“You do. Let me handle it while you take a shower. I’ll also order breakfast. Coffee will help. Trust me.”
Taking the sheet with her, she slowly walks to the bathroom while I make a couple of calls.
As we are finishing breakfast,someone knocks on the door to drop off a lovely suit and lingerie for Brooke. I’ll owe the concierge an extra tip. I’m not sure who he called, but they delivered—literally.
We’re still on a tight schedule, so it’s fortunate that the PR firm is in the same building as the Lincoln Hotel. Otherwise, we’d be late. Instead, at the appointed time, we exit the elevator on the correct floor.
The receptionist is sitting behind a glass, chrome, and cherrywood desk. She’s on the phone but holds up a finger, indicating she’ll be with us shortly.
I take the opportunity to look around the expansive, modern lobby. Last time I was here, the receptionist ushered me to the conference room so quickly I barely caught a glimpse of this area.
To our left, there are two deserted sitting arrangements, each with four swivel chairs surrounding a glass-and-chrome coffee table. Copies of magazines are artfully spread on the glass tops. They’re probably publications sporting photos and articles about the firm’s clients. The most impressive part is the floor-to-ceiling wall of glass. Being on a floor higher than Brooke’s law firm provides a beautiful view of downtown LA and the hills in the distance.
At first, I’m surprised at the empty waiting area. On second thought, I’m betting they rescheduled other appointments todeal with the consequences of Mr. Champion’s death. If no other clients are around, it will minimize the chance of leaks related to our discussions.
As we wait for the receptionist to finish her call, Brooke turns to me, saying, “Hopefully, Jason will have an update and suggestions for how to proceed. It’s not going to be easy to keep everyone safe if the robber appears at the masquerade ball. But given Mr. Champion’s death, I’d guess the guy won’t show up again. What do you think?”
“It’s hard to say. I wouldn’t think a reasonable person would risk another robbery, but this person is a murderer. They were willing to kill for a Rolex. I’m counting on Jason having ideas for better security. If he doesn’t, we can’t go forward with the event.”
“Cancelling the masquerade ball would be devastating for the Foundation’s budget, wouldn’t it?”
“It would, but we can’t risk more lives.”
Silence lets the impact of the tradeoffs and risks sink in for both of us.
The sound of the phone receiver being placed in its cradle draws my attention back to the receptionist. She apologizes for the delay and escorts us to a nearby conference room. It’s smaller than the one we used before.
We’re greeted by a somber group that includes Jason and the remaining two board members, Mr. Broadmoor and Aunt Jen.
After shaking hands and sharing our shock about the loss of Mr. Champion, Jason says, “Let’s take our seats and discuss next steps.”
“Do you have an update on the cause of Mr. Champion’s death?” I ask.
Jason nods. “Apparently, he went to the restroom during the movie. We’d invited the staff to stand in the back of the theater to watch the film, so at that time, the lobby and restroom were empty.”
“Did he have a heart attack or fall and hit his head?” Aunt Jen asks.
“Neither. The security cameras show that a person wearing a ski mask hit him on the head when he exited the restroom. The masked person yanked Mr. Champion’s wristwatch off his arm and ran out a side door.”
Aunt Jen, Brooke, and I gasp in union. Mr. Broadmoor shakes his head.
Brooke asks, “Have they caught the culprit?”
“No. He escaped without notice. The outdoor camera near that side exit wasn’t working.”
“His death is tragic,” Mr. Broadmoor adds.
Jason nods. “It is. The police suspect it was a robbery gone wrong rather than an intentional murder. Most people wouldn’t have died from the hit on the head. Unfortunately, he was taking blood thinners, and the hit caused fatal brain bleeding.”
“The only good news is that it was an isolated incident rather than someone targeting the Foundation or this project,” Aunt Jen says, her shoulders relaxing at that thought.
Jason frowns, saying, “Ms. Bennett’s necklace also went missing from the Fundraising Lunch. And we’ve just received an anonymous threat that ties the incidents together.”
Deep concern furrows Mr. Broadmoor’s face as he asks, “Exactly what do you mean by ‘threat’?”
“The receptionist received a call this morning asking her to relay a message to me.”
“What was the message?” I ask.
