Chapter 99: Bad Plate

"Morning." Dorian kept his attention on the elevator doors as they closed, then on the glowing numbers climbing above them.

"So, what’s this I hear about you and Victor Sterling’s son? I’m informed you married the man’s fiancée while they were still engaged."

Dorian turned his head slowly, expression completely flat. "Why do you ask? You need another wife?"

Alistair sighed. "I just think annoying one of our biggest clients is a stupid stunt."

Dorian faced forward again. "If they have a problem, they can take it up with me."

Fortunately, the elevator doors slid open before the conversation could become any more charitable.

They both stepped out. Dorian immediately headed toward his office. He had work waiting.

"One more thing."

Dorian stopped and turned slowly. Alistair stood a few feet behind him.

"The Kanes have given a condition if we want to keep their account."

"Oh?"

"They’re willing to keep the account with the firm only if either your father or you co-manage it."

"Then talk to my father."

"Maurice is retired. So that leaves you."

"I am not a family lawyer."

"They’re not asking you to be one. They want oversight." Alistair exhaled. "Looks like Maurice painted quite the picture of me to his clients."

"He didn’t need to do anything. Your reputation precedes you, Uncle Alistair." Dorian left before the man could ruin what little remained of his morning. He had barely made it halfway down the corridor when Adrian appeared and fell into step beside him, tablet in hand and expression already suggesting there was something worth hearing.

"What do we got?" Dorian asked.

"I think we should begin with the most important."

"That generally helps."

Adrian ignored him. "The investigative team couldn’t get a read on the license plate."

Dorian wasn’t surprised. "I thought as much."

A perfectly readable plate would have been generous.

"But," Adrian continued, "they were able to track the vehicle through traffic cameras and other footage until it made a stop at a gas station."

Dorian slowed. Now that was useful.

"They got a read on the driver."

Dorian pushed open his office door. "I’m listening."

Adrian followed him inside. "He’s a private investigator. Works independently from his apartment in Queens. Grant Mercer, forty-two, former NYPD detective."

"Do you have an address?"

"Yes, sir."

"Text it to me." Dorian was already turning toward the door.

"You’re going there now?"

"Yes." He didn’t bother taking a seat. He had been carrying too much irritation since Saturday night, and at this point, he needed somewhere for all that energy to go.

Someone had volunteered.

Dorian took the elevator downstairs, crossed the lobby and headed for the Mercedes. Adrian’s message came through before he reached the car. Dorian entered the address into navigation and pulled away.

Soon, Dorian was standing outside a modest house in Middle Village, Queens. He walked up the short path and knocked.

A few moments passed. The door opened. Grant Mercer stood on the doorstep wearing a lazy expression.

"What can I do for you?" he asked.

"I know you know who I am." Dorian didn’t bother with introductions. "And you must be pretty stupid and very bad at your job if you didn’t realize there are certain people you do not take jobs concerning."

Grant leaned one shoulder against the doorframe.

"I am going to ask you one time and one time only. Who put you on my tail?"

"Sorry. Privilege."

Dorian chuckled. The answer had been so predictable. He pulled out his phone. Grant’s eyes followed the movement. Dorian unlocked it and started typing.

"What are you doing?" Grant asked.

Dorian kept his attention on the screen. "You’ve got clients. I’ve got clients." His thumbs moved steadily. "Both offer us jobs that require protecting their privilege." He finally looked up. "I’d like to put something to the test. Which of our clients have more important privileges. Yours or mine."

Dorian looked back down at his phone. Grant’s posture changed now. He was paying attention. "So here’s what I’m doing. I’m sending a broadcast text to two of my most dangerous clients informing them that their privilege is in danger of being breached by a down-on-his-luck private investigator and that, because of that risk, I can no longer represent them."

"I’m not afraid of you."

Dorian gave a small shrug. "You don’t have to be." He looked up again. "Do you want to hear the names of my clients? Because I intend to give them your name and your address." He didn’t need theatrics.

Threats generally worked better when delivered like administrative updates.

"I should probably lead with the fact that my clients cannot afford to lose me," Dorian continued. "They rely heavily on my representation."

Grant folded his arms. Dorian could almost see the calculations happening behind his eyes. "You’re bluffing."

"Again, if you really did your job, you’d know I never bluff."

"You can’t threaten me into violating confidentiality."

"I am doing no such thing. I am simply keeping my clients informed about how your actions have potentially compromised matters involving them."

"You’re twisting this."

Dorian kept his expression stoic. "I’m a lawyer. Twisting things is why I get paid. And I am quite expensive. I’m sending this in five seconds." He kept his finger on his phone.

"Shit! I’m not paid enough for this. Richard Whitmore," Grant finally caved. "He asked me to tail you, find out the places you go and shit."

"Since when?"

"A week ago." Grant stepped back into his house. "Now get off my property."

The door slammed shut in Dorian’s face.

A week.

"Shit." Dorian dragged a hand over his jaw. He really must be losing his touch if someone had been following him for an entire week before he noticed.

Then again, Grant had been NYPD.

Still.

A fucking week.

Dorian turned and walked back toward the Mercedes, but the irritation over missing the tail quickly gave way to a more pressing question.

Richard Whitmore.

Why?

What possible reason did Naomi’s uncle have for putting a private investigator on him?

Dorian pulled out his phone and called Adrian. His assistant answered quickly. "I need Richard Whitmore’s office address."