Page 76 of The Beat Match

The merger and DLP drama were to blame. The other option wasn’t an option.

She strutted down the street, stilettos on, her pencil skirt and red blouse the antithesis to her bohemian style. This was ball-breaker attire. She would sneak into Duncan’s office, demand information on those shady DLP jerks. Sarah had agreed to help her find dirt on the men or women behind the phone scheme, use her private eye skills to gather intel, and find enough evidence to alert the cops. If need be, Annie would blackmail the blackmailers. She would prove to Wes he didn’t have to handle his problems alone.

A couple of blocks from the Aldrich Pharma offices, she skirted around a sidewalk grate, an acrid gust of wind wafting past her nose. A homeless woman was sitting against a brick wall, her meager belongings shoved into a garbage bag. Annie stopped to put a five dollar bill in her cup.

“Thank you,” the woman said, her voice hoarse.

“I hope things turn around for you.” Annie made eye contact with her. The woman smiled, revealing several missing teeth. Annie’s heart cracked as always.

She straightened, getting her head back in the game, but a man brushed past her, almost knocking her over.

The woman steadied Annie’s calf. “Lots of sharks in these treacherous waters.”

“Tell me about it.” She was about to thank the woman, when she realized the shark in question had been Duncan. A gift from the ball-breaker gods. She wouldn’t have to sneak into his office after all, or lie to Wes if he caught her there. Luck had dropped Duncan Ruffolo into her take-no-prisoners lap.

He stopped a few storefronts down, faced a dumpling shop, his face gleeful as he pulled out his phone. Probably calling one of his lady friends.

She thanked the homeless woman while waving at Duncan. Unable to catch his eye, she hurried over.

“If you want to bury Weston Aldrich,” Duncan said into the phone, his back to her, “I hit the jackpot. Biotrell is as good as yours.”

What in the actual hell?

She must have heard him wrong, misunderstood the context. Duncan wouldn’t sabotage Wes. He’d worked at Aldrich Pharma for years.

She grabbed his arm and yanked. “What did you say?”

“Get your fucking hands off—” He spun around, sneering. Then he jerked back. “Annie?”

He looked as stunned as she felt, a hint of distress in the tightening lines by his mouth.

“What did you just say?” she asked again.

“I’ll call you back,” he said into the phone, not taking his eyes off her. He hung up and pressed some numbers on his cell, then crossed his arms, feigning indifference. “It makes sense now, why you ditched me to hang out with Falcon.”

He didn’t say more. He didn’t have to, not with the calculating gleam in his eye, and Annie’s pulse rocketed with the implications: Duncan knew Wes was Falcon. Duncan had been calling someone who wanted to bury Wes, and Wes had mentioned a possible mole at Aldrich Pharma.

Shit. Shit. Shit. What was she supposed to do now?

Duncan didn’t speak or try to explain.

Her brain spun in a dizzy rush. “You work for DLP. You’re a goddamn spy.” She needed to hear him say it. Confirm this lunacy. But he didn’t agree with her claim or deny it. “That’s why you went out with me and kept texting—to get dirt on Wes. It’s why you kept asking me to talk to him.”

Again, no comment, and a skeezy feeling slinked under her skin. She’d gone out on a date with this man, had pursued a friendship. She’d considered hooking up with this creep. All that time, Weston had warned her Duncan couldn’t be trusted. He’d called him ruthless in business, an attribute he had praised.

She was livid.

“I’ll expose you.” She would destroy Duncan. She didn’t have evidence, but if she kicked up suspicion there would be an inquiry. The minutia of Duncan’s life would be analyzed under a microscope. “If you breathe a word about Wes to anyone, I’ll call the cops. They’ll dig into every facet of your life. What you’re doing is illegal.”

At least she thought it was. This was insider trading, right? Some serious, low-level espionage.

“You won’t.” His nonchalance was maddening.

“Fuck you, I won’t.” He was a cretin and delusional. Weston Aldrich was her person. Her man. One word about Falcon to Biotrell and the rumor would spread. His father would hear about the DJing, and Weston would be fired.

She’d walk naked down Fifth Avenue before letting him lose his job.

“You won’t,” Duncan said again. He held up his phone. “I was behind Weston when he was talking to some club guy. He said, and I quote: ‘I’m a DJ, not a graphic designer’ and went on to talk about the setup for some show. I taped his conversation. One word from you, and I hit Send. The man on the receiving end of the recording will know what to do with it. If you ruin me, I ruin him.”