Chapter 7
The high-rise main-floor lobby, with its security desk, turnstiles, and elevator banks, stretched before them like a marble cathedral, all gleaming surfaces and calculated intimidation.
Blade followed Tori toward the reception desk, their footsteps echoing off polished floors that probably cost more than his annual salary.
The receptionist glanced up from her computer screen with the kind of smile that never reached the eyes. Polite, professional, and completely disinterested in their existence. Her nameplate read “Madison Vigliotti” in sleek silver letters.
“Good morning. How may I help you?”
Blade pulled out his badge. “Detective St. James, Broward Sheriff’s Office. This is Dr. Crew with the Florida Department of Law Enforcement. We’d like to speak with someone about Donald Florek.”
Madison frowned. “Oh. Yes, of course. Such a terrible tragedy.” She picked up her phone. “I was told to call HR for any interviews.”
Blade stepped back and looked around while Madison spoke in hushed tones.
Behind her desk, a massive canvas dominated the wall.
Layers of paint splattered and dripped in random patterns, yet somehow forming a cohesive whole.
The colors bled into each other, creating smaller swirls within larger ones, repeating endlessly inward.
His eyes traced the swirling blues that morphed into greens, then yellows, each layer revealing new details the closer he looked.
“Interesting artwork,” Tori murmured beside him.
“Yeah.” Blade tilted his head. The painting pulled at his attention, those repetitive spirals drawing his focus deeper into their mathematical precision.
Madison hung up and stood. “If you’ll follow me, please.”
The elevator climbed silently to the fifth floor, where Madison led them down a hallway lined with identical abstract pieces.
The conference room she ushered them into commanded a spectacular view.
Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the Atlantic on one side, while the other wall offered a bird’s-eye view of the lobby below.
But Blade stopped dead when he saw the painting at the far end of the room.
This one covered most of the wall, a riot of blues and greens that seemed to pulse and shift when he stared at it. The same technique as the lobby piece, but larger, more complex. The patterns repeated at different scales, each section containing miniature versions of the whole.
Tori walked straight into his back. “Ay. A little warning next time?”
“Sorry.” Blade steadied her with one hand, not taking his eyes off the canvas. “Just—”
“There’s just something about it, right?” Madison smiled. “I don’t know what it is, but I could stare at that thing for hours. It’s . . . soothing.”
Blade nodded. He couldn’t describe the pull he felt, the way the painting seemed to draw his attention deeper into its layers. “Yeah. I can’t put my finger on it, but there’s something . . .”
“Well, someone will be with you shortly.” Madison backed toward the door. “Can I get you coffee? Water?”
“Coffee would be great,” Tori said. “Thank you.”
After Madison left, Tori dropped her work bag, the one that never left her side, into one of the leather chairs and shook her head. “You look like you’re about to propose to that painting.”
He moved closer to the canvas, studying the way the paint created depth and movement. “Doesn’t it do anything to you? Emotionally, I mean?”
“Yeah, it makes me nauseous thinking about how much they probably spent on that thing.” She pulled out her notebook and settled into a chair. “Probably could’ve fed a small country with whatever they paid some artist to splash paint at a wall.”
“It’s more than that.” He traced the air in front of the painting, following one of the larger patterns. “Look at how it repeats. The same shapes but different sizes. Layered over each other like—”
“Blade, focus. We’re here to solve a murder, not critique the interior decorating choices of overpriced lawyers.”
He forced himself to turn away from the painting, though something about it lingered in his peripheral vision like an itch he couldn’t scratch. The conference room felt different now, charged with an energy he couldn’t name.
“You’re right.” He took a few steps back and let his eyes trace the lines. “But doesn’t it strike you as odd? A corporate law firm with this kind of art?”
“Rich people spend way too much money on weird, expensive things. Not exactly breaking news.” She clicked her pen and opened her notebook. “What’s our approach here? Good cop, bad cop, or are we playing it straight?”
“Straight. For now. Let’s see what they volunteer before we start pushing.”
The door opened behind her. Madison eased in with a black lacquer tray, three white mugs steaming, a small pitcher of cream, and a bowl of sugar packets tucked along the edge. She set it on the conference table without a word and was gone before the door finished closing.
Tori picked up a mug and offered it to Blade, but he passed with a shake of his head.
As she finished pouring some cream, the conference room door opened again.
