Chapter 17: The Loading Dock

Mateo's POV

On Tuesday night I called my mother in San Antonio.

She picked up on the first ring, because she always does when it is after midnight.

I told her Marisol was safe, that nobody was in trouble with the law and that someone might call about her renewal paperwork.

She was quiet for a while.

"Tell your sister to stop apologizing," she said. "She does it in her sleep."

"I will."

"And Mateo. The Lindholm girl. Is she good?"

"She's trying to be," I said, and found I meant it.

I hung up and went to work.

At two in the morning I was on the loading dock with a clipboard, counting linen bags that did not need counting.

The dock is the one place in the Grand with no marble.

It has a concrete floor and a roll-up door and a view of a brick wall.

Preston Rowe walked down the ramp at ten past two in a gray overcoat with his hands in his pockets.

"Mr. Soto."

"Mr. Rowe. The dock's closed to executives after midnight."

"Then I'll be quick."

He looked around, found a stack of pallets and sat on it with his legs crossed.

I kept my left hand on the clipboard.

The right one rested over my breast pocket, where my phone was recording.

"I'm going to be straight with you," Preston said. "You're a smart man in a bad position."

"Go on."

"The chairman is going to win. He always does. When he does, you're out, your sister's out, and your mother's paperwork goes in a drawer."

"I've heard that one."

"I know you have. That's why I'm offering you something different."

He took out an envelope and set it on the pallet between us.

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