“I assume you have a reason for visiting,” he said stiffly. “Does this concern my son?”
“I wanted to ask you something,” I said. “The night Megan Hollows was discovered outside the hotel, do you remember where you were?”
“Of course,” Wolf said. “I was here. I’m here every night.”
“I—what? You weren’t drinking?”
Wolf twirled his gold ring—the one I hadn’t stolen—around his finger. “Sweetheart, I don’t drink anymore. Between my disease and the medications I take, it no longer serves me.”
“The first time I saw you, you said you’d been doing cocaine.”
He laughed outright. “I do enjoy teasing the staff, but I’m afraid my reputation is all a ruse. I’m in bed by eight o’clock every night, sometimes with company.” He nodded toward Fletcher, who blushed and crossed his arms. “Fletcher can attest to that.”
“You were both here?” I asked.
“Mm-hmm,” Fletcher said reluctantly.
“Jonathan said—” My gaze flickered to a coat hanging over the back of an armchair, and my voice died in my throat. The coat’s pattern matched that of the scarf Megan had given to the homeless man outside the Saint Angel. “Where did you get that coat?”
Wolf cast a tired glance at the article of clothing. “That old thing? I can barely remember. I used to have a matching scarf, but it seems to have disappeared—”
I moved so abruptly that I knocked into a side table and toppled over a lit candlestick. With quick reflexes, Wolf leaned over and blew out the small flame before the candle rolled off the table and fell onto the floor, where it would have ignited the shag rug in seconds.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I should go. I shouldn’t have bothered you—” I accidentally backed into Fletcher as I made my way to the door. “Oh! Good night, both of you. Enjoy your evening.”
Neither one of them stopped me as I made my awkward exit. I didn’t feel safe until the elevator began to carry me away from the top floor. Even then, my blood roared in my ears.
The scarf—Megan’s scarf—belonged to Wolf Godfrey. Furthermore, he’d admitted to being at the scene of the crime.
While Evelyn slept, I fiddled with the cipher ring. After my all-day nap, I was too awake to attempt slumber. The ring provided an oddly satisfying distraction. I spun the outer layer, waited for it to stop, and spun it again like a child playing with a top. The weight of the gem didn’t seem to affect the ring’s rotations, which I found mighty interesting.
Over and over, I spun the ring, letting my mind zone out. But as I studied the cipher on the side, something finally caught my attention. After every seventh spin, the outer ring always landed on the letter G.
I sat up against the headboard and turned on the bedside light. Evelyn, dead asleep, wasn’t bothered. I spun the ring again. This time, it landed on O. I spun again.
D. F. R. E. Y.
“Godfrey,” I muttered.
I spun another round of seven, this time paying attention to the inner ring, the one that allowed you to decode passages of text. Another name spelled itself out. Bianchi.
I set the ring on the desk, opened my laptop, and searched for the Bianchi Group. As expected, I found very little. According to the website, the Bianchi Group owned a few boutique hotels. The Saint Angel was its biggest property. There were no details about who owned the group or where they were located, so it was impossible to track the business down.
At the very bottom of the page, in fancy gold lettering with nearly illegible flourishes, the website displayed a motto: Be ashamed to die until you have won some victory for humanity.
With a quick search, I discovered the quote came from Horace Mann, the first president of Antioch College in Ohio. According to the college’s website, Antioch prided itself on its “firsts.” It was the first coed college to offer the same opportunities to men and women, first to offer African-Americans equal education, and the first to establish community-based work in the curriculum.
I navigated to the alumni page and searched for anyone named Bianchi. The first hit was Ronaldo Bianchi. I pumped my fist in triumph when his name appeared adjacent to another investment company—Free Radical Incorporated—that specialized in rebuilding huge hotels. With some dutiful digging, I uncovered a link: the Bianchi Group was a subdivision of the larger Free Radical Incorporated. But how was either group connected to the Godfreys?
FRI, it turned out, was headquartered here in Chicago. When I mapped the office location, it was a short five-minute drive from the Saint Angel.
Free Radical Incorporated was housed in one of Chicago’s iconic skyscrapers, a building that stretched so high into the air that it made me feel small and insignificant as I stepped into its shadows. In the lobby, I studied the directory and found FRI’s offices on the thirtieth floor. I rode up and stepped into a crimson lobby, where a secretary answered phones at a shiny black desk. Behind her, a shimmering waterfall installation fell like a curtain.
“This is FRI. How can I help you?” the secretary said.
“I’m looking for—”
She tapped her headset and held up a finger. She’d been talking to a caller, not to me. Blushing, I waited for her to finish up.
“Please hold. I’ll transfer you.” She pressed a button on the phone. “This is FRI. How can I help you? Please hold. I’ll transfer you.”
After a few more rounds of this, the secretary finally lifted the headset away from her ears and gazed expectantly up at me.
“Me?” I asked.
She nodded curtly.
“I’m looking for the Bianchi Group,” I said. “Do they have an office here?”
“Do you have an appointment?”
“No, but it’s important—”
The secretary snorted. “Let me guess. You want to buy the Saint Angel. You people are such parasites. One scandal, and you swarm Miss Bianchi like cockroaches.”
“Miss Bianchi?”
She held up
