by Quinn Avery
“I think I better go.” With a steely expression, Grayson pushed the untouched beer away, and stood. He held Bexley’s gaze for a moment, lips parting with one last thought. But he snapped them back shut, and trudged away.
Bexley turned her head, hoping he hadn’t noticed the tears forming in her eyes.
“I’m just gonna use your bathroom,” he called out, “then I’ll be on my way.”
Her pulse throbbed against her neck as she looked up. “Not that one!”
It was too late. He had already opened the door to the guest bedroom.
But Brewer was gone.
6
For the second night in a row, Bexley hardly slept more than a handful of hours. Once she’d searched every sparse inch of her apartment after Grayson left, she’d called Mikey’s bar to confirm what she’d already feared: Brewer’s bike was no longer parked outside. She laid awake for hours, contemplating whether she should search for him, or trust that he knew what he was doing.
Shortly before sunlight breached her bedroom window, she made the decision that regardless of Brewer’s location, he was still her client. Unless he instructed her otherwise, she would continue her investigation.
Once settled in at Stronghold Investigations, her first task was to call PS Security to confirm Nick Harvey had been with their company for over nineteen years. The woman Bexley spoke to in PR stated that Nick was considered a stellar employee. Although unwilling to disclose any specific information from his file, the woman told her their hiring policy ensured employees didn’t possess a record involving a gross misdemeanor or felony.
A quarter after nine, Red literally skipped into Bexley’s office, bright red hair pinned on either side of her head in Princess-Leia-style buns, laptop clasped under one arm, neon green T-shirt featuring a cartoon character—Bexley thought maybe it was one of those Italian brothers from that old school video game.
“Mornin’, boss-lady!”
“Good morning, zany contracted employee,” Bexley quipped in return.
Red marched around to Bexley’s side once again, and set a small pile of paper on the desk. “Here are those records you requested. Simone’s includes a minor consumption at eighteen, and a misdemeanor possession of coke a few months back. Travis has a long rap sheet that involves small-time dealing throughout the past decade, and a couple gross misdemeanor thefts that were reduced to misdemeanors. Guy sounds one rock short of being an Ewok. He got caught both times during daylight hours, stealing out in the wide open.”
“Hardly the history of an elaborate miscreant,” Bexley agreed, even though she had no idea what Red meant by Ewok. “I’d like you to dig around later, see what kind of personal information you can find on these two, as well as on a man by the name of Nicholas Harvey who works for PS Security. But first, I need to see the Currie County roster.” Wondering whether or not Sheriff Blair had gotten his hands on Brewer was one of the worries that had kept Bexley awake in the night.
Red’s fingers, nails still painted the sparkling silver, flew across the keyboard as Bexley spoke. “Roster’s on its way to the printer,” she reported with a proud smile.
“You’re insanely efficient. And possibly a little insane for not taking the FBI job.” Bexley exhaled deeply, feeling weighted by guilt. “I can’t begin to afford to pay you what your services are actually worth.”
Still typing, Red lifted a shoulder. “I’ve been told I’m clinically insane for a number of reasons that have nothing to do with my refusal to become one of the FBI’s drones.”
File that one under “things better left unsaid”, Bexley decided. “Before you look into the others, I’d like you to see what you can dig up on a Brewer Hawkins, born in this county back in November of ninety, enlisted in the Coast Guard around oh-eight. I want his medical, financial, military, and criminal histories.”
Since Brewer had left without any explanation, she planned to fill herself in on every last detail of his life. With any luck, she’d be able to fill in the blank spaces, starting with why he lived in a motel named after a shameless douche. Though she hated prying into his business without his knowledge, he’d left her no other choice.
Bexley snagged her handbag from the back of her chair, and looped it across her body. “I’m headed out for an appointment with an expert on counterfeit jewelry. If you could send a quick rundown on a convicted felon from Papaya Springs named Craig Roth to my phone in the next ten minutes, I’d be especially grateful. I just need a superficial history to verify I’m not going to meet with Ted Bundy’s protégé.”
