Completely Mine: Bliss Series, Book Four

by Hall, Deanndra

  I grab my laptop and type her name in the search bar. And I almost pass out.

  There she is, all over the place. Now I know why I recognized her name. Eight years ago it was everywhere.

  She killed a U.S. Congressman’s wife.

  Oh, shit, I hear a little voice in my head say. I’ve been harboring a murderer, and yet I can’t believe she’d do something like that, not the Cirilla I know. Or Sandria. Whatever. There are articles everywhere, about how she did it, about when they lost track of her, about how she hadn’t been spotted in eight years. Until my fucking event ruined everything.

  I don’t know what to do or who to trust. Everything is upside down and backwards, but I do know this.

  None of it matters. I still love her. And if she walked right back in this apartment now, I’d take her in my arms and everything would be the same.

  If only.

  * * *

  It occurs to me on Friday that I haven’t picked up the mail for three days, not since the FBI guys were here, so I decide perhaps I should. The key turns in the box’s door and I pull out mail. Bill. Bill. Bill. Advertisement. Bill. Advertisement. Notice that my driver’s license is up for renewal.

  And a letter. From Cirilla.

  There’s no return address, but I know her handwriting so well that there’s no doubt. I run to the elevator, bounce on my toes while I wait for the doors to open upstairs, and dash down the hallway. Once I’m inside, door closed and locked, I grab the letter opener from the desk in the office and cut the envelope open. There’s one sheet of paper inside, and I unfold it with shaking hands and read it slowly.

  My darling Brian,

  By the time you get this, I’m sure you’ll know who I really am. Do not believe anything anyone tells you about me. It’s a lie. I did not kill Maryann Hubley. Please call a private detective named Brad Hendricks. He can tell you more. Last I knew of him, he was in Philadelphia. Find him. He’ll tell you.

  I love you, Master. Leaving was the hardest thing I’ve ever done because I know I’ll never see you again. But some day, when we’ve both left this world, we’ll meet again. You’ll hold me in your arms and I’ll show you that I’m still wearing the ring. I’ll never take it off. It’s your promise to me that you’ll always love me. It’s the only hope I have now.

  You’re my whole heart, my everything. Don’t forget that. I love you, Brian. I’ll never stop loving you.

  Your dedicated submissive forever until the day I die,

  Cirilla

  Brad Hendricks. I grab my laptop and start looking for a Brad Hendricks in Philadelphia. A private detective. It takes me forty-five minutes but I finally find him―David Bradley Hendricks, private detective, The Hendricks Agency. There’s a number and I don’t hesitate to call it, even though it’s six o’clock in Philadelphia. It only rings once. “Hello?”

  “I’m looking for Brad Hendricks.”

  “You’ve found him. And I’m guessing you’re Brian?”

  Shit. “Yes.”

  “Sandria called me from a pay phone on Monday and told me you’d be calling. So I’ll tell you whatever you want to know. Just ask.”

  “What the hell is this all about? I know she’s wanted for the murder of Congressman Hubley’s wife.”

  “A murder she didn’t commit.”

  Um-hmmm. “And you know this how?”

  “I’ve seen the evidence.”

  “What evidence?”

  “A receipt from a gas station here in Philly, two and a half hours from the murder scene in D.C., and the accompanying gas station surveillance video. Two and a half hours away at the time the coroner said Mrs. Hubley died.”

  I’m confused. “So why are they still looking for her?”

  “Because all the evidence disappeared.”

  Now I’m really confused. “Disappeared? How? Where?”

  “It was all turned over to the police as evidence, but they claim they never had it. And they came to the office and took my computer and never gave it back. Raided the offices of her attorney too. You should talk to that guy. He’s still pissed. Name’s Adam Beasley.”

  I write that down and don’t even ask where he’s located. If I need him, I’ll find him. “Okay, so the evidence disappeared. Why should I believe you?”

  “Why shouldn’t you believe me? I have nothing to gain from talking to you, Brian. Nothing. Actually, it could put me in danger, so―”

  “How?”

