Page 29 of Fatal Pattern

8

Tori’s jokes about Blade’s dating life died somewhere between the elevator and Madison Vigliotti’s face. For a few seconds, Tori was too surprised to do anything but stare.

Madison lifted the file folders and pressed them to her chest so tight that her sharp acrylic fingernails left clean indentations in the back. The woman’s eyes hadn’t stopped tracking back and forth since she’d rounded that pillar. She was obviously nervous and scared.

Tori had stood in Donald Florek’s living room. Madison was right to be afraid.

She spoke as gently as she could. “Start from the top and tell us what you mean.”

Madison’s glance flicked again toward the elevators. “This can’t get back upstairs. I could lose my job.”

Blade shifted, planting his bulk in front of the elevators. “It’s just us here.”

“Okay.” Madison’s chin dropped slightly.

“Pretend we’re not law enforcement.” Tori slid in front of Blade and spoke to Madison like they were just girlfriends. “Were you and Don . . . involved?”

Madison’s head shot up, eyes wide. “No. Nothing like that.” She hugged the folders tighter. “It wasn’t . . . look, we were friends. Work friends. And sometimes we’d bump into each other outside of work.”

“Where?” Blade asked.

Madison hesitated and shifted her weight before she pushed the words out. “We . . . shared the same therapist.”

Tori’s mind pinged in ten directions at once. She didn’t bother asking why they were in therapy. “Which therapist?”

“Dr. Anton Stone. His office is in Palm Beach.”

Tori didn’t break her gaze. “Why would that have anything to do with him ending up dead?”

Madison hunched into herself, lifting one shoulder in a shrug. “He was different lately. Paranoid. I suggested he see my therapist because, you know, he’d been helping me with my anxiety. But Don kept asking if anyone had been looking for him or saying anything about him. No one had. At least not to me. When I asked what was going on, he got even more jumpy. He finally told me he’d called some people out and they wanted him gone.”

“Any names?” Blade asked.

Madison shook her head. “No specifics. Just . . . he acted like someone was out to get him. I thought he was being insecure. Typical office politics where associates climb over each other’s backs to get to the top. But after he was . . . you know.” Her eyes cut to the ground. “After I heard what happened, I wondered if it had something to do with the firm.”

Tori ticked through a checklist as the young woman spoke. Madison’s hands stayed still, her eyes steady. No liar’s tells. If anything, she trimmed the edges, handing over only the basics and nothing more. She wasn’t about to spill her guts in this parking garage. If they wanted more, they’d have to talk away from this place.

“I have to get back.” Madison shifted the files. “Told them I was making copies. They time how long I’m gone.”

Blade pulled a card from his jacket and held it out. “If anyone approaches you, asks what you told us, or makes you uncomfortable, you call me. Anytime. Understand?”

She took it, eyes lingering on the bolded “Detective B. St. James.” “You’ll . . . you’ll keep my name out of it?”

“Don’t worry about that. Just call me if you remember anything else,” he said.

Something in his delivery loosened Madison’s shoulders a fraction. She backed away and headed for the elevator. She offered a flat smile as the doors sealed her inside.

The air hung dead in the concrete tomb. Somewhere deeper in the garage, a car door slammed.

Tori exhaled, glancing at Blade. “Dr. Stone?”

He nodded once. “Ever heard of him?”

“No, but let’s move this conversation to the car.” Whatever coolness the poured walls offered couldn’t touch the blistering heat outside, and she could feel moisture beading along her neck. Tori dropped into the car, and Blade started the engine.

“Let me make a call real fast.”

Blade didn’t bother announcing he had calls on speaker with work calls. Everyone on the job expected it. He asked a deputy she didn’t know to follow up on Ryan Petersen’s story about the golf club. Tori listened, noting how he kept his voice neutral while giving orders. Professional. Kind. The kind of cop who didn’t let his rank dictate how he dealt with people.