Not that Bexley thought Grayson would set her up to meet with a violent criminal. It merely seemed like common sense. Then again, after the way Grayson stormed out of her apartment the night before, she wasn’t so sure he wouldn’t take some pleasure in seeing her tortured. Even if just for a little while.
Red’s eyes didn’t stray from her laptop’s screen. “I got you, sister. No way I’m lettin’ you wander into a sith’s lair.”
Rather than asking Red to explain, Bexley merely shook her head on her way out. She supposed the mind of a gifted genius wasn’t always an easy map to follow.
While waiting for Craig Roth to appear at the location arranged by Grayson, Bexley was able to breathe a little easier. The jail roster hadn’t included Brewer, and Red’s search revealed Mr. Roth’s convictions were entirely of a non-violent nature—counterfeit of merchandise, theft, racketeering, etc.
Then she spotted Grayson’s classic white Bronco pulling into the strip mall parking lot. A rusted out Chevy Nova with its bumper duct taped in place trailed closely behind. Her stomach churned with the breakfast burrito she’d grabbed after leaving the office. Of course he’d insist on being present.
After Grayson and the other car parked two rows away, the two men ambled toward Bexley, deep in conversation. Grayson wore a wrinkled black shirt with cargo shorts and flip flops. His thick hair was ruffled, and darkness marred his uncharacteristically dull brown eyes. It looked as if he hadn’t slept.
His companion, a middle aged man, wore his dark hair in thin wisps against his liver spotted scalp. His eyes were also rimmed with darkness, only his seemed to be the product of a haunted past. His build was similar to that of a mall variety Santa Claus, though it was unlikely he’d ever land such a gig based on the frightening tattoos that covered his neck. He shuffled his feet as if they were chained together—possibly a habit he’d developed in the ten plus years he’d spent incarcerated.
Bexley slipped outside to meet them, leaning against her SUV with her arms crossed. Before she could say anything to Grayson, he met her scowl, hands held up.
“I’m here as a civilian. I’m equally invested in helping Kiersten.”
Fair enough. Bexley eyed the other man. “You must be Craig.”
The man shifted his stance, emitting the stench of B.O. and cigarettes. “That’s right,” he answered in a high, pinched voice.
She dug into her handbag, producing the velvet box. “What can you tell me about these earrings?”
Craig took the box and opened it with trembling hands. Eyes narrowed, he held it closer to his face. “These were made by somebody with a whole lotta experience.” He removed one to inspect the backside. “They used copper combined with other metals. The stones are synthetic, created by either hydrothermal or Flux-fusion lab process. But the soldering process was done in a hurry—they got sloppy.”
Bexley glanced Grayson’s way. “Kiersten said they’d only known for a few weeks that these earrings would be used in the fashion show. The thief would’ve requested a rush order.” She turned back to Craig. “Any idea who might’ve made them?”
“I know a couple’a guys around here.” He wiped a hand across his forehead. “They sure ain’t gonna wanna talk to any investigators.”
“Then you can talk to them yourself,” Grayson told him. “See if they’re willing to give you a description of the customer that ordered them. We’re not after the jeweler unless he’s the one w
ho physically stole the originals.”
Bexley produced a business card from her handbag. “Give me a call if you get any leads, Mr. Roth. And spread the word to any contacts of yours involved in fencing jewelry—there’s a hefty reward out for the return of the originals.”
Craig snatched the card from her fingers, his eyes shifting between Grayson and Bexley. “If anyone asks where you got this information, we never met.” He scurried back to his midnight blue car like a cockroach exposed to light.
“You didn’t have to come along.” Bexley told Grayson, her tone somewhere between appreciation and scolding.
“This isn’t about you needing protection,” he clarified. “I took the day off, hoping to take some of the pressure off you in whatever way you need. I want to do everything in my power to save Kiersten’s job.”
That was certainly unexpected. Bexley wet her lips as she processed the idea. “Your lieutenant gave you the day off?”
