Chapter 6
Chapter Six
Noah
“Any press outside Morgan’s?”
I step out for a clearer view. No vans. No lenses. Just typical traffic along the street.
“None that I can find. You think she’s going to attract media attention from this?”
“I’m skeptical. Our client is concerned.” He means Dorian Moore, the founder’s husband and Alicia’s friend. Moore’s lived under a spotlight before; paranoia’s a reflex.
“The heart attack victim should be the story—not the woman who found him.”
“Lab confirmed toxic digoxin levels an hour ago—well above any therapeutic dose. It’s officially a homicide.” Hudson lets that sit for a beat.
My gut tightens. “He was murdered. Any evidence that indicates Alicia was the target?”
“Data doesn’t point that way,” Hudson says. “Yet. We may need to increase coverage.”
“Or move her to a temporary location. I told you, this house is…” I checked the listing on Zillow and the estimated value is a cool five mill, but the corner location gives new meaning to the word exposed.
“Right. Moore said the same.”
An older woman walking two small dogs smiles as she passes, and I back up from the curb and venture down the side street. Further down, I spot a sedan, a blue four-door Mazda, parked with a driver sitting behind the wheel.
“How’s she doing?” Hudson asks.
“Haven’t seen her. Martin messaged that she’s on the way home.
But given she went into the office this afternoon and held client meetings, I’d say she’s holding it together.
” I know firsthand that you can be emotionally shaken and still hold it together, but if anyone won’t unravel, from what I’ve seen, it’s Alicia Morgan.
Cars rumble past at a leisurely pace, but I keep an eye on the Mazda. “Did Quinn learn anything about the vic? Any connection to Magpie?”
“Nothing so far beyond what’s public. Used to own a public relations firm and now he’s a lobbyist. Quinn’s doing a deep dive on his clients.”
“Bet the cops are too.” That’s where I’d start.
“I know it’s risky to buy into coincidences, but the extortionists we’re worried about—the Magpie network, the blackmail syndicate that’s been trading secrets from Washington’s elite—murder isn’t their calling card. They’re in the business of threats.”
“Agreed. But need I remind you that the White House Chief of Staff claimed the people she feared would come after Alicia Morgan?”
He doesn’t need to remind me because I heard it on the comm. She laid that down right before pulling the trigger and ending her life.
“When Alicia gets home, ask her about her movements that morning. If she was supposed to meet him, if they crossed paths, if anyone could have known where she’d be.”
“You’re thinking the target was Alicia and they got the wrong body.”
“I’m thinking we need to rule it out. I agree. It’s unlikely. Just figure out what you can. We need to understand what Alicia was doing that morning to confirm she wasn’t targeted.”
“Copy that.”
A woman in a long coat approaches the Mazda and gets in. Passenger side. The car pulls out into traffic, and I clock the plate. Probably nothing, but everything matters now.
“Martin said he hasn’t spoken to her. She also sent him home this morning. I understand she’s not thrilled with our presence, but is there more going on between her and Martin I should be aware of?”
Gabe mentioned she dismissed him at the conference. He shrugged it off—par for the course with difficult clients.
I don’t have any info for the boss. “Not to my knowledge.”
“Keep an eye out. If we need to rotate staff, we will.”
“I’ll keep you updated, but I haven’t observed anything to indicate a personal conflict. From what I’ve seen, she’s frustrated with the situation. Doesn’t believe we’re necessary and she’s concerned about her daughter getting spooked.”
“I can understand that,” Hudson says.
I head back to the intersection. “I’ll get a play-by-play of this morning and send it to the team.”
“Sounds good,” Hudson says and ends the call.
I’m at the street corner when I spot Alicia’s Rivian with its turn signal on. The metal gate rumbles as it glides open. She turns the car into the carport without acknowledging my presence.
A Toyota 4Runner parks on the drive before the gate. Martin. He lowers the window, the picture of unbothered confidence.
“She’s all yours,” he says in greeting.
“Any press show up at her office this afternoon?”
