Embray turned and weaved his way through the people in the lobby toward Nantz’s secretary. Two hard-faced men had joined her. Both wore black uniforms, with the red and white checkered bands on their cuffs and caps that represented the city of London police.
“Have you found Clark?” Embray asked, breaking into their questioning of Bernice. His voice, while quiet, carried a tone of authority.
The officer to the right turned to study Embray with cool eyes, then scanned Embray’s entourage. “You are?”
O’Neill was certain of two things: the cop had been aware of their approach, and he knew who Embray was.
“Leonard Embray. I was with Clark when he collapsed. The paramedics said they were bringing him here, but the receptionists just told me he still hasn’t arrived.”
The officer flipped open a small notebook and looked at O’Neill. “And who are you?”
“O’Neill. I’m with Embray’s security.”
The cop stared back. “First name?”
“Don’t have one. Just O’Neill, like Maddona.”
The officer’s eyes narrowed, like he didn’t believe him, or thought he was hiding something. O’Neill grimaced. Sometimeshis lack of a first name was a pain in the ass. “My mother didn’t bother to give me a first name. Just my father’s last name.”
The cop went through the whole name thing again with Simcosky and Capland, jotting each name in his notebook before turning his attention back to Embray. “Why were you visiting the victim?”
Victim?
O’Neill kept his face impassive, despite his surprise. The police were categorizing Nantz as a victim? Were they already considering the billionaire’s disappearance a kidnapping?
Embray’s eyebrows rose. “I was discussing a business proposition with him.”
“Mr. Embray was with Clark when he collapsed,” the secretary explained.
That appeared to catch the cop’s attention, even though Embray had already told him as much. He jotted something down in his notebook.
“You say he collapsed. What exactly happened?” the officer asked, his alert gaze steady on Embray’s face. He took more notes as Embray fed him the same line of bullshit he’d told Nantz’s bodyguards.
“He didn’t say anything? Just collapsed?”
“That’s right. O’Neill caught him before he hit the ground. We thought he was having a heart attack. O’Neill’s trained in CPR, so he ripped his shirt open. But we could see Clark’s heart was beating.”
The cop nodded like he’d heard the rundown before. Had he already talked to Nantz’s security team? Or had Nantz’s secretary filled him in on the details?
“Who called the ambulance?” the cop asked, those cool, assessing eyes back on Embray’s face.
“One of Clark’s bodyguards,” Embray said.
“These paramedics. The ones who took Nantz away, describe them for me.”
Embray described both Winters and Rawlings in detail.
“Anything that stood out?” This time the question was directed at O’Neill, who glanced at Embray, as though asking for permission. After Embray’s small nod, he turned back to the cop. “One of them, the brown haired one, was from the states. Had an American accent.”
“And you didn’t find that suspicious?” The officer’s voice remained flat, but his gaze narrowed.
O’Neill shrugged and held the cop’s eyes. “Why would I? The states have all kinds of nationalities working in the emergency service sector. I figured London was the same.”
The cop studied him, his sharp gaze scanning O’Neill’s face and body. O’Neill kept his expression easy, and his body relaxed.
“You called Clark a victim earlier.” Embray finally broke the building silence. “Why?”
The cop flipped his notebook closed. “We’ve checked with the local ambulance depots. Nobody has a team resembling the two men who took Nantz. Whoever they are, they are not paramedics.”
