Bait (9 page)

His lips quirked fractionally. “Could you possibly be a little more specific?”

Maddie took a deep breath and fought for calm. “He let go of me, and I managed to get the door open and get out. The duct tape—I must have pulled it off because I was screaming. A man down the hall heard me and opened his door. I ran into his room. I stayed in there with him and his wife until security got there.”

She stopped again. McCabe said nothing for a moment, which was a good thing because with the best will in the world, Maddie didn't think she could have replied. Her heart was thudding, her stomach had twisted itself into a knot, and she was cold all over—so cold that it was all she could do not to shiver visibly.

Finally he asked, “What were their names? The couple in the room?”

She shook her head. “I don't know.” It was something of a relief to discover that her voice still worked.

“How long were you in their room?”

“I don't know that, either. Maybe five, ten minutes.”

“Where did the guy who attacked you go? Did he follow you? Try to get in?”

“He was chasing me, at first, but ... I didn't see him again after I ran into that other room. I don't know where he went. He didn't try to get in.”

“Did you happen to see him in the lighted hallway?” He was looking at her with an intent expression that reminded her of a cat at a mouse hole. “Maybe you glanced over your shoulder while he was chasing you? Caught a look at his face? Something?”

“I didn't see anything. I just ran.” Maddie couldn't help it; she shuddered so hard that he had to see it. Then, catching herself before she could weaken any further, she took a deep breath, then another.

It's over,
she told herself. It happened, but she survived. Soon this would be over, too. All she had to do was keep it together. For just a little longer.

He was watching her closely.

“You okay?”

“Fine.”

No way was she falling apart in front of him. Quite aside from the fact that he was an
FBI agent,
and an arrogant jerk to boot, there was too much at stake. In fact, nothing less than her entire life.

“You said you stabbed him in the leg with a pencil,” McCabe said. Maddie nodded. He continued. “So what happened to the pencil? Did you take it with you when you ran?”

Maddie frowned, trying to remember. Concentrating took a surprising amount of effort. Reliving the events of the previous night—to say nothing of enduring this more recent trauma—had left her feeling drained and disoriented.

“No, I ... after I stabbed him I let go. Maybe it was still in his leg. Maybe it fell. I don't know.”

He nodded. “Okay. What about a description? Even if you didn't see him, you must have gotten some impressions about what he looked like. Was he taller than you, for example?”

Maddie wet her lips. “He was taller than me. I was barefoot so he was—maybe six feet or a little less. And ... and he seemed husky—broad, you know? Not fat but strong.” Memory washed over her and she shuddered again. “Very, very strong.”

“Anything else? Had he been drinking, for example? Could you smell liquor on his breath?”

“I smelled ... onions.”

“Onions. There you go, there's something we can work with. There are a couple of fast-food places near the hotel. Maybe one of the workers will remember a guy who ordered extra onions.” He was studying her. “You married?”

She met his gaze, surprised at the question. “No.”

“What about exes? Any disgruntled exes?”

Now she saw where he was going. “No.”

“Do you have any enemies that you know of? Anybody who really doesn't like you or who might want to do you harm?”

Maddie could almost feel the color leeching from her face. “No.
No.
There's nobody like that. Nobody.”

He was probing too close to the bone—and she was too shaken. He could threaten all he liked, but she'd had enough.

“Okay, that's it. You got way more than your five minutes. And now I've really got to go.” She glanced at her watch. “It's almost five till ten.”

“Fair enough.” McCabe straightened away from the rail. “I'll walk you to the elevator.”

No.
But she didn't say it aloud. She didn't want to make it more obvious than she already had how very eager she was to get away from him. If she could just keep her cool for another couple minutes, he would be history—just one more unpleasant chapter in her life. And a very small unpleasant chapter, at that. She turned, but she was still so rattled that she was clumsy. The corner of her briefcase hit the table and knocked it over. Table, crockery, coffee, and pastries went flying.

