He Will Be My Ruin

by K. A. Tucker

  “I guess Celine’s case must bring back some hard memories for you.”

  “Yeah, kind of,” he says softly. “I hadn’t thought about it for a while, actually. After he died, I jumped on a plane for America. It was supposed to be a vacation, but I stayed.”

  “So you’re an illegal,” I say to tease him, partly because I need to break up the cloud that’s formed over this happy little place, but also because I’m interested in learning more about Grady.

  A brief smile flashes across his face. “Dual citizenship. My mum is from Seattle. She met my dad while on vacation in London and married him right away. The family business was over there—just outside of Ipswich—and so that’s where they stayed. And that’s where I grew up.”

  “And what kind of business is your family in?”

  “Sheep farming.”

  “Sheep farming?”

  He nods, chuckling. “Glamorous, right?”

  “Almost as glamorous as fixing toilets and replacing screws.”

  He smirks, but then his face grows serious. “It’s easy work and my rent is paid. I never have to worry about where I’m going to live. Plus, my interests lie elsewhere, besides sheep.”

  “Oh yeah? Where?”

  “At the moment, right here.” He’s watching me, his long dark lashes fluttering as his eyes drift over my features, settling on my mouth more than once.

  I know what’s supposed to happen now, and I find myself wanting it to happen, and yet I hesitate. I haven’t made time for a guy in my life since my senior year of college. That guy was an environmental engineering major, like me. Three months into the relationship, I found him snooping through my desk drawer, flipping through my files. Apparently he had his sights set on my money. That’s usually the case, I’ve found. This enormous trust fund doesn’t come without a cost. Namely, a genuine love life. My choices are kind of simple: date privileged assholes who have plenty of their own money, or lay low.

  I’ve chosen to lay low. It hasn’t been hard, letting my time be consumed by work as I hop from country to country, as I focus my attention and energy on people who need it.

  But Grady’s actually the kind of man I would be attracted to. Aside from the obvious physical chemistry, he’s laid-back and easy to talk to; he clearly enjoys the outdoors and is good with his hands; he seems to be generous. Perhaps most importantly, he doesn’t seem to be money-hungry.

  He doesn’t seem very ambitious, though, and I do appreciate some ambition.

  It’s not that I want to date Grady—or anyone—right now. But after so long, it’s hard not to wonder what he would feel like, especially when we’re sandwiched together in this hammock, already sharing our body heat, with a fire nearby and the strings of twinkling Christmas lights above.

  So when he leans in and skates soft, wet lips against mine tentatively, I make a firm commitment and press my mouth against his. He tastes like minty toothpaste. He must have stopped to brush his teeth on his way up to confront the trespasser.

  He’s no longer hesitant, reaching up to cradle the back of my head and pull me closer into him, forcing my mouth wider as his tongue slides against mine in a long, sensual kiss.

  I haven’t been kissed like this in forever.

  I forget about our current predicament—being in a hammock, next to a fire, in December—until Grady’s leg nudges mine, working his way to fit his body in between my legs, and we start to swing. “Is this a good idea? I mean, aren’t we going to tumble out of here?”

  He chuckles against my neck, where his mouth has now ventured, his short beard scratching against my skin. “Well, I’m not a pro with this exact situation, but I think we’ll be okay. Just no sudden movements.” His fingers begin weaving along the buttons of the flannel shirt I threw on, unfastening them slowly. I never bothered to put a bra on, something he discovers quickly enough. He pauses to stare at my naked breasts—I’m suddenly feeling self-conscious; I haven’t been intimate with a man in years—but when I shiver against the frigid air, he quickly smothers my body with his, and his mouth is back on mine.

  No sudden movements is exactly the philosophy Grady’s operating under, pressing his erection into me with a painstakingly slow rhythm until my panties cling to my body from moisture; his fingers coiled within my hair, my lips growing plump and raw with his attention to them. The air is frigid, and yet within these blankets we’ve created a degree of heat that is actually making both of us sweat, my fingers against his hard body feeling how hot and damp his skin is.

