“Who’s Clint Jefferies?”
“The pharmaceutical and real estate tycoon? Owns Markham Pharmaceuticals? Worth billions. Nice-looking, but a bit of a douche if you ask me,” Ruth replied with a sniff.
Harper definitely recognized the company name Markham. It was one of the top six pharmaceutical companies worldwide. “Right,” Harper mused. “So how are Jefferies and Latimer related again?”
“Nowadays, they aren’t, because that’s the way Latimer wants it. Jefferies was his mentor a long time ago. But Latimer has held him at arm’s length ever since the Markham insider trading scandal. That whole affair has been shrouded in mystery for years, just like Latimer himself. He’s a reporter’s dream and nightmare at once. Someone has done a good job of brushing the trail of his history clean,” Ruth said with a pointed glance. “My bet is that the main trail sweeper is Latimer himself, with a little help from his buddies in military intelligence. I’ve been invited to a few charity events Latimer has sponsored at a local hotel. He only attends once in a while, and when he does, he’s like a ghost. No one ever gets a good look at him, let alone talks to him. Rumor has it, he even has his women imported from other parts of the world. His deliberate avoidance of the women around here only adds to his mystique and allure. And to local females’ frustration. You have to tell me every detail about the cocktail party.”
“You mean you think I should go?”
Ruth looked scandalized. “Aren’t you listening to what I’m saying? That’s a golden ticket you’re holding right there. His staff guards him like Fort Knox, both here and in San Francisco. Even if Latimer does his ghost act at this cocktail party, though, just getting behind those gates is a major coup. I’ve never been invited to the compound.”
“But—”
“You will go,” Ruth said with a glare. Harper gave her a dry don’t even think you can push me around look. Ruth seemed to realize her harshness and laughed. “Jesus, how to explain to a peasant that you don’t turn down an invitation from the king?” Harper opened her mouth to defend herself. “Oh, calm down,” Ruth said, cutting her off with a wave of her hand and the air of someone who had more important things to consider than soothing a frayed ego. She took Harper by the arm and urged her toward her office. “I’m not being difficult, Harper. Honestly. It’s just you don’t get Tahoe Shores yet. Sure, we’re a little Podunk town, but at the same time, we host some of the biggest movers and shakers in the world on that lakeshore. The Silicon Valley elite flock to the Nevada Tahoe shores for the tax breaks and the incredible views, and Jacob Latimer is one of the biggest of them all.” Ruth stepped back in front of Harper’s desk, letting go of her arm. “Now. Are you a newswoman, or not?”
Harper stilled at the challenge, eyes narrowing. “Of course.”
“Then you’re going to that damn party because this is the best bit of news this pitiful newspaper has had in ages. Who knows, maybe you’ll get some dirt on Latimer in that close of proximity.”
“I’m an editor now, not a reporter. Let alone an undercover one.”
“I don’t care if you’re Ben freaking Bradlee, you’re going.” Ruth pointed at Harper’s chair. “Now sit down, and I’ll try to prepare you for what you’re about to get into. As best I can, anyway, since I only have my imagination to go on as far as what happens behind those gates.”
Harper gave a bark of disbelieving laughter, but started around her desk, nevertheless. Some people might have been offended by Ruth’s manner, but plainspoken bossiness was familiar to her. Ruth was the closest thing to a savvy newspaperwoman Harper had run into at the Gazette. The truth was, she wouldn’t let Ruth boss her around if she wasn’t curious herself about the invitation.
“You make a cocktail party sound like it’s life altering,” Harper said, plopping into her chair.
“You never know,” Ruth replied drolly. “We’re talking Jacob Latimer here. He’s made it a business to alter lives. Maybe his own, most of all. He made a giant of himself out
of nothing but shadows and whispers, after all. That’s the potential story, if you ask me.”
two
What the hell are you doing here?
She’d asked herself that question too many times to count before she pulled her Toyota Camry up next to a security station at 935 Lakeview Boulevard that evening. It’d been less than a half mile from her condo. Harper felt a little stupid driving the short distance on such a gorgeous evening. She’d rather walk. From the sound of the invitation, however, she got the definite impression she wasn’t expected to stroll casually up to Jacob Latimer’s gated compound.
The guard seemed amiable enough as he approached, but something about his muscular, fit body and sharp eyes as he examined her face, the invitation, and then her face again suggested he was something more than just easygoing part-time help stuck out at the front gate. The word ex-military popped into her brain. Well, Ruth had said that Latimer had done a stint in army intelligence. Maybe he’d hired some buddies from his army days to do his security.
“You’re all set, Ms. McFadden,” the guard finally said, handing back her invitation and identification. “Just keep heading straight down the road and you’ll dead-end at the big house.”
“You’re not going to search me or my car?” she asked, referring to the mention in the invitation about security measures.
“No, ma’am,” he replied, deadpan. “You’ve been pre-cleared for entry.”
This just keeps getting weirder and weirder. What did Ruth get me into?
It wasn’t Ruth’s fault, though. Not really. Harper’s reporter instinct had been nudged by the unexpected invitation and Ruth’s gossip about Latimer. She had no interest in doing a big-business exposé. But she was known for having a nose for a good story. Harper usually gravitated toward human interest pieces, though . . . to big stories seen through the eyes of seemingly small, everyday people. She couldn’t imagine what a good human interest story might be in regard to Jacob Latimer. By all reports, the man more resembled a machine or ghost than a flesh-and-blood man.
At least it won’t be boring, Harper thought wryly as she progressed down a stunning drive canopied by soaring pine trees, landscaped grounds, and several outbuildings. Suddenly the sprawling main house came into view. The mansion blended features of the old Tahoe style with a clean, minimalist, almost Japanese aesthetic: Western log lodge meets Frank Lloyd Wright. The result was stunning.
A woman in her thirties wearing a black cocktail dress briskly stepped down the stairs when Harper pulled up at the porte cochere. A young man followed and came around to open Harper’s door.
“Just leave your keys,” the woman said. “Jim will park your car for you. Welcome! I’m Elizabeth Shields,” the woman said when Harper alighted. She peered at Harper through a pair of tortoiseshell-rimmed glasses. Harper sensed she was pleasant, but guarded . . . and curious, as well.
“Harper McFadden. It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Harper said, extending her hand.
Elizabeth was an attractive brunette in her midthirties. Something about the way she wore the expensive-looking but simply cut cocktail dress called to mind a uniform instead of party attire. As Jacob Latimer’s assistant, Elizabeth must have to dress up for work a lot.