He turned to find a man in his late fifties striding in with an air of confidence that came from winning cases and commanding courtrooms. Expensive suit, direct eye contact, two-hundred-dollar haircut.
Everything about him screamed law partner.
“Detective St. James? Rich McCrary.” Even the man’s grip fit what Blade had expected. Solid.
“Thank you for meeting us,” Blade said. “This is my colleague, Dr. Tori Crew.”
“Pleasure.” McCrary shook Tori’s hand. “I’m sorry for your wait. This is Yevonne Mellas, our director of HR.”
The woman beside him carried an iPad and wore the kind of neutral expression that came with years of managing difficult conversations. She nodded politely as they settled around the conference table.
Blade pulled out his notebook and clicked his pen. Most detectives used their phone to record and transcribe notes, but the act of writing always grounded his scattered thoughts. Gave his hands something to do while his mind processed information.
“We appreciate you taking the time to speak with us,” Tori said.
They got comfortable in the soft leather chairs, and Blade got right to it. “We’re investigating Donald Florek’s death and hoping to get a better picture of his work here.”
McCrary leaned forward and laced his fingers on the table, showing his French cuffs and gold cufflinks with a crest. “Don was a solid attorney. Ten years with the firm, mostly handling medical malpractice cases. He was thorough, professional, and kept to himself.”
“What kind of medical malpractice cases?” Tori asked.
“The usual range. Surgical errors, misdiagnoses, pharmaceutical issues,” McCrary said.
Blade listened, though his peripheral vision kept catching the painting’s swirling patterns. Something about the repetitive nature of the brushstrokes made his eyes want to follow them deeper into the canvas.
A sharp pain shot through his shin. He glanced over to find Tori’s eyes boring into him, her foot still pressed against his leg under the table. Right. Focus.
“So no recent cases that might have generated threats or unusual attention?” Blade asked, forcing himself to look away from the wall.
McCrary shook his head. “Nothing out of the ordinary. Most cases never make it to trial. They settle out of court. Don wasn’t the type to make enemies. Which is why this is all so . . . strange. For someone to murder Don so brutally, it doesn’t make sense.”
Blade kept his pen moving. “We’ll need a list of every case Florek was working in the last year. Especially anything still active.”
McCrary’s gaze slid to Yevonne, then back. “I’m afraid that won’t be possible. Attorney-client privilege.”
Across the table, Yevonne gave a quick nod and tapped something on her iPad.
McCrary leaned back, folding his hands. “Even internally, we’re careful about access. I’m sure you understand.”
Blade didn’t answer. The page in his notebook stayed open, pen hovering.
Yevonne’s head lifted from the screen. “Richard—” She angled the iPad toward him. “They’re asking for you now.”
McCrary frowned at the message but was already pushing back his chair. “I’m sorry. Apparently, I’m needed rather urgently.” He straightened his cuff. “Detective, Doctor—it’s been a pleasure. Drop by anytime.”
Blade stood with him. “We just might.”
McCrary’s smile never touched his eyes. He exited with the same confident gait he’d entered with.
Blade wrote one word in his notebook—stonewalling.
The painting on the far wall caught his attention again, pulling at the edge of his focus until Tori stood, breaking the line of sight.
“If you’ll follow me,” Yevonne said. “I’ll take you to the attorney handling Florek’s case load.”
Yevonne strode ahead, spine straight as a ruler, heels punching out a steady tempo down the corridor.
Blade tracked motion through the glass-front offices they passed.
One guy racked up steps circling his office with a phone pressed to his ear.
Another leaned into his desk, chewing the arm of his glasses, eyes locked on a tower of briefs.
Most sat hunched over monitors and files, pens twitching, fingers moving across the keyboards like lizards darting across hot pavement.
They stopped at a corner office whose door was already open.
Inside, a massive conference table ran the length of the space, covered in open files, legal pads, and color-coded binders.
Three people clustered there, mid-discussion, bright yellow highlighters moving in unison.
The wall of glass behind them showcased the downtown skyline all the way to the ocean, blue haze blurring the horizon.
The guy at the head of the table stood, flashing a grin fit for a billboard. Tall, broad across the shoulders, sun-bleached hair swept just messy enough to pass as casual. Blade’s first thought was “Ken doll meets Malibu surfboard,” only this one wore a tailored navy suit instead of board shorts.