“Baker’s been goading me to take time off ever since his daughter was in the hospital.” His eyes drifted across the parking lot. “He’s always preaching how no one should take family for granted.”
Curse words burned against Bexley’s lips. He was playing dirty, and he knew it. “See what you can do to get the security footage from the event center. They gave Kiersten some lame excuse when she requested it.” She squared her shoulders back. Bossing Grayson around for a change, rather than vice versa, was exhilarating. “Stop by my office once it’s in your possession, and we’ll review it together. I’ll give you a rundown of a theory I’m working on that involves the model who wore the earrings and a security guard.”
He dipped his chin. “Assuming I can have it by lunchtime, I’ll bring tacos.”
Arms sternly crossed, she narrowed her eyes. Grayson was fully aware that tacos were her biggest weakness. “It’s gonna take more than tacos to change my mind about us, Rivers.”
“Even if they’re from Pollo’s?” he asked, raising a lone eyebrow.
In the span of time they’d dated, Grayson had taken her to her mom’s favorite restaurant on so many occasions that the elderly Mexican immigrant owner had become a valued friend. Bexley set her hands on her hips, scowling as he started walking backwards toward his car with a mischievous grin. She secretly loved that he was the only one who knew Pollo’s tacos were her biggest weakness.
“I won’t forget the extra queso!” he called out with a wink.
Red came rushing out from behind Bexley’s desk at Stronghold Investigations the moment she saw her new boss. “O.M.G. This Brewer Hawkins man is hella hot and loaded. Had I stumbled over him under any other circumstances, I’d be slipping him my number and doodling his name on my notebook.”
While it wasn’t exactly new information, Bexley was curious as to Red’s definition of “loaded.” She set her handbag on the corner of the desk to take the stack of papers Red offered.
“Mr. Hawkins possesses both a perfect bill of health, and a mild criminal record,” Red explained. “There was an assault that was dismissed, and a few warnings for traffic violations. He served four years with the Coast Guard right out of high school, and worked various jobs for a couple of years before starting an auto repair business. You ready for the most interesting part?” Red’s lips twisted with a grin. “Aside from his income from those two legit sources, Mr. Dreamy once had several offshore accounts that he’d been hiding from Uncle Sam. The numbers between his business and the accounts don’t match up. At one point, he was worth millions. The dude made serious bank elsewhere.”
Bexley's throat worked against a gasp. There wasn’t any possible way her humble friend was worth that amount. Red must’ve made a mistake. Trying to maintain a straight face, she thumbed through the printouts, coming across dozens of hospital bills for an ISABELLA ROMANO. She held one up for Red to see. “Who’s this?”
“No idea, but this Brewer dreamboat paid hundreds of thousands of dollars for her care at Papaya Springs General. The bills stopped two years ago once the account zeroed out. Shortly after, he anonymously donated a large amount into an account for kids in Currie County foster care.” Red let out a dramatic sigh. “A man with a heart like that?” She covered her hands over her heart. “Take my ovaries already, Mr. Hawkins. They’re yours!”
As badly as Bexley wanted to scold the girl on professionalism in the work place, she had to admit Red had a point. She’d never met a single millionaire who didn’t own expensive toys or an impressive mansion. Beyond Brewer’s motorcycle, which he used as his sole form of transportation, he seemingly had nothing.
Who was Isabella Romano, and why did Brewer have a soft spot for children in the system?
Red handed Bexley more printouts. “I also gathered the deets you wanted on the other three. There’s not a lot to report about Nicholas Harvey. He served as a Marine sniper shortly after his twenty-first birthday, including a tour in Afghanistan. Then he got married, created a little family, and took the job with PS Security. His credit is horrible, thanks to some past gambling debt and frequent visits to a local strip club. Probably explains why he attends couples therapy with the missus twice a week. Criminal history is limited to a pair of misdemeanor assaults that resulted in a thirty day jail sentence, and a DUI charge a few months before he enlisted that was eventually dismissed. My guess? The judge on the case was a veteran who gave him an ultimatum.”
