by Shandi Boyes
Prisoners gripe about favoritism when I shadow Detective Carter past three overcrowded holding cells. I do a quick scan of each cell to make sure Isabelle isn’t in one of them, but within seconds, I realize Ravenshoe PD must separate their male and female lockups.
When our trip has us veering past the four officers I fought earlier, I tilt my wrists to ensure my cuffs sit low around my hands. Since I’m detained, the rigidness of the metal will make up for the restrictive range of my swings.
Confusion hits me for the second time when our walk past Ravenshoe PD’s breakroom occurs without incident. I thought Detective Carter was walking me to my death. I had no clue he’s actually showing me the way out until he stops me at the back-exit door to remove my cuffs.
Once he has the cuffs latched to his belt, he swings open the double-bolted door. “Have a wonderful night, Mr. James. We can only hope your short stay was a pleasant one.”
The suspicion thickening my blood drops to a safe level when my glance out the door has me stumbling onto a blacked-out Navigator. Assuming Phillipa used her family name for the greater good, I gallop down the back stairs of Ravenshoe PD before sliding into the popped open back passenger door.
Confusion steamrolls into me when I fail to detect Phillipa’s floral scent. This smell lingering in the air is spicy and masculine with the slightest hint of garlic.
Dimitri chuckles out a breathy laugh when I test the durability of his car’s locks. “You’d have a better chance of shooting out the bulletproof windows than getting its lock mechanisms to budge. I paid out the eye to make this thing a tank, but the quality of the product was worth its exorbitant price tag.”
After working my jaw side to side, I drag my eyes to Dimitri. “What do you want, Dimi—”
“Information.”
His quick reply is more exposing than the shortness of it. I have something he needs—badly—and I plan to use that knowledge to my advantage. “That isn’t how things work. We ask you for information. If we find it beneficial, we help you. That’s what being an informant entails.”
“Informant?” He scoffs out the word as if it’s vomit. “I’m not an informant for the FBI. They work for me, not the other way around.”
“That may have been how things worked with you and Tobias, but that won’t fly with me.”
Acting as if I never spoke, Dimitri hands me a sheet of paper. “Is this report accurate?”
My heart launches into my throat when I speed-read the document he handed me. It’s a write-up on the mass burial site we found in the Shroud’s equipment shed. The exact thing I had planned to interrogate him about. Although manufacturing and selling babies on the black market aren’t the same thing as selling designer wives, it is when there’s a common link. Rhianna Shroud was purchased from an association on the outskirts of Hopeton. The Petrettis have had a stronghold in Hopeton for over forty years. That can’t be a coincidence.
“Where did you get this? This hasn’t even been logged with the Bureau yet.”
Even Harvey agreed that what we stumbled on is too big to be released publicly yet. If news of what we’ve discovered gets out, we’ll have less chance of bringing the perps to justice. They’ll go into sleeper-mode even quicker than the Castro crew did after our failed sting. Then once the heat dies down, they’ll pop up in a new location, which will take authorities another decade or more to uncover.
My focus returns to Dimitri when he says, “Where I got this information isn’t important. I just need to know if it’s true?” A weird twinge is impeding his voice. It’s possessive and somewhat manic, similar to the tone Grayson uses anytime he talks about Katie.
“Yes, it’s true.” I could have denied his claims, but my gut is telling me my honesty will be better rewarded. Furthermore, if the Petrettis are helming this operation, why would one of the top honchos be seeking information from me?
I nod when Dimitri asks, “Are all the victims female?” His jaw clenches as tightly as his fists. “What’s the average age of the women found?”
“Preliminary findings state the victims are between the ages of thirteen to late twenties.” I don’t mention the toddler I found in the wall because as far as we can tell, her death isn’t linked to the women buried outside. She wasn’t of childbearing age, so she doesn’t fit the profile Harvey is working.
My reply offers Dimitri little comfort. If anything, it agitates him more. “Had any of the victims recently given birth before their death?”
