by RC Boldt
“The bad news is that our office has been contacted by Mayor Paulson’s attorneys.”
My eyes clash with Lattimer’s, and his right brow quirks up. “What did they say?”
Chad lets out a half sigh, half chuckle. “They wanted to see if my client needed any financial assistance since they understand how expensive legal fees can be.
“They also expressed their concern for her in case, and I quote, ‘the media gets a hold of her identity because they wouldn’t want her to be exposed and ridiculed for her accusations against an innocent man.’”
Rage burns a searing path through me at the threat. What the fuck?
“How thoughtful of them.” Those fuckers are scared. That’s the only excuse for wording it as they did.
“My thoughts precisely.” A shuffling of papers sounds in the background.
“You said you had good news?”
Chad lets out a slight grunt. “That was the good news, Kennedy. Because that means we’re onto something. Semantics is everything, and they could’ve simply expressed their concern for her without the veiled threat.” There’s a brief pause. “I have to be in court soon, so I need to get off here, but I wanted to see if you had a brief update for me.”
Glancing at my notes, I rattle off the certainties. “I’ve isolated multiple identifiable characteristics from the man’s hands in the video. Now, I’m about to gather photographs of the mayor from public record to use as comparisons. Once I have those side by side, I’ll have more definitive conclusions.”
“And I’ve got a whole lot of nothing,” Lattimer pipes up, his tone brimming with frustration. “Alibi checks out. No trace on the IP address that uploaded the videos, either.” He drags a hand along his jaw, eyes locked on his laptop screen, jaw tight. “The girl’s story checks out, though. I’ve been following up more leads but haven’t had any hits yet. I’m still digging, though.”
“Okay, keep digging. Take care, both of you, and be careful.”
Once I end the call, I exhale slowly and stare down at the phone for a beat. Something has to give with this investigation. Paulson’s attorney’s threat doesn’t sit well with me. Not only is it ballsy as hell, but it’s a barely veiled threat at that.
Lattimer shoots up out of his chair and pushes it in. When he stretches, my eyes snag on the way his button-down shirt pulls taut over his flat stomach and against his biceps.
Traveling up to survey his profile, I gloss over his chiseled jawline to lips that are flattened into a hard line.
He’s bothered by his lack of progress on this, but I’m confident in mine. Once I finish this final still-shot in the last part of the second video, I’ll have what I need for an unbiased comparison of Mayor Paulson’s hands.
I will get results.
He blows out a slow breath. “I need some air.” Turning his head, our eyes lock. Frustration etches his handsome features. “I’m gonna grab a sandwich from the deli around the corner. Want something?”
My fingertips tingle with the impulse to reach up and smooth out the deep crease between his brows. I shake off the strange and unfamiliar urge, forcing my attention back to my computer. “If they have a fruit salad or something, that’d be great, thanks.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He shrugs on his coat and leaves without another word, the door closing behind him.
I grab my hair in my fist and twist it up, securing it messily with a clip. Elbows on the table, I bury my face in my hands, exhaling a long, slow breath. Sometimes, I wish I could clone myself and not be the only one carrying this burden. Not be the only one extinguishing the lives of these predators.
I wish I were the savior beforehand, the one to prevent these egregious acts from ever happening. Instead, I arrive last, when it’s already too fucking late.
“You’re gonna rain down on those motherfuckers one day.” Rudy’s words whisper through my mind, urging me to dredge myself from the quicksand of desolation and self-pity.
I lift my head, straighten my spine, and begin searching for photographs of the mayor.
Rudy had it right—partially. But my vengeance craves more. I don’t simply want to rain down on them. I want it to be a flood of epic proportions.
Not of water, but of their own blood.
And I want to watch them drown.
Chapter 32
Landon
I’m waiting in the long-ass line to pay when my cell phone rings. A glance at the caller ID tells me it’s a D.C. number, but I don’t recognize it. It might be Chad calling from another office line with news.
“Hello?”
“Landon! How are things, son?”
“I’m still hard at work, sir.” I can’t say much in a goddamn deli with just anyone possibly listening in. “I’m grabbing some lunch before I head back.”
“Do you have any updates?”
Attempting to choose my words carefully, I answer, “I believe there’s work being done on photographic comparisons, but that’s all I know.”
The Vice President hums under his breath. “I appreciate your hard work.” There’s a pause. “And this woman…Dr. Alexandre. She’s not being difficult in any way?”
The line moves, and I step forward, but my mind spins over his words. “No, sir.”
“That’s good. That’s very good. We want to make sure the innocent individual isn’t punished.” His words are smooth, but they leave me feeling almost…slimy.
“Of course not, sir.” That’s all I can manage.
“I need to get to a meeting. Thank you for the update, Landon. You’re doing a great service for the city of D.C. We’ll talk soon.”
“Yes, sir.”
I stare down at my phone, squinting at it like it holds the fucking secret to unlocking this shit show of that conversation.
What the hell was that even about?
It sounds creepy as shit, but I could watch Kennedy work all day and never tire from it.
This woman is a powerhouse. So damn sharp, identifying the tiniest details that I wouldn’t know to even look for.
