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He choked on the last swallow of his drink. “Fuck, no.”
“Did you know that Pallas Llewellyn and the writer nearly got killed today?” Margaret asked.
He grimaced. “Yeah. Saw it online. It’s all over the local news. I warned Pallas that she was taking too many risks for the sake of the podcast.”
Margaret smiled. “You and I have a lot to talk about.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
The text fromAmbrose came in just as Pallas opened the minibar.
I have news but it can wait until morning if you’re busy.
She hit reply.
A polite way of asking if I’m alone. The answer is yes. Come on up.
There were two tiny bottles of after-dinner liqueurs in the minibar. She removed both, grabbed a couple of glasses, and set everything out on the table. Ambrose announced his arrival with a soft knock.
She was surprised by the rush of relief she got when she opened the door and saw him standing in the hall.
“Come on in,” she said. “I was just about to have a drink. Join me?”
“Sure.” He walked into the room and closed the door. “Everything okay? Or should I not ask?”
“You can ask.” She flopped down on the desk chair and waved him to the large padded reading chair. “But the answer is complicated. The short version is that Theo wants to bring me in on a major project. Evidently the client saw my work at the Callaway Hotel andis insisting that I lead the design team that will be handling the interiors of an old estate he just bought.”
“Huh.”
She twisted the cap off one of the little bottles and splashed the contents into a glass. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Does it strike you that having your ex show up here in Carnelian is a rather interesting coincidence?”
Startled, she paused in the act of removing the cap from the other bottle. “No. Theo is very anxious to land this particular commission. He’s got a big loan to pay off. Also he’s convinced that the job would do wonders for both of our careers. To be fair, he’s right.”
“Okay,” Ambrose said, lowering himself into the oversized reading chair. “I’ll be the first to admit that I tend to question any and all coincidences these days.”
She finished uncapping the bottle and poured the liqueur into the other glass. “You are not alone. But if you knew Theo you’d realize that his presence here in Carnelian is a perfectly logical business move. He’s got a true artistic vision, and he believes in that vision. He’s also ambitious. In addition, he’s in financial trouble, and he sees a way out that happens to involve me.”
“How did he know you were in town?”
“He asked the manager of the apartment complex where I live.” Pallas picked up her glass, sat back, stretched out her legs, and crossed her ankles. “It’s not like I’m trying to hide. He could have tracked me down without Bev Shaw’s help.The Lost Night Filesis a small podcast, but it has a loyal following. Everyone in Carnelian knows I’m here doing research for a series. So the news that I’m in town and that I almost got killed today is readily available.”
“I should have known it would be impossible to keep this investigation quiet.”
“The Lost Night Filesisn’t Failure Analysis,” she said. “We don’t do clandestine work. We don’t try to stay in the shadows. In the podcast business, most publicity is good publicity.”
“I get it.” Ambrose drank some of the liqueur and lounged deeper into the padded chair. “Fortunately for me, no one seems to remember the writer who nearly got killed along with the podcast investigator. On second thought, that’s probably not a good omen for my career. Moving right along, I had an interesting conversation with Calvin the Magnificent tonight.”
She stilled. “Your text said you have news.”
“Brooke Kendrick lived alone in an apartment in San Jose. No close family. No friends. She was a software engineer and up until eight months ago made a good living doing contract work for various companies. Apparently she was very, very good at online security. I could tell Calvin was impressed.”
Pallas raised her brows. “What happened eight months ago?”
“She suddenly stopped doing the consulting work and, as far as Calvin could tell, became a full-time Internet gambler. Shortly thereafter she booked appointments with a string of online therapists and sleep counselors. Six weeks ago she walked out of her apartment carrying a backpack, used an app to call a ride, and was never seen again. The manager of the apartment complex figured she had lost a lot of money because of the gambling and had skipped out on the rent.”
“That’s it?” Pallas said. “She just vanished?”
