket, glanced at the display, and put it down. Damn. I didn’t want to make a scene in the restaurant, but I would if I had to. Quinn wasn’t leaving with her. I quickly typed out a text message. Do not leave with that woman. Murder investigation. Danger.

A few seconds later, Quinn picked up his phone. If he’d read my message, it didn’t show. He returned the phone to the table next to his plate. A waiter appeared and they ordered. Quinn had one drink before he got up. He didn’t look at me on his way out but my phone vibrated almost as soon as he’d stepped onto the street.

“What the hell, Keye? You know how long it’s been since I had a date?”

I watched Margaret gathering her things to leave. “You’ll thank me one day, Larry.”

He cursed. I snapped my phone shut.

Haze stopped by the bar and touched my arm, squeezed it affectionately as if we were old friends. “Might as well go home, Keye,” she whispered. “Looks like I’ll be working late. Seems my date had an emergency.” She glanced at the glass in front of me. Her green eyes lit up. “Don’t go back there, Keye. Drunks are no challenge.”

I lifted the fluted whiskey glass to my lips. It was heavy and felt right in my palm. More right than anything had in a while. I left it on the bar. The ice was beginning to melt into the remains of my Diet Pepsi.

In the evening, the elevators at 303 Peachtree, SunTrust Plaza, require a key card. The elevators and elevator lobbies on all floors are equipped with security cameras. Getting to the elevators requires signing in or out at the guard station on the main lobby level. Margaret was accustomed to this routine, as were most of the occupants—investment bankers and attorneys whose jobs necessitate long hours. She knew most of the guards by name, was always careful to be pleasant, to take a moment to speak, to remember them on holidays.

Behind the desk at the guard station, a row of monitors displayed shots of the elevator lobbies from all fifty-three floors. Usually, one guard watched the monitors while another handled the sign-in sheets and traffic. Margaret had studied their routines carefully, had asked about the building’s security systems and how they worked, where the cameras were located. All in the interest of safety, of course, since she was a woman who, on many occasions, worked long after others had gone home to their families. She had quietly picked the guards’ brains over the last couple of years, and they had taken her concerns seriously, happily answering questions to make her feel more comfortable. Margaret Haze was, after all, one of the most famous criminal attorneys in the city and also one of the best tippers. Each and every security guard and cleaning person had received an envelope from her last Christmas.

Margaret had taken a break, enjoyed a drink, then greeted the guards downstairs with small talk upon her return. She wanted them to remember her tonight. She carefully signed back in at 8:52 before taking the elevators to her fifty-third-floor office.

It was a weekday evening and the fifty-third floor was empty. The lower floors, occupied by the