  “Do you want to move to your apartment? Or mine?” I ask, hoping that my question is clear enough to him.

  He reaches down between us in response. “Straighten your legs,” he whispers, and I obey without question, allowing him to tug my sweatpants and panties down until they’re past my hips, my thighs, my knees. From there, the farther I stretch my legs apart, the lower they slide, until my feet are tangled up in material and two of Grady’s fingers are sliding into me, eliciting my moan, and his murmur of approval.

  I guess this is happening here.

  “Condom?” I whisper against his mouth.

  “Left pocket.”

  “Awfully presumptuous,” I joke, digging into his pocket to retrieve the foil packet. As soon as I have it within my grasp, I push his pajama bottoms down and wrap my fist around him, appreciating his size. Something else I didn’t realize how much I’ve missed.

  Grady takes the foil packet from my fingers and tears at it with his teeth until it comes apart. I slide the condom on for him, and the second I’m done, he thrusts into me.

  It’s easy to forget that we’re outside, on a rooftop in Manhattan in winter, as our breath and tongues tangle, and our bodies grind against each other with a new fervor, not at all the slow and steady pace from before.

  True to Grady’s word, we don’t topple out in some embarrassing half-sexed heap on the cold tar roof. He keeps us centered as he pushes into me, hiking one leg up with a hand under my thigh, getting impossibly deep. What I thought would last two minutes goes on much longer, and he grinds expertly against me until I feel my body finally relenting, my own need building slowly in my lower belly, tingling along my spine.

  I come a few seconds before Grady does, the sound of my moans quickly echoed by his own. We lie there in comfortable, satisfied silence for a stretch of time, watching the flames burn bright, then shrink to embers, until we have no choice but to either stoke the fire or go inside to avoid freezing.

  With hasty movements, we tug our clothes back on and scoop up the blankets.

  Grady walks me to the third-floor entrance from the stairwell. “You okay from here?” he whispers.

  I smirk. “You afraid that Ruby will find out?”

  He checks his watch. “She is awake at unpredictable hours.”

  I stifle my laugh and stretch to my tiptoes to lay a kiss against his scruffy cheek. “Thank you, for tonight.” I quickly clarify: “For lending me your ear.”

  He grins and dips down to steal one last deep, intense kiss that could easily spark round two. “Thanks for lending me your other body parts.” He takes off, climbing the steps two at a time, back to the fourth floor.

  It’s too late to go back to sleep now. Back in Celine’s apartment, I box all of her diaries back up. Except for the latest few. Those, Detective Childs needs to see.

  CHAPTER 13

  Maggie

  “Enjoying the cold?” Detective Childs drags a piece of toast through the runny egg yolk coating his plate.

  I slide into the booth seat across from him, shrugging the hood back off my head. The sun streaming in through the window is deceptive. The temperature has dropped at least ten degrees since earlier this morning. “Not especially.” I gaze around at the strings of tinsel and sprigs of mistletoe that hang from the ceiling. The elderly man sitting near the door was waiting with puckered lips and a big grin when I walked in. I might have humored him with a kiss on the cheek, had I not just had sex on a rooftop with a near-strang
er only hours ago.

  I think I’ve filled my kissing quota for the day.

  Still, I’m happy that Detective Childs suggested meeting at this fifties diner—with its big windows and delicious smells and jukebox charm—instead of the stuffy precinct. “Thanks for making time for me.”

  “Well, you’re much better company than the fella I just left over there,” he murmurs, nodding toward the caution tape wrapped around a convenience store across the street.

  “Not a big talker, was he?”

  “Not anymore.” His smile is easy, like he didn’t just leave a crime scene with a dead body. “What is it you needed to talk to me about so urgently? You look tired.”

  “Yeah. Late night.” I set Celine’s latest diary on the table, the entries outlining her “dating” exploits marked with Post-its.