  “I’m as certain as I’m sitting here that Congressman Hubley had his wife killed and had the whole thing blamed on Sandria. He and Sandria were in a motel when the murder occurred. I’m guessing when Sandria got home, the hit man took evidence and put it in her car. That’s how it got there. But like I said, I’ve seen the receipt and the video footage. Just wish the rest of the world could too. I bet the FBI is still looking for her.”

  “Oh, I know they are,” I tell him. “Two of their agents showed up here yesterday.”

  There’s a long pause. “Really?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Did you get their names?”

  “Uh, yeah. An Agent Forrester and Agent Ringstaff.” He’s quiet again. “Did you hear me?”

  “Oh, yeah. I heard you. Did you bother to call around and find out if these guys are legit?”

  “Honestly, that never occurred to me. But they gave me business cards.”

  He chuckles. “I think you’d better do that. Don’t call the number on the card. Call the local field office and tell them you think you had a visit from some guys impersonating their agents. Unless I miss my guess, you’ll find out they don’t exist.”

  “Then who are they?” I ask, afraid of the answer.

  “Hit men. They’re looking for her, and if they find her, it’ll be over once and for all. The body will be buried, the case will be closed, and nobody, nobody, will ever mention her name again.”

  “I will.”

  “Then, my friend,” he says, “you’re in every bit as much danger as she is.”

  “Is there anything else you can tell me?” I ask, desperate. I have nothing to work with now except the attorney’s name, and if he hasn’t been paid in the last eight years, he’s not going to give me the time of day.

  “Yeah. Find the detective who worked the case. His name was Derek Rogers. He’ll tell you that everything I’ve said is true. They threatened his wife and children until he left the force and left town.”

  “And he’s where?”

  “I have no idea. May be six feet under for all I know. And call me if I can do anything else. She got a bum rap, that little girl did. She might’ve been messing with a married man, but she doesn’t deserve to die because of it.”

  I sit there silent for a few seconds, then say, “Thank you, sir. Thanks for talking to me and for the information.”

  “Do you love her?” he asks abruptly.

  There’s a pain in my gut so deep and hot that I can barely breathe and I convulse, my face a contorted mess, my heart breaking as I gasp for air and scream silently until I can regain my composure. When I do, I tell him, “More than anything in the whole world.”

  “Then don’t give up. I’m telling you, she’s innocent. She needs somebody fighting for her. Be that person. And call again if you need anything else. Good luck, Brian.”

  “Thanks.” The phone goes silent and I’m left sitting there, holding it, unable to see through my tears. I forgot to ask him how she sounded when she called him. Wish I’d thought of it.

  Before I put the phone down, I grab my laptop, look up the local FBI field office, and call it. The lady who answers says, “Federal Bureau of Investigation, Seattle Field Office.”

  “Yes, ma’am. I need to speak to an Agent Forrester or Agent Ringstaff.”

  “I’m sorry, sir, we don’t have any agents by that name.”

  “They came to my door here in the city. Gave me business cards and everything. Could they be here from out of town?”

  “Hold on, please. Did you say Fo
rrester and Ringstaff?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Let me put you on hold. I’ll be right back.” I know what she’s doing. She’s asking the director of the field office if there are any out-of-town agents working in the area right now. Minutes go by and finally I hear her say, “Sir?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “No. There are no agents by those names here. Could you give me a description?”

  “I’ll try.” I answer her questions as best I can. When we end the call, she tells me to try to get a picture of them if they come back and bring it to the field office so they can look for them.

  I’m not setting foot in the FBI field office. I don’t care who those two are. That’s the last place on the planet that I want to be.

  Now I’ve got work to do. I know they’re looking for her and I have to find her first. If I find her and I haven’t got that evidence, it will be even more dangerous for her than if she’s on the run. She was right―I am a liability.