“No.” He shakes his head. “When she arrived at the office, she went about her day like nothing happened. If I hadn’t received Hudson’s update, I would’ve never known.”
“Anyone at the office talk about it?”
“From what I observed, no one was aware. I spent most of the day in the reception area, and the receptionist never mentioned it. There’s no television in reception, so…”
“Right. I don’t think it’s made the news yet.” Then again, I haven’t been watching either.
“Who died?” Gabe swallows hard. “I mean, what’s his story?”
I get what he’s asking.
“We’re still figuring it out. A lobbyist.”
“One of her clients?”
That’s an interesting angle I hadn’t considered. “I’ll ask.”
“Good luck with that,” he says with a half-smile.
I rap my knuckles against the door. “You have a good one.”
He rolls up the window and flips on his blinker, falling in line behind the three cars at the stoplight.
The traffic on these streets is typically light, except around this time of day when folks are coming home. The neighborhood’s calm—families walking dogs, someone unloading groceries. One hundred percent normal.
I look at the front door and hesitate. She just found a body this morning. Walking in through the front feels like an intrusion. I head to the side gate instead, entering through the carport. Looking up at the lights, I can tell she’s on the second floor.
Under normal circumstances, I’d head downstairs—out of sight, out of mind—but I need to speak to Alicia, so I pull a barstool from the kitchen counter where we ate last night and wait.
A few minutes later, footsteps descend. Alicia’s changed into a cream sweater set, hair sleek and pulled back. Everything controlled. Except her eyes. Those give her away—washed out, hollow, like the day scraped something raw.
“Wine?” she asks.
“No, thanks.”
“I’m drinking. You can have water, and we can pretend you’re joining me.”
“That works,” I say, fully understanding where she’s coming from. “Heard you had a rough day.”
“One for the books,” she says, the lightness forced.
“I plan to stay out of your way, but before I duck downstairs, I was hoping you’d tell me about this morning.”
She opens the fridge and reaches for a wine bottle, eases the stopper out, and pours herself a generous glass.
The bottle clinks on the countertop when she sets it down.
She closes her eyes and leans against the counter.
“You heard it all, right? And that the lab found digoxin.” She opens her eyes, reaches for another wine glass, and turns on the tap.
Sliding the water to me, she says, “A police officer called me this afternoon. They’d like to ask more questions.
This morning, it was… I think we all thought he’d had a heart attack or something.
I tried CPR.” She laughs once—brittle, sharp.
“Haven’t done that since Stella was a baby. Richard insisted I take a class.”
Frustration oozes. If I were to guess, the frustration stems from her perceived failure.
“You tried. That’s more than most.”
She takes a sip, sets the glass down, stares at the counter.
“When you went back to that room,” I ask, “were you supposed to meet him?”
Her eyes snap up. For a fraction of a second, something flickers—then it’s gone, replaced by that steady assessment.
“No. I was looking for somewhere private to talk. My ex called. I thought we’d argue, so I wanted space.
” She swallows. “I walked in and he was already down. I don’t remember much after that. ”
“Did you know him?”
“The victim?” Her voice catches slightly. She clears her throat. “Public relations is a small world. I’ve seen him at events.” She picks up her wine glass, takes a deliberate sip.
“That’s all?” I ask.
“That’s all.”
“So you weren’t scheduled to meet?”
Her posture stiffens; both hands flatten on the counter.
“Dorian thinks the poison was meant for me? Is that what this is?” She looks toward the ceiling, then straight at me.
“No. It was a self-serve breakfast bar. Two hundred people were there. I left my coffee cup on a table outside the conference room before Richard messaged.”
“Got it.”
She’s flustered now, her control thinning around the edges. I push back from the stool. “Think any media will come knocking?”
Her mouth parts, incredulous. “I work behind the scenes.” She picks up her wine and starts for the stairs. “I should call Dorian. If he’s worried about media, he’s panicking.”
I watch her climb—shoulders squared, glass trembling slightly before she disappears from view.
Maybe she can hold it together.
Or maybe she’s holding on by her fingernails, and I’m the only one present to see it.