Was the messy printing of her handwriting because of her injury, or was it a result of the drugs? Probably it’s a combination of the two, he thought as he sprinted down the hall. He jabbed the elevator call button. She’s with Phillip. Phillip Clarke. Should be safe. A longtime family friend. So why was the notion of that filling him with dread? The elevator doors glided open, he stepped in, and pressed the button for the lobby. The couple already in the elevator took one look at him and drew closer together. Mick turned his back to them and focused on the illuminating floor numbers above the door, as if that would make the elevator move faster. Where is this feeling of panic coming from? Am I freaking out? Is this some sort of anxiety attack? Sarah’s ex is in jail. She should be safe. Or maybe this unease is tied up with the Vicki mess? Mick had read enough newspaper articles, seen enough true crime shows to know that it’s usually someone close to the person. A family member, a friend, or a lover . . . Mick’s stomach clenched further. Was it a crime of passion, for monetary gain, or to silence someone, or all of the above? Phillip Clarke ticks at least one of those boxes, maybe more. That Sarah knew about Phillip’s relationship with Vicki might put her at risk as well. The elevator doors opened. Mick tore out into the lobby, through the front doors, out onto the street, and ran full tilt up the block, turned right on Lexington. He didn’t have the address, but he knew the distinctive building that somehow managed to blend the grandeur of a historic old post office with a sophisticated modern flair. Mick had clocked it because he’d thought it would make a good visual backdrop when shooting in New York. He would figure out the floor when he was in the lobby. Then the memory of standing in the elevator with Sarah yesterday flashed before him. When the floor number twenty-eight lit, her back had stiffened and her chin had lifted. Phillip Clarke’s office was on the twenty-eighth floor.

55