What Meets the Eye by Alex Kenna

Author:Alex Kenna
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: CROOKED LANE BOOKS

CHAPTER

23

Present Day—Kate

UNSURPRISINGLY, THE RECEPTIONIST at Moreland’s firm gave me the brush-off. According to her, he was working from home, but she’d tell him I stopped by. I wondered if Moreland was really out of the office or if that was just what he’d instructed her to say. There was a Starbucks directly across from the building with a view of the entrance. I decided to hunker down for a few hours and try to catch him on a coffee run. It would also give me a chance to type up my case notes.

I pulled up Moreland’s picture on the firm website. He was a handsome Black man in his early forties with a confident smile. I remembered his face from a picture I’d seen of Jason online, laughing with friends at an art opening. They must have made an attractive couple.

About an hour later, I spotted Moreland coming out of the front door. I threw my laptop in my tote bag, abandoned my coffee, and raced across the street. A middle-aged woman in a silver Prius slammed on the brakes to keep from hitting me. I raised my palm in a half apology and jogged over to the sidewalk. My target was heading toward the crosswalk.

“Mr. Moreland!” I called. He spun around and met my eye. Moreland’s expression caught me off guard. I’d expected him to look startled or annoyed, but what I saw was closer to fear. Maybe he did have something to hide. I stuck out my hand and smiled, trying my best to temper his anxiety. “Kate Myles,” I said. “I left you a couple messages.” He turned away and started walking quickly across the street. I followed alongside. “Elena Martinez suggested I contact you.”

“I don’t know why she would do that,” he snapped. “I don’t want to talk to you, and I’d appreciate it if you left me alone.”

“Did you sell any of Jason’s paintings through Aksel Berkland?” I asked.

He turned around and glared at me. “Look, I asked you nicely, please go away. I don’t know you. My partner died; I don’t feel like reminiscing about it with a strange woman who keeps leaving me intrusive messages.” He changed direction and headed back toward his law firm. I trotted after him, but Moreland whispered something to the security guard at the door, who put a hand out to stop me.

“Ma’am, this is private property.”

“This is an office building,” I protested. “There are dozens of businesses in here.”

“Just leave, all right?” he said. “I don’t want any trouble.”

Pushing my way in wouldn’t have helped. I shook my head and headed over to the bar at the Biltmore Hotel. It had been a long, unproductive day, and I needed to think and regroup. I like hotel bars for the people watching and the privacy. It’s always a strange mix of random outsiders, temporarily emboldened by the anonymity afforded by travel. I like to disappear in the background and watch the short-term groupings: sports talk between lonely businessmen, emotional confessions to strangers, preludes to one-night stands.

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