“We won’t know that until the autopsies are completed.”
“You would know!” Dimitri shouts, startling both the driver and me. “You’d know because she’s eight months along…” He grits his teeth before correcting, “She was eight months along.”
I learn how he and Tobias came into contact with each other when he hands me a photograph of a heavily pregnant woman with a gag in her mouth. Big splotchy tears are streaming down her cheeks as she stares past the newspaper someone is holding out in front of her. It’s dated a little over two years ago.
Remorse stabs me in the chest when Dimitri mutters, “I paid the ransom they requested.” I can’t tell if it’s anger filling in his face or overwhelming grief when he pauses to catch his breath but realize it could be a bit of both when he mutters, “They didn’t uphold their side of our agreement.”
I almost comment that paying a ransom is practically signing the kidnapped victim’s death certificate, but I keep my mouth shut, knowing no amount of words will appease Dimitri right now. He wants justice, and he wants it no matter the cost.
“Was Tobias aware you paid the ransom?”
I’m not shocked when Dimitri shakes his head. Negotiations involving money are rarely recommended. “Tobias approached me a few days after the drop. He said there was a complication securing Audrey.”
That’s not good. Tobias only ever approached a target when things went wrong, but if that’s the case here, why is Dimitri still searching for Audrey? He knows she’s dead, doesn’t he?
My inner monologue fades out when a disturbing thought enters my head. “You’re not searching for Audrey. You’re trying to find your child.”
Dimitri’s eyes almost turn black when they lock with mine. He stares straight at me for several long, heart-breaking seconds before he lifts his chin. “Tobias was supposed to get her out. He assured me she was safe, and that it would be only a matter of time before she was returned to me. Then…”
With words failing him, I take up the slack. “Tobias was killed during the Castro raid?”
Does that mean what I think it does? Was one of the many children seen on the surveillance images at Rimi Castro’s compound Dimitri’s child? If so, that’s fucked. I struggle to keep a rational head when it comes to keeping adults safe, so I can’t imagine what Dimitri is going through.
“When was your daughter last seen?”
I stop hunting for my notepad and pen in the breast pocket of my jacket when Dimitri says, “I didn’t get you out of lockup to investigate my daughter’s disappearance. I did it so you can continue with your ruse to force Castro out of hiding.”
Although shocked by the extent of his knowledge, I won’t be blackmailed. “You can’t use the Bureau to get revenge on Castro.”
Dimitri smiles a killer grin. “I’m not getting revenge on Castro. I’m going to kill him as he did my wife.”
Wife? Fuck. That makes this ten times worse.
Although I understand his objective, I legally can’t help him with this.
When I say that to Dimitri, the evilness of his smile flares through his eyes. “You’ll do as I ask, or I’ll release this to the hounds.” He shows me a dot-point bulletin that looks like it was printed on an ancient printer. The wording is basic, but the prose of the message doesn’t weaken the threat associated with it. If this consignment is activated, there will be a seven-figure payout placed on Melody’s head.
Nothing but fury highlights my tone when I ask, “How do I know you haven’t already releas
ed this?”
“She’s still alive, isn’t she? Living it up in a fancy penthouse apartment in New York City with her billionaire boyfriend.” Partway through his reply, he plays a video on his cell phone that shows Melody exiting the building she was photographed leaving earlier today. “Even with a wrong set of photographs attached to her file, the real Melody wasn’t hard to find.”
Dimitri’s words shift to a chuckle when I grip the lapels of his suit jacket to drag him to within an inch of my face. “If you hurt her—”
“You’ll what? Kill me as I want to slay the man who murdered my wife. He cut our daughter out of her stomach, then left her to die! He treated her like fucking scum, so if I have to use your high school sweetheart as bait because your hero-complex wants to stop a war that started long before you joined the Bureau, I fucking will. I’ll do anything it takes to gut Castro as he did me.” After yanking himself out of my grip, he smooths out the crinkles my grab caused to his suit before raising his eyes to mine. “Do want needs to be done to get Castro out of hiding, then leave the rest up to me.” He leans across my body to pop open my door. “And start here as he’ll get your Honey Pot out of lockup even faster than your daddy’s fancy title will.”