  Chapter Eleven

  Derek Rogers is an elusive son of a bitch. I start looking and everywhere I turn, I hit a dead end. On the following Monday, Olivia invites me over for dinner, and Clint, Steffen, and the girls come too, plus all the kids. It’s a crazy, loud bunch, but maybe I need that right now. I haven’t told them anything―yet. But that’s about to change.

  After dinner, Dave says, “Have you heard anything?”

  Thirty minutes later, I finish telling them what I now know. “I remember all of that, the Hubley murder,” Clint says. “And I remember looking at her picture and wondering how a woman like that could kill the congressman’s wife. She didn’t look the type.”

  “What’s the type?” Steffen asks.

  “I don’t know. Just, you know, the type,” Clint says with a shrug. “So where are you now?”

  “I can’t find Derek Rogers. I’ve looked everywhere. It’s like he just fell off the map.”

  “Well, you did say his wife and kids were threatened,” Dave points out. “I’d fall off the map too if it meant I could keep my wife and children safe.”

  “And you looked all over the internet?” Clint asks.

  “Yes. Nowhere to be found.”

  “How did you search?” he asks.

  “You mean search engine?”

  “No. By his name?” I nod. “How did you spell it?”

  “D-a-v-i-d R-o-g-e-r-s,” I answer.

  The gears in his brain are practically clicking when he asks me, “Did you ever think to try spelling it R-o-d-g-e-r-s?”

  I can feel the blood drain from my face. “No. No, I didn’t. Somebody got a―”

  “Here,” Steffen says and reaches over to the counter for Olivia’s laptop. “This is a better use for it than recipes,” he says with a grin.

  “You sure didn’t mind eating the stuff I made from those recipes, did you?” Olivia quips, but I don’t have time for their silly banter. My hands are shaking as I type the name in the search bar. Then I close my eyes and hit ENTER.

  When I open them, the screen is full of information, mostly on the murder. Three listings down is a headline: Detective in Hubley case relieved of duty. Hmmm. That’s interesting. There’s a picture of him coming out of the police station, and he looks none too happy. I hit the back button and keep looking.

  I’m almost at the bottom of the page when I see something else―Rodgers Security Systems in Tempe, Arizona. I open the page and look at it. It’s a company that installs video surveillance cameras, online fire and carbon monoxide detectors, alarm systems, and all kinds of things that pertain to them. They even install tracking devices on cars, which they tout as the best thing in the world for the parents of a teen. I look at the top of the page and there’s an “About” button, so I hit it.

  And there, in the middle of the page and in full color, is a picture of Derek Rodgers―THE Derek Rodgers, the one coming out of the police station in the other picture. “Oh my god. You found him, didn’t you?” Clint asks, watching my face intently.

  “Yes.”

  “Call him,” he insists.

  “No. It’s nine at night there.”

  “So?”

  “So I’ll call him in the morning. The last thing I want to do is piss him off,” I say. It’s true. I want everyone to want to cooperate with me. I don’t want them irritated with me.

  We spend the rest of the evening trying to make small talk, but I can’t. I’m somewhere between so depressed that I want to put a bullet in my head and so nervous that I can’t sit still. Derek Rodgers. Maybe he can help me. I certainly hope so.

  It doesn’t seem anyone else can.

  * * *

  My hands are shaking so hard that I can barely dial the phone. I put the numbers in, then hit the green circle on the screen that says CALL and sit back to wait.

  “Rodgers Security Systems.”

  “Hello. I’d like to speak to Derek Rodgers.”

  “Who’s calling please?”

  “My name is Brian Zimmer.”

  “What is this in reference to?” the woman asks, and I get the distinct impression she’s his wife.

  “Some video surveillance footage. I need to know how to retrieve it. And it’s on old equipment.” Well, none of that is a lie. It’s all true. Every word.

  “Okay. Could you hold on, please?” I don’t think they have a hold button because I hear her yell, “Derek! There’s a phone call for you! Some guy about some video footage or something.”

  There’s the sound of footsteps and in a little while I hear a man’s voice say, “Hello?”

  “Hello, is this Derek Rodgers?”

  “Yes, sir. How can I help you?”