  He takes his time wiping his hands on his napkin—Detective Childs doesn’t seem to be in much of a rush to do anything—and then, slipping his glasses on, he flips through the pages, running his index finger along the side as he speed-reads Celine’s most private thoughts. He gets through four of the marked pages before handing the diary back to me. “So she was a working girl.” Not even a hint of shock in his voice.

  “Yeah. And I had no idea.”

  “Family and friends usually don’t. Most of these girls are very discreet.”

  “She wrote a diary entry almost every single day since she was thirteen, and yet the last book ends in July.”

  “Hmm . . .”

  Oh fuck. Here we go again with the hemming and hawing. “It doesn’t make sense. There has to be a current one. Was there a diary in her bedroom when you arrived? Maybe by her bedside?”

  “I can’t recall offhand.”

  “No wonder people get away with murder in this city,” I mutter, earning a flat smile in return. I roll my eyes, more at myself. I’m not going to get help from him by being an asshole. “She did know the guy in the picture, by the way. His name’s Jace Everett. He paid her for sex. See? Right here.” I open up to the last page.

  “Where does it say Jace Everett here?”

  “Well, it says Jay. That’s short for Jace. And I just . . . He’s an investment manager who works in her building, and here she is referencing him talking to people at work. His father is the governor of Illinois. What do you think his dad would say if he knew his son paid prostitutes?” Based on what I read up on Governor Dale Everett this morning, he has taken a very vocal stance against the sex trade industry in the past, going so far as to call it the downfall of family values and an industry that must be dismantled. If he decides to run in the next election, this would be one hell of a missile for his opponents to lob against him.

  “Did this Jace Everett admit all of this to you?”

  “No! That’s the thing! He lied and told me that he didn’t know her.”

  Detective Childs sighs and leans back in the booth. “You’re connecting a lot of widespread dots to paint a picture that you’re desperate to see.”

  “Can’t you just look into him?”

  “Why? Because you think he paid for sex and doesn’t want anyone to know about it? There’s no prior history of this guy harming or threatening your friend, or even knowing her. We don’t have the resources to chase down hunches.”

  I was afraid he’d say that. “Okay. How do I get something compelling enough for you then?”

  He hesitates, offering a “Thank you, Tiffany” to the waitress who sweeps in to clear his plate. “You could hire a private detective and have him look into it. Maybe that would get you the answers you need. But I have to warn you that most PIs are overpriced and lousy at anything but catching cheating spouses.”

  “Would you happen to know of one who is good at more than catching cheating spouses?”

  He sighs, and then, digging into his wallet, he pulls out a business card and tosses it on the table. “Call for an appointment and drop my name. He’s one of the better guys. Honest. Well connected. But he’s not cheap. Not that I imagine that matters much to you. Just don’t tell him that.”

  So the good detective looked into me. I wonder if he’s getting a referral rate for this.

  I stand. “So, if I hire this . . . ,” I read the card, “Douglas Murphy, and he finds compelling evidence, you’ll reopen the case?”

  “I’d definitely have something to bring to my superiors. But keep in mind, Miss Sparkes . . .” Kind, weary eyes settle on me. “Dougie can’t find something that doesn’t exist.”

  ————

  My nose is assaulted by a mixture of cigarette smoke, musky perfume, and floral air freshener the second I push through the door.

  “Mista Murphy will be with you in a moment,” the woman behind a chunky old metal desk announces, her Brooklyn accent thick and nasally. She gestures with neon-orange painted claws toward the plum-colored armchair across from her before picking up the phone and punching in a button. “Yeah. She’s here.” Chomping on a piece of gum, twirling a strand of long, shiny black hair between her fingertips, she’s exactly how I pictured her when I called earlier to make the appointment. Right down to the faux fur shrug. “’kay.”

  Her nails click away at the keyboard at a furious tempo while I sit and survey the interior of the Brooklyn brownstone where PI Douglas Murphy keeps office. A few cracks run along the plaster on the ceiling, but otherwise it’s in decent shape. The old oak floors look like they’ve recently been sanded down and revarnished, and an eclectic mix of office furniture gives the space a trendy feel.