I keep prodding her to eat her fruit salad, which has gone warm by now, because she continues to get distracted by her work.
She’s using photographs taken from news articles and events to compare. Right now, she has what seems to be the best one, if her, “Fuck, yes,” is anything to go by when she found it online.
She’s a unique dichotomy with her straightlaced appearance. Yet when she gets lost in her work and forgets I’m here, she gives me a glimpse of the real her. The one that’s not quite as polished.
There’s no doubt about it—Kennedy Alexandre is riveting.
“This is it.”
Her words are emphatic, and when she whips around to look at me, it happens. It fucking happens like I’m some sort of pansy-ass chump.
I forget to breathe.
Those golden-brown eyes are lit up like it’s Christmas, and she found everything she ever wanted under her tree. There might not be a smile on her face, but this is the closest thing I’ve witnessed to Kennedy appearing almost…happy.
When she gives me an odd look, I clear my throat and drag myself out of my damn teenage crush-like trance. “What is it?”
She taps a key on the laptop before circling the table. I work hard not to let my eyes drift to her ass because it looks fine as hell in that damn sweater dress. Especially with those knee-high boots that meet the hem.
They give me a shit ton of unprofessional ideas.
“We hit the motherfucking jackpot.” Her back is to me, and I’m glad she can’t see my satisfaction over the fact that she said we.
Maybe I’m wearing her down after all.
“Check this out.” She gestures at the large screen, where one half displays a recent photograph of the mayor posing beside the governor. In it, Mayor Paulson has one hand flat against the front of his suit jacket.
Kennedy points at the top of his hand. “Look at this and then”—she points at the still-shot taken from the video footage, be
side it—“this.”
The zoomed-in view of the mayor’s hand over his suit shows a small, curved scar at the base of his left index finger. It matches the scar seen on the man’s left index finger in the video.
Motherfucker. My eyes fly to Kennedy’s, and she gives a quick nod before tapping on her keyboard, pulling up another set of side-by-side images.
This time, there’s a photo of the mayor gripping a football at a charity event compared to another still-shot. “I also found this. Look at the vein that runs between these fingers.”
She traces the cap of her pen along the vein that runs between his middle and ring finger knuckles. It branches off and extends toward his pinky finger. “This is identical to the vein pattern in his hand.”
And here, I’d given him the benefit of the doubt because he always seemed like one of the rare good politicians like the Vice President.
Faced with the evidence of a self-professed family man, a widower with two sons, I stare stunned at the screen. “It’s really him.”
My dismay morphs into disgusted fury at the unmistakable sight of the hands who abused a young girl. An innocent girl who will never be the same.
And Kennedy holds the knowledge and evidence to prove it.
My gut churns with the realization that I’ll have to update the Vice President on this discovery. But right now, I can’t bear to think about that. I need to mull over everything and consider all the factors here.
He planted that seed by mentioning Kennedy would possibly compromise this investigation, and I still don’t have anything to go on. Nothing has indicated there’s any substantial evidence alluding to that being the case.
So, why would he mention it in the first place? There are far too many question marks, which means I need to operate carefully. One option is to stick closer to Kennedy and see if she’ll open up even a fraction—at least enough to give me something more to go on.
Determination gleams from her eyes as she crosses back to her computer. “It’s definitely him.”
Her slim fingers tap the keys, and she uses the markup tool to circle the areas on the photos before saving them. A lock of hair falls from her messy twist, and my fingers curl into fists as I fight against the urge to tuck it behind her ear.
Taking an abrupt step back, I clear my throat and glance at my watch before focusing back on her. “I’d say this calls for us to wrap up early and head out to celebrate.”
Her head whips up, and she eyes me warily. I frown, wondering why the hell that made her react that way.
My words are hesitant and drawn out because I get the sense I’m missing something. “You don’t celebrate accomplishments?”
Her lips part, then snap shut before she says, “Not normally.” I can tell she realizes how it sounds because she jerks her eyes away, her shoulders stiff and practically radiating discomfort. “I work alone, so…”
Damn if that isn’t the saddest thing I’ve heard.
I offer an easy smile because I don’t want her to feel awkward about what she admitted. Especially not when I feel like we’ve made some headway.
“Well, you better pack up because I have just the place for us. It has some of the best food around.”
A flicker of amusement edges into her expression. “As long as it’s on a professional basis.”
I slap my palm to my chest with mock seriousness. “I vow to be on my very best behavior.”
She huffs out a breath of what could almost be considered a laugh but turns back to her laptop, shutting it down and sliding it inside her briefcase.
I pack up my things, then pull on my coat before looking her way. “What do you say, Doc?”
Her eyes skim over my face like she’s trying to read my intent. Hopefully, all she sees is me wanting to celebrate this break in the investigation with her and not anything else.
Like how goddamn fascinated I am with her.
How I’d give anything to make her smile.
How I wish she’d let me in a little more.
How I’m dying to get to know her.
How I’d love to kiss that smart mouth of hers or that it has me fucking fantasizing about her wrapping her lips around my cock and taking me deep.
How I need to be sure she doesn’t have some nefarious ulterior motive pertaining to this investigation.