  “The Derek Rodgers who worked the Hubley case?”

  There’s silence and I realize I just fucked up. I thought he’d hung up until he says, “That was a long time ago.”

  “I know. Please, sir, please don’t hang up. This is important. Cirilla, um, Sandria is my girlfriend. I need to talk to you.”

  God, please don’t let him hang up, I pray silently. Seconds pass, and it feels like a full minute before he says, “Hold on a second.” The footsteps recede and then I hear someone yell, “Hannah, hang up that line.” I’m scared he’s hung up on me until I hear him say, “I’m sorry. I had to come in here and close the door. If she hears me talking about this, she’ll get all upset.”

  “Sir, really, I’m sorry, but I didn’t know who else to call. I talked to Brad Hendricks and he said you might be able to help me.”

  He sighs. “Mr. …”

  “Zimmer. Brian Zimmer.”

  “I hope to god that’s not your real name.”

  “It is.”

  “Well,” he says, “you’d better keep your head down if you’re asking questions. They’ll be gunning for you.”

  “‘They?’ Who is this ‘they?’” I ask him.

  “The congressman’s henchmen. I had to leave town. They threatened to kill my wife and children if I said anything else.”

  “And your superiors?”

  He snorts. “Like they’d help me. They didn’t give a shit. They were as scared as I was.”

  “So Brad told me there was evidence proving that Sandria didn’t commit the murder.”

  “Yes, sir. It was turned in to the police. I had it, as well as the video surveillance footage. And one day, it disappeared.”

  “Disappeared?”

  “Yeah. Just went. Poof. I started asking questions, and that’s when things got crazy.”

  “So you don’t know where it is?”

  “Oh, yeah. I know where it is,” he says.

  “Can you tell me?”

  “Won’t do you any good. It’s in evidence lockup.”

  “Then how could no one find it?”

  “Because they put it under a different name.”

  I can’t believe I’m having to pull information out of him. “And what name is that?”

  I’m beginning to think he’s hung up on me when he says, “
Marjorie Thurmond.”

  It was hard enough finding him, so I ask, “Can you spell that for me?”

  “M-a-r-j-o-r-i-e T-h-u-r-m-o-n-d.”

  “Thanks. I sure wouldn’t have spelled it like that. And you know that’s where it is?”

  “At least it was. They wanted to keep it to make sure the congressman and his merry band of murderers didn’t hurt anyone in the department, but they also didn’t want anyone else finding it. You find that folder in evidence, you’ll find the proof you need that Sandria is innocent. But I’m telling you, Mr. Zimmer, she didn’t commit that murder.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Rodgers, sir. I appreciate it. I do. I just … I’m at my wit’s end, you know? I love her and she’s missing and―”

  “She’s missing? Did she take off?”

  “Yeah. When her picture accidentally turned up on the front page of the paper.”

  “Oh holy shit. Yeah. I can see why she’d do that,” he says. “They’ll be looking for her. Better hope they can’t trace her back to you.”

  “They’ve already been here, posing as FBI agents.”

  “Shit. They work fast.”

  “Yep. Listen, Mr.―”

  “Derek. Call me Derek. If I can help you again, Brian, just call. Tell my wife you’re my buddy Brian from my high school baseball team and she’ll find me wherever I am.”

  “Thank you so much. I really … thank you. Thanks.”

  “You’re welcome. Good luck.” I hear him hang up the phone and I just sit there.

  There’s evidence in a locker in Washington, D.C., that will clear Cirilla, um, Sandria. How in the hell am I going to get my hands on that?

  * * *

  This time, it takes me over an hour to tell them what I’ve found out. Steffen, Clint, and Dave listen intently. Matter of fact, I don’t think they’re even breathing. When I finish, I just say, “Whaddya think? What’s my next move? Because, guys, I don’t have one. I’m lost here.”

  They’ve all been perched on the edges of their seats. Now they relax back, all three of them, like synchronized swimmers. I see we’re going to need to have a talk at some point. They obviously spend far too much time together.