“Oh, dear!” Thanks to the sound-deadening properties of the carpet, it was more of a rattle than a crash, but as Maddie stared down in dismay at the mess she was suddenly conscious of being the cynosure of dozens of pairs of eyes. Even as she watched, the mud-colored puddle that was her leftover coffee was being soaked up by thirsty dark-blue carpet fibers. Her cup—identifiable because it rested at the apex of the puddle—lay on its side beside the overturned table. His had rolled closer to the rail. The plate that had held the pastries was right side up, but the pastries themselves were scattered everywhere.

Instinctively, Maddie crouched to clean up the mess. She righted her cup, then reached for the pastries. Scooping one up, she returned it to its plate, then picked up another. This one had sticky yellow custard oozing out the sides that got all over her fingers.

“I'll do that, ma'am.” The same waiter who had brought the coffee squatted beside her, dropping a handful of gold cloth napkins beside the shrinking puddle. Grabbing one, murmuring an apology for her clumsiness, Maddie stood and wiped her fingers while the waiter blotted the mess. A quick glance at her watch made her heart lurch. In three minutes she would be late. She dropped the napkin on the table the waiter had just flipped upright again, added a couple dollars for his trouble, and grabbed her briefcase.

“It's been fun,” she said to McCabe, and without waiting for any response, she headed for the elevator.

To her annoyance, he fell into step beside her.

“Any other details come to mind about the guy who attacked you? Length of hair? Beard?”

“I ... don't think he had a beard.” Terrifying memories of being slammed against a wall replayed themselves in her head. She seemed to remember her hand brushing a smooth jaw. “I don't know about his hair.”

“What was he wearing? Long sleeves? Short sleeves? Shorts? Tennis shoes? Sandals? Try to remember as much as you can.” McCabe spoke from behind her now as she punched the elevator button with considerably more force than the action called for.

“Long sleeves, long pants—” She was going all shivery again, and, especially at such a critical moment, this she did not need. Stepping back into the center of the hall, she rounded on him. “You said if I answered your questions you'd go away.”

“The thing is, I'm not done asking questions yet.”

“Well, Mr. Special Agent, here's a newsflash: I'm done answering them.”

His eyes moved over her face, turned thoughtful. “You know, most people can't wait to tell us their story. Where we usually run into problems is getting them to shut up.”

An icy finger of warning slid down her spine.

“It's two minutes until ten,” she snapped, taking desperate refuge in the truth. “At ten, I'm scheduled to be at a meeting that means the world to me. I can't be late, and I can't screw this up. The account's worth a lot of money, and my company needs it.
Really
needs it. Without it, Creative Partners might not survive the year.”

Their gazes met and held. The elevator
ding
ed.

“I'll be in touch,” he said, stepping back.

Though he almost certainly hadn't intended it as such, to Maddie that was as dire a threat as any she'd ever heard.

The elevator was packed. Under normal circumstances, she would have waited for the next one. But she was out of time, so she wedged herself in at the front of the car without looking at McCabe again.

“Fifty, please,” she said to the woman nearest the buttons. She could feel McCabe's eyes on her. Unable to help herself, she glanced at him as the elevator doors started to slide shut. He was frowning, watching her—and then the elevator doors closed and cut off her view.

But she could still see him in her mind's eye, arms crossed over his chest, feet planted apart, his eyes narrowed, his expression—thoughtful. Or—oh, God—had it been suspicious?

Of course not,
she scolded herself. She was imagining things, a victim of her own guilty knowledge. He had no reason, none whatsoever, to suspect that she was anything other than what she appeared to be: an innocent crime victim.

But telling herself that didn't help. As the elevator carried her upward, her knees were about as solid as Jell-O. Her pulse raced. Her stomach tanked.

Imagination or not, she could practically hear the hounds baying at her heels.

SIX

Where've you been?” Jon greeted her with a frantic whisper as she stepped off the elevator. He was there right in front of the elevator banks in the hall on the fiftieth floor, and he looked vastly relieved to see her. “Susan already came out to take us into the meeting. I told her you were in the ladies' room. She'll be back any second.”

