Fields' Guide to Abduction - - (best sales books of all time txt) 📗

I glanced down at the business card clasped in my fingers then up at the building. Not what I was expecting. Not at all.

I’d conjured up a headquarters to rival James Bond’s. The reality was a non-descript beige office building.

I stepped into the empty lobby, pushed the elevator button, and rode to the fifth floor.

The elevator deposited me in a hallway. To my left were the stairs, to my right was a single non-descript door.

I tightened my grip on John Brown’s card and pushed the door open.

“May I help you?” asked a prim receptionist.

I cleared my throat. “I’d like to see Mr. Brown.”

She tilted her head like a curious robin. “Mr. Brown?”

“John Brown.” I showed her the card. “This is his office, isn’t it?”

“Yes, it is.” She frowned. “Do you have an appointment?”

“No.”

“If you’ll have a seat, I’ll see if he’s available. Your name?”

“Poppy Fields.”

Her brows rose but she typed something into the computer on her desk.

I sat and looked at the print hanging on the opposite wall—Monet’s Poppy Field.

“Excuse me.”

I shifted my gaze to the receptionist.

“Mr. Brown is out of the office but he’s due back in twenty minutes. Would you mind waiting?”

“That’s fine.” I’d hand off the flash drive and be done with John Brown and Jake Smith. Forever.

“Would you care for something to drink?”

“Water. Please.”

She stood, pushed a button on her computer, disappeared through a door behind her desk, and returned in an instant. “Would you like a glass?”

“The bottle is fine.”

She handed me a chilled bottle and resumed her seat.

I read the nameplate on the front of her desk. Ann Jones. Another alias?

“Have you worked here long?”

“Ten years.”

Ten years. “You must enjoy your job.”

She offered me a tight smile that said she didn’t have time for chit-chat.

Okay then. I took out my phone and checked my email. Ruth Gardner had emailed me again. Hardly a surprise. I received an email from her every few hours. She was representing me when it came to requests for interviews and appearances. The current email informed me I’d been invited on the Tonight Show and This Week.

Ugh. The last thing I wanted was to be on television.

I typed a response. No to the Tonight Show. As for This Week, I had no objection if she wanted to appear and talk about travel safety concerns.

I peeked at Twitter. I wasn’t trending. A relief.

I sipped the water and returned to my inbox. Barclift begged me to consider publishing under my real name. Failing that, did I want to write a memoir about my recent experience? He could sell that manuscript for millions.

No. No memoir.

“Mr. Brown will see you now.”

“You said he was out of the office.”

“Yes.”

“How did he get in?” No one had passed through the reception area.

“I imagine he took the stairs.”

The stairs were outside the door.

Either Ann Jones was lying or there was a lot more to John Brown’s non-descript office than met the eye.

She rose. “This way, please.”

I followed her to an empty conference room and took a seat.

“He’ll be with you in just a moment.”

“Thank you.” I spoke to her retreating back.

The conference room was beige. Beige walls. Beige carpet. A golden oak stain on a conference table that had seen better days. I sipped my water and waited.

“Miss. Fields, to what do we owe the pleasure?” John Brown stood just inside the door, as if he had so little time for me it wasn’t worth sitting down.

I reached into my handbag and pulled out the flash drive. “I brought you this.”

“What is that?”

I put the little drive down on the table. “Javier Diaz’s files on Venti. Everything from the formula to sales projections.”

John Brown stood straighter. “How did you get this?”

“It’s a long story.” It wasn’t but I didn’t appreciate his lurking by the doorway.

He took a seat across from me and reached for the drive.

I told him about the second hiding place in Marta’s handbag.

“When did you find this?”

“Last night.”

He picked up the phone and jabbed out a number. “Ms. Jones, would you please bring us a laptop?”

A moment later, Ms. Jones, prim expression firmly fixed on her face, appeared with a computer.

Mr. Brown logged on and inserted the drive.

His eyes scanned the files and his lips hardened to a firm line. When he finished reading, he shifted his gaze to me. “You’ve read all of this?”

“I have.”

“Then I owe you an apology. Your assessment of Diaz was correct and I dismissed it.”

“I get underestimated a lot.”

He rubbed his chin. “I bet you do.”

I stood. He had the drive and I was done.

“You graduated from USC with honors?”

“Yes.”

“Degrees in economics and creative writing?”

“Yes.”

“What do you know about money?”

“In the U.S., it’s green.”

His eyes narrowed. “What do you know about its flow?”

“What do you mean?”

“What do you know about laundering money?”

“Very little. Except—” I stopped myself. The plan was to drop off the drive and leave not converse with John Brown.

“Except what?”

It wasn’t like I had any place to be and a small part of me wanted to prove I was more than a pretty face. “Except the resort was owned by a cartel. I assume they overstated everything from occupancy to food and beverage sales.”

“A safe assumption.”

“And I’m assuming there’s a film production company out there that launders money. On a large scale.”

“What makes you think that?”

“Call it an educated guess.” Brett was working for bad people. I was sure of it. The bank? His clients? Or both? “Of course, to launder really large amounts of money,