Scott Sherman - Third You Die

“As you well know, Cody and I have an open relationship.” Freddy affected a haughty disregard.

“On one side.”

“Hey, he can screw around if he wants to.”

“That’s the point. He doesn’t want to. He just wants you.”

“So do a lot of other people. What am I supposed to do? ‘Just say no’? Do I look like Nancy Reagan to you?”

“Only when you wear red,” I said. “And, yes, saying no is an option, Freddy.”

“One minute you’re calling me selfish, the next you’re saying I shouldn’t share this magnificent body god gave me with as many men as I can. Make up your mind, Connor.”

Maybe I didn’t have ADHD. Maybe my friends were conspiring to make me crazy.

“Whatever. I’m texting you Lucas’s address. If I don’t call you in two hours, you try me. If I don’t answer, call Tony and have him send the cavalry. Okay?”

“Why do I have to be the middleman on this? Wouldn’t it be easier if you called Tony now and told him yourself when you might need rescuing? He can watch the clock as well as I can. Probably better.”

“Because if he knew what I was sticking my nose into, he’d kill me. Which would make the whole ‘rescuing’ thing kind of moot.”

“Fair enough. Okay, I’d wish you luck, but since your success makes it less likely you’ll let me have a go at Lucas, I’ll just hope you don’t get yourself killed.”

“Thanks,” I said. “That’s very generous of you.”

“See?” Freddy pointed out. “ So not selfish.”

I arrived at the address Mrs. Cherry had given me and immediately recognized the building. It was a tall, skinny sliver of a high-rise condominium that seemed constructed of nothing but glass and steel. It looked more like an oversized piece of jewelry than a place where real people lived. Chic, minimalistic, almost spindly, it was hard to imagine it could withstand a strong breeze, let alone hundreds of people and all their stuff. Yet, despite its seeming fragility, it was considered, in many ways, one of the most secure buildings in the world.

It was called El Santuario. I’d read about it somewhere, the New York Times, maybe, or the New Yorker. Something with “New York” in it. It was described as the city’s most exciting new building, an architectural wonder. As high-tech inside as it looked from the street, every unit was wired for automation and the ultimate in home security. Despite the fact that the walls were almost all floor-to-ceiling windows, you could see out but you couldn’t see in. Some kind of special one-way coating gave the residents the best views in the city while also delivering total privacy.

The entrance was set back from the street, flanked by two doormen. You couldn’t tell from looking, but I remembered from the article that the doormen were armed. It was also one of the few buildings in the city with an underground garage that allowed residents to pull in and have access to an elevator that would take them straight to the floor on which they lived, bypassing the need to pass through a lobby. This wasn’t so much a security design, I’d read, but one instituted to ward off paparazzi, who typically clustered around the city’s other high-end developments, hoping for a shot of someone rich and famous.

Given its many protections, El Santuario was home to several celebrities, financiers, and heads of state. People who wanted not only the elegance and status of living in one of New York’s most desirable addresses, but the ultimate in protection from prying eyes and the other dangers of city life.

I hadn’t asked Mrs. Cherry who Lucas’s patron was. I was kind of glad not to know. Whoever it was, he was rich enough to have an apartment here. I had no desire to get on the wrong side of anyone with that much juice.

A man with that kind of money and power… now, there’s someone who’d kill to keep his secret.

Forget Lucas.

Maybe the real guy I should be worried about was his sugar daddy.

I was glad I had dressed nicely for work today. The armed guards nodded as one opened the door for me. One even smiled.

There are times when being five feet three with boyish features and a slim build are an advantage. I’m not particularly threatening.

Once inside, I faced a long counter, behind which stood a man with the face of friendly bulldog. “May I help you, sir?”

Like most everything else in the lobby, the reception table was silver and glass. I noticed an odd omission of seating. No couches or chairs for visitors. The message was: You’re either on your way in, or on your way out. Hanging out was not encouraged at El Santuario. Another reminder that people weren’t here to be seen.

“Hi,” I answered, in my most disarming manner. “I’m here to see Lucas. In…” I forgot the apartment number. “One sec.”

I reached into my pocket for the folded sheet in my front pocket and noticed the receptionist’s eyes darken. Surely he didn’t think I was reaching for a…

I’ll never know, but suddenly, another guard materialized to my left. He stood a few feet away, but I caught him in my peripheral vision. I heard a slight whirring noise and looked up. A video camera, discreetly tucked into a row of track lighting, slightly adjusted its lens. I imagined another guard in an unseen room zooming in on me to see what I was about to withdraw.

Yikes.

I pulled out the paper and opened it, my hands shaking slightly. The receptionist, however, seemed to relax slightly and dropped his shoulders.

“Umm… twenty-two F,” I said. “Lucas in twenty-two F.”

I purposefully didn’t give Lucas’s last name. I had no idea if he used the same one he used for films, but I bet not. For that matter, he might not have been using the same first name, but it was all I had.

“Of course.” The bulldog moved his lips into an approximation of what would have been a smile on a human face. He picked up a phone and pressed some numbers. “Mr. Ford,” he said. “There’s someone here for your apartment.” He paused for a moment, listening. “One moment.”

“Mr. Ford wasn’t expecting anyone,” he said to me. “Your name, please?”

Shit. I hadn’t thought of that. Dumb.

If I told him my name, then what? Would he ask the guard to inquire why I was there? What would I say? Anything close to the truth ran the same risk as calling ahead would have. Now that I was here, it seemed even more risky to set off his alarms. Forget being kicked out-I had the probably paranoid but unshakeable feeling that if I said the wrong thing, they’d shoot me.

The few seconds these thoughts ran through my head seemed much longer. I felt a bead of sweat run down my back. I wanted to scratch it, but was afraid any sudden movement would get me thrown to the ground and handcuffed. Unless I was mistaken, the guard to my left was a foot or two closer.

“Brent,” I answered, hoping the answer wouldn’t get me killed. “Please tell Mr. Ford it’s Brent Haven.”

The guard relayed my name. He listened again and his brows knitted together. “Of course, Mr. Ford.”

He punched some buttons on a keyboard I hadn’t noticed under his desk.

“Would you mind looking there, sir?”

He pointed at the lights where I’d seen the video camera hidden. A surveillance system. He must be able to patch the feed into the residents’ apartments.

I said Brent Haven was here, and Lucas didn’t believe it. He had to see it with his own eyes.

What did that mean?

A number of people who’d known Brent remarked how much I resembled him. At least, on first glance. By the second one, though, I imagined the differences were clear.

I had a feeling Lucas would be looking very closely.

I’d been in other apartments with video cameras for visitors. The feeds were always grainy and indistinct. But this was the exceedingly high-tech and high-security El Santuario. The video was probably hi-def. Maybe even 3D. Who knew?