Unease spins around me when my eyes drift in the direction Dimitri is facing. We’re outside the office complex the Ravenshoe division the Bureau works out of, but Dimitri’s focus isn’t directed at the single glass entrance door of HQ. He’s peering at Isaac’s nightclub, which is directly across the street from the men and women endeavoring to take him down.
As I slide out of Dimitri’s fortified ride, I consider my next step. I have a few options up my sleeve, but I take none of them when I pop my head back into the cab of Dimitri’s ride and say, “If you do this, you’ll be hunted as fiercely as you’ve been chasing Castro the past two years. What kind of life will that be for your daughter? Hasn’t she been through enough? You’re her father. You are supposed to protect her, not put her in more danger.”
Confident my words will have a better chance of breaking through Dimitri’s psyche than any amount of muscle, I inch back from his car, slam the door shut, then pivot on my heels. I have a million thoughts streaming through my head, but as much as this sucks to admit, one thing Dimitri said tonight was right. Isaac has more pull in this town than anyone. If he can’t get Isabelle out of lockup, no one will.
Although my focus is elsewhere, and I still don’t believe Isaac is being truthful with Isabelle, the least I can do is set the wheels in motion to get Isabelle released. Then, once she’s out of danger, I’ll sit down and work out how I can stop a cartel war from happening while also keeping Melody safe. It won’t be easy, and in all honesty, I feel like I’m swimming in waters way out of my depth, but I didn’t play nice for seven years for no reason. I have favors—many of them—and I’m about to cash them all in.
15
Brandon
“Brandon, what happened?”
I pull away from Phillipa just before her fingertips caress the red welts on my neck. I’m not embarrassed they’re there, I just don’t want to explain why I didn’t respond to Isaac’s anger with as much violence as he was instilling. I couldn’t bring myself to use years of tactical training on a man who looked like I’d pulled the entire world out from beneath his feet.
I perused surveillance photos from Isaac’s case for hours after Isabelle exposed Olivia Wilde was Ophelia Petretti’s alias. Not once did Isaac’s eyes hold the grief they did when he demanded to be updated on Isabelle’s whereabouts, not even on the night he was informed of Ophelia’s death. He cares for Isabelle. I’m just lost as to why he’s keeping things from her. If he trusts her, why isn’t he being honest with her?
“Did you reach out to Grayson?”
My head swings to the side when a gruff voice answers my question on Phillipa’s behalf. “We did. He’ll be here as soon as he can come up with a plan for his absence.” Harvey smirks at my stunned expression before moving out of the shadow he was camped in. “Nice place you’ve got here, kid. Has me a little worried I’ll wreck the décor when I stop you playing with your tackle… again.”
“Don’t say a word,” I warn to Phillipa when her brow pops up at Harvey’s comment. “It was nothing close to what he’s implying.”
“Still, sounds juicy.” She chuckles at the mortified expression crossing my face as she follows me into the foyer of my apartment.
A whistle rustles Harvey’s mustache when he takes in the makeshift perp boards covering nearly every wall. “How long did you say you’ve been at this again?”
“A week,” Phillipa pipes up, her tone laced with pride. “He swore he showered, but I’m skeptical.” She taps the tip of her nose with her index finger three times before dodging the coffee table ornament I peg at her. It’s a fake piece of fruit my mom thought would ‘spruce up the place.’
I lock my eyes with Harvey. “Did Dr. Maude forward you a preliminary autopsy report on the toddler found in the wall?”
I hold my breath when Harvey jerks up his chin but remains quiet. We’ve only just met, but I can already say that isn’t like him. He’s worse than my mom after a couple of wine spritzers. He never shuts up.
“And?” I ask, pushing him along.