Based on the information, Bexley decided it was logical that Nick would be interested in a young, attractive model who didn’t require money to entertain.
When Red produced a thicker mound of papers, her eyes sparked to life. “The Paxton siblings, on the other hand, are an interesting duo. Simone flunked out of high school, and waitressed at three upscale restaurants between Go-Sees and acting auditions. She was finally signed on a few years back by a modeling agency, but her actual gigs have been sparse. She doesn’t earn nearly enough to afford her current rent. It would seem Travis inherited all the family wisdom because he graduated second in his class with a four-point-twelve, and scored fifteen-fifty on the SAT. We’re talking close to genius level.”
“No way,” Bexley said, snatching the papers from Red’s hand. “The Travis Paxton I know couldn’t tie his own shoelaces.” It suddenly dawned on her—with an IQ that high, what if Travis wanted people to believe he was a mindless stoner? “Thanks for this information, Red. You can take off for now. I’ll holler if I need you for anything else.” As much as the girl had helped in the past twenty-four hours, Bexley wished J.J. had the resources to hire her full time.
“If I don’t hear from you by the end of the week, I’ll send my bill,” Red told her with a nod. Then a loud ding sounded from her laptop. She plopped down in Bexley’s chair and flipped the screen up, frowning. “Hold on. I set an alert under Mr. Dreamy’s name. Something just triggered it.”
Bexley’s pulse quickened as Red’s fingers did their thing. As hard as she’d tried not to dwell on Brewer’s location all morning, his wellbeing was always nagging the forefront of her mind. “What is it?”
“Oh boy.” Red sat back in Bexley’s chair, lacing her fingers over her head. “Guess this would explain why he’s loaded.”
Bexley tried to position herself behind Red, so she could read the screen, but it remained black. “Damn it, Red. I’m chucking your super-secret spy computer across the room if you don’t tell me what’s up!”
“Currie County just issued a warrant for Brewer’s arrest.” Eyebrows arched, Red turned to face her. “The sheriff found several bricks of cocaine in a storage shed registered in his name.”
7
Nausea blazed through Bexley’s chest as she paced across her office. Red left a printout of the warrant so Bexley could review the evidence for herself. Based on an anonymous tip, Sheriff Blair and his goons had raided the storage facility located four blocks from Dick’s Inn earlier that morning. The property manager confirmed the unit had been rented in Brewer’s name two years prior, and he’d even spotted Brewer leav
ing the parking lot as the sun was rising several hours before he was interviewed.
It only validated Bexley’s worst fears: (1) she wasn’t as skilled at the private detective gig as everyone believed, and (2) she couldn’t trust anyone…no matter how much she believed in them. When she’d confronted Brewer about his situation the night they returned from Mexico, he implied that he had done some “crooked shit” that he regretted. Was that his subliminal way of admitting he was into drug trafficking?
Her less cynical side wondered the legitimacy of the situation. She had once been falsely accused of murdering a woman, and Sheriff Blair had been determined to crucify Bexley without solid evidence. Maybe like her story, Brewer had stuck his nose where it didn’t belong, and angered someone powerful.
She wanted to believe there was more to his story.
Desperate for answers, she fired off a set of texts to the burner phone.
Where are you?
We need to talk ASAP!
Please.
The borrowed time she’d managed to allot Kiersten was running out. She needed to focus on Travis’s backstory, and spend less time wondering if she’d been betrayed by a friend. It was bad enough she had believed Dean Halliwell’s portrayal of innocence when he was in fact a psychopathic serial killer. Grayson and J.J. would lose all faith in her if they discovered she’d been chumming around with a suspected drug lord.
The office phone buzzed with an intercom message, startling Bexley.
“Your handsome gentleman caller is here, Miss Squires. I’m sending him back.”
Bexley was neither in the mood for correcting the sweet old woman especially as she had been sick for over a week, nor was she up for entertaining Grayson as if nothing was amiss. But she needed to see whatever Grayson had found.
With the start of a headache banging against her temples, she lifted the handset to say, “Thanks, Leona. Hope you’re feeling better today.”