I grab my briefcase and tip my head toward the door. “C’mon, Doc. Just go with it. If I disappoint on the food and company, I promise I’ll never bug you again.”
The edges of her mouth, painted a nude color, twitch, but her eyes give nothing away. A beat of silence hangs between us before she answers softly, “Okay.”
Chapter 33
Kennedy
Lattimer leads me two blocks away to a red brick building with Caroline’s etched on the front windows in elegant script. I’m not confident we’ll be able to get a table without a reservation at five thirty on a Friday, but Lattimer doesn’t hesitate in the least as he opens the door and ushers me inside.
The restaurant features a cozy atmosphere with candlelit tables throughout. As soon as we enter, a man dressed in a sleek, all-black suit who looks to be in his mid-thirties turns from the hostess he’s speaking to. Upon spotting Lattimer, the man holds up his hands in surrender, eyes wide in mock horror.
“I didn’t do it, I swear.”
Startled, I swing my eyes to Lattimer, who smirks and rolls his eyes while the other man breaks into a laugh. Stepping forward, he offers an outstretched hand to Lattimer, who grasps it before tugging the man in for a quick hug.
“Wiseass,” Lattimer mutters good-naturedly.
The man’s smile widens. “Caroline would have a bar of soap in your mouth for that one.” His attention shifts to me. “Pardon my rude behavior. I’m Ian, the owner.”
“Kennedy Alexandre. Nice to meet you.”
“Doctor Kennedy Alexandre,” Lattimer corrects. His tone overflows with pride, and I glance at him curiously, but he merely winks.
“Any friend of Landon’s is a friend of mine. It just so happens that I have a perfect table for you in the back. Romantic and cozy. Great for a first date.”
I blanche at his words. “Oh, no. We’re not on a date.”
Ian peers at me with new interest. “So, you’re…available?”
Lattimer and I both speak simultaneously. Me with a simple, “No,” and him with a, “No, she’s not.”
I toss him a sharp glare, unappreciative of him speaking on my behalf. Of course, he meets my gaze with a challenging look of his own.
“Well, then…” Ian doesn’t bother to disguise his mirth. “Let me show you to your table.” He kindly waves off the hostess and grabs two tall menus, leading us through the restaurant.
We arrive at a table for two near a roaring fireplace radiating enough heat to warm my chilled flesh. Lattimer grumbles and edges Ian to the side to assist me in taking off my coat and helping me with my chair. Ian’s eyes gleam with amusement as he steps aside, waiting for Lattimer to claim his own seat before handing us our menus.
Lattimer takes his with a polite thank-you before saying, “You workin’ again on Thanksgiving this year?”
“Shockingly enough, no.” He chuckles. “I figured I’d surprise her this year.”
“Mom’s day will be made.” Lattimer raises an eyebrow pointedly. “You better not be late and make us wait to eat, though. Damon gets hella hangry.”
Ian tosses his head back on a laugh. “Don’t I know it. I’ll do my best.” With a smile, he nods at us. “Enjoy your meals. I’ll check on you both in a bit.”
A server arrives to fill our water glasses before a second one arrives with a bottle of sauvignon blanc and wineglasses. “Courtesy of the owner.”
As he pours it, Lattimer gazes at me from across the table, the candlelight casting dancing flickers across his face. “If you don’t mind a little heat, the Firecracker Shrimp appetizer is top-notch.”
I glance at the description on the menu before nodding. “That sounds
good.”
Lattimer tells our server, who promises to place the order and return shortly. When he wraps his fingers around his wineglass, my eyes are drawn to the tiny nuances. The rough, callused patches along the long digits, his veins prominently displayed.
“I must say… I didn’t take you for a wine guy.”
His lips tilt into a sexy smirk. “You pegged me for shotgunning beers, huh?”
“No.” My answer comes quickly. “I just…expected you to prefer hard liquor. Like maybe scotch or whiskey.”
He makes a face. “Definitely not scotch. I can’t stand that stuff. But whiskey on occasion.” Leaning in toward the table, he cups a hand to the side of his mouth and says in a stage whisper, “But I’m a lightweight, so I have to be careful. Please don’t take advantage of me later.”
I eye him in amusement, and my mouth draws up tight. It’s an odd sensation, as if I’m using facial muscles I haven’t utilized before.
Lattimer cocks his head to the side. “You looked like you were on the verge of a smile.”
Discomfort radiates through me, and I avert my gaze to focus on gently swirling the wine in my glass. “You make that sound like a bad thing.”
“Not at all.” I dart a glance at him and discover his watchful eyes still laser-focused on me. “I was just hoping I’d be able to make you smile.”
As if he realizes how uncomfortable I’ve become, he jerks his gaze off me and glances around the restaurant.
This man possesses such a unique dichotomy. His relaxed, playful nature serves as a disguise of sorts, causing me to overlook how extremely observant he is. This knowledge instills a wariness because I sense that underestimating him—a man who can be so casual and affable in one instant yet turn intensely focused the next—is a grave error.
Voice hushed, it gives me the impression his words might be more for him than me. “I’ll call that almost-smile a win.”