He swishes his tongue around his mouth to ease out his words. “She was around the age you guessed. Approximately twenty-two months old.”
“Any indication on the time of death?” The increase in my blood pressure is heard in my question. If the date on the photograph Dimitri showed me is around the time his wife gave birth, the female corpse in the wall is the same age as his daughter.
“Rigor mortis—”
“Can alter depending on storage conditions and temperature. I’m aware of that. I just need to know whether her death was recent?”
The knot in my stomach untightens when Harvey discloses, “Doc is guessing her death took place over a decade ago.”
“Who did you think she was?” Phillipa asks, reading the relief on my face as only one woman before her has.
Since I still feel one ball drop away from failure, I reply, “That’s a story for another day.” After plopping into one of the seats around my dining table, I drag over my laptop. “What can you tell me about Megan Shroud’s death?”
I realize Harvey has been left in the lurch when he physically balks from my question.
Phillipa updates us at the same time. “A turf war is going on, but from what I gathered on the scene, there’s no body.”
“Then how were they granted an arrest warrant so quickly?” When Harvey’s eyes snap to mine, I add, “An agent from my division was arrested for her murder. She’s being held at Ravenshoe PD.”
“Brandon was arrested with her,” Phillipa fills in, unaware I wanted to keep that snippet of information between us.
Harvey folds his thick arms in front of his chest. “What were you arrested for?” When I remain quiet, his eyes drop to my bloody knuckles. “Ah. Tobias was right, Liam trained you well.”
Not having the time nor the patience to be bombarded with another flurry of information, I jerk up my chin, agreeing with him, hopeful it will move us onto more pressing issues than old friendships.
Unfortunately, Harvey wouldn’t recognize a giant pink elephant if it were standing right in front of him. “If your knuckles got friendly with the arresting officers, how are you sitting here now?” When my brow arches, his lips match the curve of their incline. “Ah, that’s how it is, is it?” He spins a chair around, then straddles it backward. “We’re going talk about that once this is all said and done, aren’t we, kid?”
“I don’t know, Agent Harvey, are we?” I reply, ensuring I answer his question by asking one of my own, effectively turning his interrogation hack back on him.
Phillipa’s hand shoots up to clamp her mouth when Harvey slaps me up the back of the head. She’s not squeaking in shock. She’s struggling not to laugh. Traitor.
“Sorry,” she garbles under her br
eath before joining us in being seated around the dining table. “Where do you want me to start?”
I scan the documents stretched from one end of my apartment to the other, truly unsure where to start first. They all interconnect in some way, so once again, we’re hunting for a thread. We’ve just got over a dozen immaculately stitched outfits to sort through.
“I’ll flick on the coffee pot,” Phillipa says when she reads the expression on my face.
We’re in for another all-nighter.
I wake up groggy and confused. The deafening drone of someone snoring like a freight train rolls through my ears as readily as the thump of my tired head. I don’t need to look in the direction of my couch to know Harvey is responsible for the shudders of my apartment walls every time he exhales. The clam chowder he gobbled down without breathing last night fans my cheek with every loud exhale he does. I don’t know how Phillipa is still sleeping. She’s in my bed, and my apartment is a decent size, but still, Harvey’s snores are loud enough to wake the dead.
It dawns on me that Harvey’s need for a respirator isn’t the cause of my sudden awakening. It’s the buzz of my phone. It’s vibrating against my desk, announcing I have a new text message.
My slit eyes snap open fully when I see who the message is from. Melody is texting me.
Melody: Morning, BJ. I solved your riddle. Check your emails. Melody xx
I stare at the double x’s on the end of her message for far too long before logging out of my Messenger app to open my emails. Ignoring the three dozen notifications from my security firm, I click into Melody’s email.
“Holy shit,” I mutter to myself when I realize what I’m looking at. She deciphered the account number on the soggy printout I took a photo of yesterday morning. I must have accidentally text it to her instead of Phillipa, forgetting her number was at the top of the list since we texted until the wee hours of the morning.