Free The Vanishing by Bentley Little Page A

laser-focused, detail-oriented business savant who, like most men in his position, was wary and guarded with the press.
    Which was why Wilson found the voice mail so disturbing.
    ‘‘I wonder if he’s just cracked under the pressure,’’ Wilson speculated as he drove. ‘‘For all I know, he could be waiting for me in his office wearing a clown nose, with a spatula in one hand and a dildo in the other.’’
    ‘‘Or a shotgun,’’ Brian said softly.
    ‘‘Exactly.’’
    With two of them in the vehicle, they were able to take the freeway’s carpool lane, and they arrived at the office building ten minutes early. Rather than wait for the appointed time, they decided to go straight up to Oklatex’s headquarters on the top floor. ‘‘I doubt that he’s even there,’’ Wilson said as they entered the elevator in the lobby. ‘‘I would imagine that the message he left on my machine originated from his house.’’
    ‘‘Then shouldn’t you have called first to see if he was here?’’
    ‘‘Oh, no,’’ the other reporter assured him, pressing the button for the fifteenth floor. ‘‘He could have canceled on me if he was here—which he has been known to do. I didn’t want to give him that opportunity.’’ Wilson smiled. ‘‘Besides, we might see something . . . news-worthy.’’
    The elevator doors slid open. In front of them, a sculpture of freestanding metallic letters spelled out OKLATEX OIL. Brian had been expecting a corridor, but instead they were in a large, modern, expensively furnished space that seemed to take up the entire floor of the building. Green plants and skylights gave the room an open, airy appearance. Occasional segments of curved wall partitioned the floor into sections, but there were no cubicles, modular workstations, or even any individual offices that he could see.
    Wilson had been there before and obviously knew where he was going, so Brian followed him past the OKLATEX OIL sculpture to a woman in the center of the room who sat typing on a computer keyboard behind a huge drawerless desk that appeared to be made of Plexiglas. ‘‘Hello,’’ he said. ‘‘Wilson St. John, here to see Mr. Devine.’’
    The woman looked up apologetically and not a little guiltily. ‘‘Oh, Mr. St. John,’’ she said. ‘‘I’m sorry. I should have called you. Mr. Devine won’t be able to make the meeting today. It’s my fault. I should have let you know. If you’d like, I could reschedule you for another time. Would you like me to check his calendar for you?’’
    She was talking too fast, and they both caught it. Wilson shot Brian a look. ‘‘Did Mr. Devine say why he wasn’t available?’’ he asked.
    The secretary spoke guardedly. ‘‘I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to divulge such information.’’
    ‘‘Well, can you tell me whether Mr. Devine has been in today?’’
    ‘‘I’m sorry, sir. Mr. Devine is a very busy and important man, and he doesn’t want his whereabouts to be made public, as you might imagine. Let me just check his schedule and see if we can pencil you in . . .
    Brian glanced around as the woman spoke, looking up at the domed skylight, down at the potted palm beside the secretary’s desk. His gaze settled on a dirty piece of paper lying on top of a pile of business correspondence next to her computer. His heart started to pound. Even upside down, Brian could recognize the type of characters scrawled on the page. His mouth suddenly felt dry.
    The secretary saw where his eyes were focused and quickly turned over the paper. Her face reddened with embarrassment, and she looked away from him, refusing to meet his gaze, keeping her focus on Wilson. Brian’s heart was pounding so loud in his chest that he was afraid everyone in the room could hear it. ‘‘Where—’’ Nervously, he cleared his throat. ‘‘Where did you get that . . . letter?’’
    She pretended she didn’t hear and asked Wilson if she could reschedule the meeting for next