Just like that, she was thrown into deep water again. Like the survivor she was, she swam. Clamping down on emotions that threatened to swamp her, lifting her chin and straightening her spine, Maddie concentrated on drawing back inside the cool shell that kept others from seeing more of her than she cared for them to see. The elevator had stopped—and stopped, and stopped—until at last she, the only person left, had made it all the way to the top.

When the doors opened, it was three minutes past ten.

“The FBI wanted to ask me some questions about last night,” she said, also whispering. “The guy at the elevator downstairs—he was FBI.”

“I know.” His reply was impatient. “God, do you think I wouldn't have turned this place upside down if I'd thought some stranger had grabbed you? I got off as quickly as I could and called security. They checked with the guard at the front desk, who told them about those guys being from the FBI.” Jon paused for an instant, then added, as an obvious afterthought, “How did the FBI get into this, anyway?”

“I have no idea.”

Time for a subject change. Maddie was almost relieved when a bright voice behind them asked, “All ready now?”

“Susan,” Jon said, cranking the charm up to full wattage as he turned from Maddie to beam at Susan Allen. “This is Madeline Fitzgerald, Creative Partners's owner and CEO. And my boss.”

“So nice to finally meet you, Ms. Allen.” Shaking hands, Maddie likewise turned on as much charm as she could muster. A quick look told Maddie that Mrs. Brehmer's assistant, whom she had spoken to on the phone numerous times but had never before met, was a tall, thin, flat-chested woman with a long face and narrow, not particularly attractive, features. She wore her mouse-brown hair straight and earlobe-length, with a too-short fringe of bangs, and if she had on any makeup other than a touch of pale pink lipstick, Maddie couldn't tell. Her skirted suit was a severe black that did nothing for either her figure or her sallow complexion. Her pale blue eyes, seen through rimless glasses, looked Maddie over anxiously.

“Susan, please. I'm so glad you wore a skirt,” Susan said under her breath as she gestured at them to follow her. “I meant to warn you and I forgot. Mrs. B
hates
to see a woman wearing pants. She probably would have canceled the meeting as soon as she saw you.”

On that reassuring note, they reached a sleek metal door, which Susan opened.

“Here they are,” she announced to the people within, and stepped aside for Maddie, with Jon behind her, to enter.

Five people were seated around the long table in the center of the conference room. As Maddie walked in, five pairs of eyes immediately focused on her. Glancing around nervously, Maddie realized with a sinking feeling that nobody was smiling. Plastering a big smile on her own face, she had one coherent thought as she extended her hand and headed for the grim-faced woman at the head of the table: She now knew just exactly how Daniel must have felt when he got thrown into the lion's den.

SAM GOT off the elevator in the lobby to find Wynne, still chewing his gum, sprawled in a chair waiting for him.

“She give you any trouble?” Wynne asked, standing up as Sam joined him.

“Nah.”

“I didn't think she would. She seemed kind of antsy, though.”

“Yeah.”

“ 'Course, I might be, too, if somebody had just attacked me in my hotel room a few hours before.”

“Maybe.” Sam gave Wynne the abridged version of what Madeline Fitzgerald had told him. As he spoke, the two of them headed toward the wall of tinted glass that marked the entrance to the building. The line at the security desk was nearly as long as it had been when they'd rushed inside earlier, but its length was no longer a problem. At least, not for them. Not that it had been before, either. They'd felt no compunction whatsoever about bypassing it.

“So what d'you think?” Wynne asked finally.

“I think he made a mistake. I think she just might be the break we've been looking for.” Sam pushed through the revolving door, walking into swampy heat that felt as though it had increased tenfold during the brief period he had been inside. The sun was now a big, hazy yellow fireball hanging just above the jagged city skyline. It seemed to pulsate with energy, broiling the pavement, glaring off the roofs of passing cars, turning the windows fronting the street into shiny, black walls of one-way glass.