Page 17

Again, the door tried to close. “Ah, well. I should let you go. Name’s Dontrel, by the way. If you need me, I’ll be wandering down here until two o’clock.”

“Thank you, sir,” I said, smiling pleasantly.

Dontrel tipped an imaginary hat and backed up, letting the doors slide shut.

We didn’t find Jude in his officious office, but we found the door unlocked, the lights on, and his cell phone on the desk. A framed picture of his family—wife, baby, and toddler—told us we were in the right spot.

I tapped the abandoned cell phone and arched a brow at the lock screen alerts. “As we suspected. Mr. Jude Marigold has three missed texts from his wife.”

“Do you think he got them and ran off?”

“Doubt it. He would have taken his phone. He’s here somewhere.”

Three cubicle-working administrators, catching up on work, confirmed he had stepped out about twenty-five minutes before we arrived. One of them gave us access to the fourth floor, saying he could have gone to Mr. Davis’s office.

It was exactly where we found him. The fourth floor was vacant, with no overhead lights on. We were greeted by empty cubicles, dark computer screens, and an unnatural silence unbefitting a space that appeared to ordinarily buzz with activity.

The fourth-floor layout was a reflection of the third. Nixon Davis’s office took up space at the far corner, directly above Jude’s office and surrounded by the same fishbowl walls that offered no privacy. It meant we saw Jude long before he saw us.

Sunlight streamed through a bank of windows, highlighting his stylish sandy-blond hair and the high points of color riding the crests of his pale cheeks.

He wasn’t dressed for the office and instead wore a fitted Henley that accentuated a trim physique.

Jude’s entire focus was on a laptop. One hand scrolled using a mouse, and the other tapped and fluttered against the desk’s surface with what appeared to be nervous energy.

We stilled our approach to observe from the shadows.

Tone hushed, I leaned into Quaid and whispered, “I bet Nixon wouldn’t be too pleased to see his partner rummaging through his computer.”

“I’d love to know what he’s doing. Back me up?”

“Always.” Before Quaid could walk away, I snagged a handful of his ass cheek, making him jump and squeak. “Shh…” I chuckled. “Man, you’ve got a killer ass, Valor. Did I ever tell you that before? Makes me want to duck into an empty cubicle and absolutely fucking wreck it.”

He shivered before nudging me back a step. “Behave.”

I pecked a kiss on his earlobe, exhaling a heated breath. “Never. You’re sexy as fuck, and I’ll want you until I’m old and gray.”

A flush danced up his neck, erasing any attempt he made at staying professional.

Giving him mercy, I patted his ass and encouraged him onward.

At first, he didn’t move. When he cleared his throat and subtly adjusted himself, I chuckled, earning a sneer.

“You’re such a bastard,” he said over his shoulder.

I blew him a kiss, not denying his claim .

Quaid marched toward the office with authority and a surly cop vibe. His hardened demeanor when dealing with suspects never failed to turn me on.

Quaid rapped on the doorframe as he said, “Jude Marigold?”

Jude jerked back from the desk, hands flying away from the keyboard on a gasp. His gaze darted from Quaid to me before quickly scanning the fourth-floor office space behind us.

When he spoke, his voice came out with a slight hitch. “Can I help you? Who are you? How did you get up here?” A frown darkened his features.

Quaid flashed his credentials. “Detective Quaid Valor with Toronto Police. Dontrel let us up. Do you have a minute?”

Jude didn’t move. He didn’t blink or breathe, but anyone could tell the gears inside his head were spinning so fast they smoked. It was a full three beats before his eyebrows dipped. “What’s going on?”

Quaid entered the room uninvited, and I followed. Jude studied me briefly but didn’t ask for an introduction. Quaid settled in a lone chair on the opposite side of the desk, feigning a relaxed stance.

I remained standing.

Sensing my husband’s desire to play bad cop, I wandered the room and jovially remarked, “This is a nice office. You must be the top dog around here.” I stopped and admired the shiny nameplate on the door, running my finger over the embossed letters forming another man’s name.

Jude didn’t correct or inform me it was Nixon’s office. Quaid had already announced that we knew who he was. Jude smartly waited for us to show our hand or explain ourselves.

His stiff posture and short, shallow breaths said enough. The man was nervous .

“Mr. Marigold, we’re here on a serious matter, and I’d like to ask you a few questions.” Quaid didn’t wait for Jude to acknowledge or agree. “You work for Nixon Davis, correct?”

Fire blazed in Jude’s pale green eyes. “I don’t work for Nixon. We’re equal partners. This is our company. I’ll ask you again. What is this about?”

“Apologies.” Quaid shuffled so he could retrieve something from his back pocket. He unfolded a colored photograph and placed it on the desk, turning it to face Jude. “Do you know this boy?”

Jude’s confusion deepened as he glanced from the glossy print to Quaid.

I couldn’t read his mind, but his thoughts clearly spun.

He touched the photograph, drawing it closer before yanking his hand away like he had been burned.