  The office is in a relatively quiet residential area not far from the Brooklyn Bridge. No signs are posted out front, no stickers on the window. Nothing that would indicate that a business operates here. I wonder if that’s for privacy reasons or because of zoning issues.

  Heavy footsteps sound, first above my head, then moving quickly down a set of stairs, as if running. The bell rings and a short, bald man—no more than five-foot-four—shoves through the door. “Miss Sparkes?” He sticks a hand out and I take it, wincing as he squeezes too hard. “Come in, come in,” he urges, already moving toward a small office off to the side.

  I’m barely in before he kicks the door shut, the translucent glass pane rattling with the force. “So, Chester sent you?”

  It takes me a moment to realize that he’s talking about Detective Childs. “Yes. He said you may be able to help me. Thanks for seeing me so quickly.”

  “All right, lay it on me.” He practically jumps into his chair, but not before I catch him doing a lightning-quick once-over of me—of my jeans and one of Celine’s nicer sweaters, of my short but tidy red nails, of my leather boots and Celine’s Kate Spade purse. I did my best to dress “average”—not like I had enough money to get taken for a ride, but not like he’d have to worry about getting paid.

  I spend the next fifteen minutes walking him through Celine’s “suicide” and the bits and pieces that I’ve discovered so far, while he madly scribbles notes down that are beyond illegible to the common eye. It makes me think of my meeting with Jace and how efficient but calm and composed and neat he was, compared to this frantic little man in front of me.

  “So you think she didn’t kill herself.” His accent isn’t Brooklyn-strong like his receptionist’s, but there’s no doubt he’s a born-and-bred New Yorker.

  “I realize it may seem a little far-fetched, but if you knew Celine, you’d understand.” Though I’m beginning to wonder how much I really knew her. Or who she had become, anyway.

  “And you want me to look into this guy?” He holds up the picture of Jace.

  “Into him, into this ‘L’ person. Into Celine. Anything that can help me understand exactly what happened and why. There’s more to this than the police think. I’m sure of it, Mr. Murphy.”

  “Call me Doug.” He tosses the pen against the desk. “Okay, my rates are as follows . . .” He flies through a list of costs—surveillance and monitoring costs, mileage, background checks, GPS checks, special equipment costs, extra
costs if he needs to hire additional experts—and ends with his retainer fee, which, as Detective Childs warned, requires a lot of zeros. No 40K-a-year average American could afford to hire him without taking out a loan.

  He sticks a hand out. “The diary? The florist card?”

  With slight hesitation, I dig through my purse and hand them to him.

  “I’m working on three other cases right now, but I’ll get started on this as soon as the check clears. I’ll need a number where I can access you at all times for questions and check-ins.”

  “Good, because I insist on getting very regular updates.”

  “And give me her cell number, too.”

  I scribble the numbers down on a piece of paper instead of handing him my business card. The less he knows about me, the better.

  “Did she have a desktop or laptop?”

  “Desktop. I could bring the tower—”

  He cuts me off with “I’ll swing by the apartment. Donna!” He hollers.

  Heels click across the oak floor outside at a rapid tempo and the door pushes open. “Yeah, hun?”

  He holds up my check. “Be a doll and take this down to the corner so we can clear it and get started.”

  She plucks it from his fingertips with a wink and then leaves, her electric-blue pleather pants and waggling ass capturing Doug’s attention until she’s gone. “Okay!” He drums his desk with open palms. “Expect my call later today or tomorrow, latest. Are you talking to this guy anytime soon?”

  “Later today. I have an appointment at his office.” Natasha left another brash message on my voice mail. I called back and agreed to meet him at six.

  “’kay. Don’t let on that you know anything about him and your friend. That’ll make him paranoid, and that makes it harder for me to do my job.”

  “Should I just cut off all communication?” It wouldn’t be hard. I could tell him that I’ve changed my mind about the investments.

  Doug frowns. “No, keep it up. It’s harmless and you may learn something else.” He smiles, the first smile I’ve seen from him. “Which makes it easier for me to do my job.”