The skinny man nodded.
“Excellent. Now my friends and I”—he motioned to the other men standing nearby—“work for R.I.S.C. Delta Team, a private security company here in town. Perhaps you’ve heard of us?” Brody held up his R.I.S.C. badge for good measure.
A sliver of unease filtered in the younger man’s eyes as he gave a second, jerkier nod.
Ah, so he does know who we are.
“My team was working security for Mr. Yorke’s party, and we’re here following up with the ongoing investigation. Feel free to call Detective Hansen with the CPD’s Violent Crimes Unit if you’d like.”
Christian pulled a card from his wallet and slid it across the desks’ smooth surface. “There’s his direct line.”
Brody’s lips threatened to twitch. Damn, he loved that guy.
“Th-that won’t be necessary,” the noticeably less cockygentlemanstated. “If you’ll just give me just a moment…”
The team waited while the phone call was made. Less than five minutes later, they’d been given a personal escort—courtesy of the building’s own security—and were in the elevator and on their way to see Yorke.
“You couldn’t take two seconds to change?” Jagger eyed the blood stains on the front of Brody’s suite.”
“Not all of us can be fashionistas like you, Brooks.”
The comment was meant to be an annoyed jab, but the stylish man simply stared back at Brody a knowing smirk. “Don’t hate me because I’m beautiful, brother.”
Several deep snorts filled the confined space. And though he didn’t make a peep, the middle-aged man wearing the stereotypical black suit and tie—complete with a coiled earpiece—did allow the corners of his mouth to lift with a slight curve.
But Brody wasn’t smiling. He was too busy planning.
A loud ding announced their arrival on the thirty-second floor. The top floor, reserved for the most expensive penthouse suite in the city.
“I wonder if the guy realizes he could own an eight-million-dollar home with acreage for what he pays for this place,” Liam commented to no one in particular.
An incredulous expression twisted Cade’s clean-cut face as they followed the guard through the opened doors and down a long, equally elaborate hallway. “What the hell would a guy like Yorke do with acreage? Doesn’t exactly strike me as a fishin’ or huntin’ type.”
“Right?” Christian snickered. “Wait, I got it. Clayton Yorke, a pair of denim overalls, on a riding lawnmower.”
“Prick’s probably never even seen one,” Brody grumbled.
“Here we are.” Their polite escort pressed the doorbell and waited.
Expecting a butler or servant to appear, Brody was surprised when Clayton Yorke himself answered the door.
“Thank you, Harold.” He handed the security guard a hundred dollar bill.
“Thankyou, Mr. Yorke.” To Brody and the others, the man whose name was apparently Harry gave a curt nod. “Gentlemen.”
“Thanks, Harry!” Jagger waved at the man’s back as he disappeared into the awaiting elevator. “It’s been a blast!”
“Seriously?” Cade shot their teammate a look.
“What?”
“Do you have to be a twenty-four-seven smart ass?”
Jagger stared back at Cade with a flattened expression. “Have to? No.Wantto…”
“How is Aurora?” Yorke looked and sounded genuinely worried as he stepped to the side and held the door for the team.
This guy wouldn’t know genuine if reached up and punched him in those perfect teeth.