He moved his fingers to the hollow at his throat before lowering them to his lap.

“That’s… That’s Crowley. Nixon’s son. Is he… Is something wrong?” Jude’s lips quivered as he glanced between us, waiting for someone to fill in the blank.

“He’s missing.” Quaid let the information sink in.

I watched every nuance of Jude’s behavior and every shift in his expression, wanting to catch him out.

Was the news shocking? Did he already know the kid was gone?

Did he take him from the Soccerplex somehow?

Meet him outside the camera’s range? Did he send the warning to the Davises because of an inevitable embezzlement charge?

Why was he in Nixon’s office on a Saturday?

The questions piled up as the silence expanded.

When neither Quaid nor I spoke, Jude repeated with a croak, “M-missing?”

“Yes,” Quaid said. “Since Tuesday.”

“Tuesday?” Jude’s eyes shifted from side to side. Thinking? Looking into the past?

“He was taken in the vicinity of the Toronto Soccerplex.”

Jude’s throat bobbed before he managed, “The Soccerplex?”

“We have a parrot,” I said sotto voce.

The corner of Quaid’s lips twitched with irritation, so I figured he noticed it too. Constant repetition of questions was a form of distraction often used by guilty suspects to give themselves time to think. They appeared engaged but were merely echoing what you said.

Quaid waited for a beat before leaning forward and tapping the boy’s image. “Crowley Davis, your business partner’s eight-year-old son, was meant to walk himself to a soccer game a few blocks from his house on Tuesday evening. So far as we know, he didn’t arrive. No one has seen him since.”

Jude’s attention moved to the photograph, his brows knitting as perspiration dotted his upper lip. “That’s not possible. On Tuesday? No, Nixon would have told me.” He huffed a sharp laugh. “You’re yanking my chain.” He shoved the picture away. “What is this really about?”

“I assure you, Mr. Marigold.” I paused at the edge of the desk and stared down at the man, using my daunting height to intimidate him. “We have better things to do with our Saturday than yank people’s chains. At least, I do. What about you, Detective Valor?”

“Considering I was supposed to be on leave as of yesterday, that is a resounding yes from me.”

To Jude, I confirmed, “See? No chain yanking. We’re all very serious in this room. Some cooperation would be appreciated.”

Jude swiped one hand over his mouth and picked up the photograph with the other. “Nixon’s been out of the office all week, but I thought…”

“You thought…” Quaid prompted .

“I thought he was avoiding me.” Jude shook his head. “How can this be? He would have told me if his son was… missing.”

“Mr. Marigold.” Quaid shifted positions. “Where were you Tuesday evening between five and seven?”

“I was…” Jude’s cheek twitched, and he rolled a hand as though digging for an elusive answer he couldn’t quite grasp.

“At the office… probably. Or at home. It’s hard to say.

I could have been driving from here to there at that time.

I don’t remember. It was days ago. I don’t even recall what I had for dinner last night.

” He laughed, but it was tinged with nerves.

“Have you ever been to the Toronto Soccerplex?”

“No.” The single word came out thin and strangled.

Quaid said nothing and let Jude stew in the lie.

I scanned the office, feigning nonchalance while the tension rose. Before Quaid could unveil our little secret, I rounded the desk and leaned over Jude’s shoulder, encroaching on his personal space as I examined what he’d pulled up on the laptop.

“I’m curious, Mr. Marigold, why you’re in your boss’s office on a Saturday, poking around on his computer. Are those financial reports?”

Jude slammed the laptop closed, shrugged me off, and snapped, “Nixon isn’t my boss.”

“Oh, right.” I straightened and continued wandering. “Equal partners. This is his office, though, isn’t it?” I admired a certificate on the wall with Nixon’s name on it.

“What’s your point?”

I shrugged. “It seems sneaky, is all. No one’s around. It’s Saturday. Were you looking for something in particular?” I motioned to the closed laptop .

Jude pushed back his chair and stood. “I think you need to leave. If Crow is truly missing like you claim, I need to call Nixon, and you need to do your job and find him. I’ll see you out.”

“Sit down.” The whip snap of Quaid’s voice brooked no argument. “We aren’t finished chatting.”

Jude didn’t seem sure of himself. I could tell part of him was ready to tell us to go fuck ourselves, but the other part worried it might make matters worse.

In the end, he decided to sit.

“One last question.” Quaid motioned for me to hand him the tablet.

The video was stopped when Jude entered the camera’s view. It was a clear enough shot to make identification unmistakable despite the angle of the ballcap.

Quaid placed the tablet on the desk, and Jude glanced at the screen. His lips parted. A single drop of sweat escaped the hair at his temple and traveled the line of his face to his jaw, where it clung.

“You were caught on security footage outside the Soccerplex on Tuesday night at…” Quaid leaned forward to read the time stamp on the bottom right-hand corner of the screen. “At six-oh-seven. How about you explain why you’re lying to us?”