On that happy note, she opened the massive iron and glass doors, revealing … okay, wow. It might as well have been a hotel lobby: The interior floors and walls were all pale marble, polished and gleaming, and so, too, were the double winged stairs straight ahead. Rooms as big as whole houses extended out from both sides of the space, and crystal fixtures sparkled on the ceilings like galaxies.

But there was no furniture, no rugs, no paintings or sculptures. Anywhere.

“Lydia?”

Reaching up to rub the prickle at the base of her neck, she refocused on C.P. Phalen. In spite of the fact that cap of hair had been in a hurricane, the white-and-gray waves had resettled into their proper place, and the black suit remained perfectly pressed, as if it had just come out of a dry cleaner’s.

With a suddenly dry mouth, Lydia swallowed and tried to find her voice. “Rick, our vet, is dead. Peter Wynne is missing. I’m pretty sure I’m next—and you’re the only powerful person I know.”

SO I’ VE JUST moved in.”

As C.P. Phalen led the way through what Lydia assumed was a dining room, given the long, narrow nature of the space, the woman’s heels made sharp sounds that echoed.

“Or rather, I am moving in.” She gave Lydia a smile that did not warm her cool gray eyes. “The furniture is arriving tomorrow in trucks.”

Lydia had an image of all the construction equipment funneling down to the hotel site. Then she remembered what Rick had looked like, crouched on the ground with the bolt cutters, working his way up the chain-link fence so he could fit through. With his duffel.

“I’ve been building the house for over two years,” C.P. Phalen continued. “I’ve always lived in cities, but now, I just want the quiet, the privacy, the freedom you don’t get in Manhattan. I’m not married and I have no ties to anyone so the choice was mine and mine alone to make.”

The woman pushed through a flap door into some kind of staging area with counter space everywhere and all sorts of glass-fronted cabinets for dishes and crystal.

At least Lydia assumed it was for setting up big banquets and dinners. She had no experience with houses like this.

“I’m never going back to the city.” The woman laughed a little. “I already have my bedroom set up upstairs. So I’ll be sleeping here tonight and forever-more.”

“Aren’t you afraid?” Lydia asked. “Such a big house, all by yourself.”

C.P. Phalen stopped in front of another flap door. In a calm, even voice, she said, “I’m not afraid of anything.”

The statement was the kind of thing that was made by teenagers and drunks all over the world, Lydia thought. But something about the way the words were put out there made it seem like any bad guys should be really afraid.

“So I’m not much of a cook,” the woman said as she pushed her way through. “But this kitchen isn’t for me.”

And what a kitchen it was, all stainless steel, like a restaurant’s, with an entire bank of ovens, and a mixer the size of a bathtub, and enough burners to cook for an army.

“I can, however, offer you some coffee.” As Lydia’s feet slowed, the other woman went over to a lonely little K-Cup machine that seemed like a child dropped off on a college campus. “What’s your poison?”

Bad joke, Lydia thought. Plus her nerves were shot.

“I’m okay, thanks.”

“I like mine plain with just a little bit of sugar.” The woman glanced over her shoulder. “Sweet things don’t really interest me.”

“Can I sit down here?”

Without waiting for a yes, Lydia went across to some kind of prep station, pulled a stool out from a lineup of them, and parked it. Hanging her head, she wondered what the hell she was doing.

“So tell me what you’d like me to do for you,” C.P. Phalen said.

Lydia watched as a mug was retrieved and a pod was placed in the machine. A full five-pound-bag of sugar was taken out and then a teaspoon. When the brewing was done, “a little bit of Domino’s best” was added and stirred.

“You haven’t answered me,” the woman said as she leaned back against her cook’s counter and cradled her white mug. “What exactly do you want me to do for you?”

“I don’t know where else to go.”

“That I believe. And I already spoke with the hotel’s CEO.”

Lydia’s brows popped. “You did?”

“Corrington himself took my call. I told him the next time one of your wolves is found dead or poisoned, I was going to go to the Securities and Exchange Commission with all I know about his company going public last year.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Corrington Hotel and Resorts went public and a number of friends of his were allowed to buy in early. Classic insider trading. Of course, he’s such an arrogant fuck, he thought it was no big deal. Just another one of Tom Wolfe’s masters of the universe—although I suppose a wolf of Wall Street is the more current saying.” When Lydia just blinked, the woman laughed a little. “I can see this is not your field of interest, but it is mine. I manage a couple of hedge funds, and although I specialize in pharmaceutical companies, I have my fingers in a lot of pies. Which is how I know what Corrington pulled.”

There was a pause, and when Lydia didn’t say anything, C.P. Phalen smiled. “Have I lost you entirely, or are you just surprised to have heard me say ‘fuck.’ ”

Lydia cleared her throat. “What was Corrington’s response?”

“He denied everything, but took great pains to point out that the hiker that was found a couple of days ago was a prime example of why he needs to protect his guests. I told him to keep that chain-link fence up permanently and then he won’t have to worry about wolves on his acreage.”

“There’s no proof that it was a wolf.”

The level stare was so direct Lydia dropped her eyes.

“What else can I do for you?” the woman said.

Lydia took a deep breath. “Do you know of anything that Peter Wynne or the WSP might be involved with that’s dangerous? Or illegal?”

“No. Why do you ask this?”

“Peter’s been acting strangely.” And Rick had been, too, but not for the same reason. “And out of the office all the time.”

“Maybe there’s something going on in his personal life?”

“I didn’t know anything about him,” Lydia said. “Other than he just stopped showing up to work, and we’ve run out of money.”

“That’s news to me,” C.P. Phalen said remotely. “About the money.”

“I looked at the financials just two days ago. There’s next to nothing in the operating and the payroll accounts. In fact, I ripped up my paycheck so we could afford to replace our groundskeeper. And we let the cleaners go.”

As C.P. Phalen’s eyes narrowed and a nasty frown set up shop on her otherwise line-less face, Lydia thought …

Yup, this was why she’d come.

 

Daniel was back at the WSP before the office closed at five-thirty. As he walked in, Candy looked up from her desk.

“Do you know where she is?” the woman demanded.