“Weekly design meeting,” my suit-wearing CFO said, as if I’d forgotten. “Also you mentioned you’d visit the new office today. My plane was delayed, so I hope I’m not late.”
I peeled open the creaky door. “Are you telling me you flew all the way from California to attend a meeting you barely tolerate? You do love me.”
Smiling, Maxwell followed me inside. “You always say I’m your right-hand man. If I’m moving here to this dusty map dot, I might as well see for myself what I’m getting into.” His hand clapped my shoulder. “Let’s go check out this office of ours.”
Maxwell Barclay was not only my CFO, but a friend. He was more starched than Olivia, though they both shared a love for rules, arrogance, and telling people what to do. These were not characteristics I looked for in a life partner, but in my CFO? Vital. Max had joined me at a point when I was drowning, then whipped my infant company into shape and provided the vision and structure we needed to survive. Without him, I would’ve been a one-hit wonder. Now I had a thriving enterprise and the capacity to focus on the art while Maxwell took care of details.
Construction crews scurried like busy ants, carrying equipment and tending to noisy tasks. The bottom four floors were barely more than gutted shells, but I’d memorized the blueprints and design mock-ups and saw the space through that finished lens.
I took Maxwell on a don’t-touch-anything tour of the bottom floors before we journeyed to what would be the executive level. The fifth floor had received significantly more attention than the rest and looked nearly habitable.
“This is my office.” I stuck my head inside a large space filled with windows. “Yours is across the hall.”
Maxwell stepped over a pallet of wood flooring in his future part-time office. “Why’s my office half the size of yours?”
“I’m twice as large. Plus, I do all the work around here. You’re just the pretty face.” I punched my friend in the shoulder as we inspected his new space.
“Cool, then I’ll send you a few dozen spreadsheets and legal contracts to work on today. Oh, and then there’s the HR meeting to discuss staffing needs, the day next week devoted to the forensic accountant, plus I need to hire one more attorney.”
“See, you barely work.” I’d missed harassing Maxwell. With him here scowling, today almost felt normal. “I could have all that done before second breakfast. Maybe when you start really carrying your weight, we’ll discuss office upgrades.”
“Says the guy who installed a soda fountain and a video arcade in his last office.”
“This disrespectful attitude is all about my high score onTetris, isn’t it?” Maxwell worked harder than anyone in the company, and we all knew it. That’s why I paid him very, very well. “Man, it’s good to see you and that surly face.”
“I hope you haven’t torched too much in my absence,” he said with a haughtiness I knew Maxwell only partially meant.
“Just my personal life.”
He paused in his inspection of the green space outside the window. “When you become a public figure, the line between your personal and professional life can easily blur.”
“I’m aware.”
He turned toward me then, that analytical, killjoy look back on his face. “I guess I should say congratulations on your marriage.”
Max was more secure than the vault down at the Sugar Creek Bank and Trust, and I knew I stood in the cone of confidentiality. “Olivia Sutton and I go way back. We’ve mutually agreed to dislike each other for years.”
“She appears to be playing the part of a happy bride.”
“Olivia has a lot on the line as well.” Would I have stayed married for a promotion? Zero chance. But when Olivia set a goal, she let nothing stop her. “The media uproar seems to have diminished some.”
Maxwell rubbed a hand over his doubtful face. “How long will you let this play out?”
“Six months.”
He gave a huff of amused disbelief. “Only you would wake up in Vegas married to a beautiful woman you can’t stand. And at the worst possible time for the company.”
“I’m doing all I canforthis company.” Now it was my turn to get serious. “I’ve got this under control. But you said you had news from the detective?”
Max rocked back on his heels, a nervous habit he rarely broke out. “The Tropical Paradise Club had one working security camera that night.”
“Let me guess: It wasn’t in the bar area.”
“Parking lot.”
“What about cameras from nearby establishments?” I asked.
“He looked at lots of footage, but hundreds of people come and go. Vegas is a tourist mecca. Nobody was wearing a shirt that said, ‘I roofie drinks.’ The detective and his team interviewed waitstaff, bartenders, and a handful of the regulars. Not one person saw anything, Lachlan. I’m sorry.”
