by Shandi Boyes
“As you can see in the images, we believe the gentleman arriving at Chains last night is the same man photographed during our undercover investigation. He is of similar build and height—”
“Do you have any images of his face?” I interrupt Delilah, unable to leash my curiosity for a moment longer. I inwardly sigh, grateful my question comes out sounding inquisitive, not fretful.
Delilah glowers at me, her glare as evil as her scowling face. “Not yet. But after liaising with the PI who captured his photo, we need to act quickly.”
“Why?” Mr. Carson questions with his index finger pressed against his lips.
“In the darkness of the night, Chains was moved to another location. We believe they are preparing to host another party in the near future,” Delilah answers, her tone reserved.
Mr. Carson scoots to the edge of his seat, his interest growing. My interests are also piqued, but not for the reasons you're thinking. I’m outraged, and if I am being honest, a little devastated Marcus is organizing another party so soon. I know I was nothing but a game to him, but he didn’t even wait an entire day before commencing his search for my replacement.
Bile scorches the back of my throat. He can’t replace something he never had.
Snubbing my inner monologue, I swing my eyes to Mr. Carson when he asks, “Did your investigator tail the movers?”
The scowl Delilah was directing at me clears away when she locks her eyes with Mr. Carson. “Unfortunately, no. With long weekend traffic and—”
“Save your excuses for a man willing to accept them,” Mr. Carson scolds, slouching into his chair.
I eye him curiously, unable to determine if the expression on his face is panic or anger. The skin between his eyes is pulled taut, but the corners of his lips are tucked into the side of his mouth. I honestly can’t tell if he is smirking or grimacing.
Smiling to mask her annoyance at being abruptly cut off, Delilah returns her focus to the journalists seated around the table. “Turn to page two.”
Allowing my inquisitiveness to get the better of me, I flick ahead of my colleagues to pursue each image at a rate faster than Delilah is requesting. The ten plus photos present similar to the first one: they don't give any more indication of Marcus's identity than the one at the start of the dossier. If anything, the first image is the most identifiable one in the entire folder. Other than demonstrating Marcus is a fit African American man in his mid to late twenties, there is no identifiable location in any of the photos, and no distinctive markings on his body that will lead to the discovery of his identity. . . My inner monologue trails off when I reach the last set of pictures in the folder.
“Oh no,” I mumble under my breath. “What did you do, Marcus?”
The last two photos don't show Marcus's face, but they do display the full license plate of the taxi he hired to take him to the Chains warehouse and the profile of his driver's face. It's dated an hour after I left the hotel in lower Manhattan. I know Marcus has said numerous times this weekend that I make him reckless, but I didn't realize it extended this far. From my intensive investigation into Chains the two weeks following our initial meeting, I know Chains utilizes a fleet of limousines from a company whose client records are more guarded than the Oppenheimer Blue diamond. So why did he take a taxi to Chains last night? It truly doesn’t make any sense.
The swishing of my stomach catapults to a new level when Delilah informs, “We located the taxi driver shown in the last two images. He confidently confirmed the location where he collected the unidentified man. After spending a majority of my morning pleading with the management of a lower Manhattan hotel, I’ve been granted access to their entire security feed of the last twenty-four hours.”
Delilah pauses, taking time to bask in the glory of the triumphant clap of her colleagues. The only one not cheering her on is me. I feel sick. Not only is Marcus’s BDSM identity about to be exposed, so is my treachery to Global Ten Media.
Once the euphoric applause simmers to a faint buzz, Delilah scans her eyes across the room. “Now all we need is a journalist willing to spend the remainder of their long weekend scanning the surveillance images burned onto this drive.” She jingles a Global Ten Media USB stick in her hand.
All leftover applause vanishes, replaced with nothing but the sound of tumbleweeds drifting over an isolated country road. Several pairs of eyes stray to the conference table, while others pretend to scan Marcus’s dossier. There is only one other time I’ve heard this room so quiet. It was when the entire wing of the entertainment division of Global Ten was summoned here to discover the aftermath of our blunder on publishing the stories of Noah Taylor’s stint in rehab when he was actually in an intensive care unit.
“Come on,” Delilah requests, her voice a vicious snarl. “I can’t be expected to gain the evidence and comb through it as well. Unlike the rest of you, I have a life.”
I sink deeper into my chair, praying to God my presence will be just as unnoticed today as it has been the past five years of my employment at Global Ten Media.
My prayers fall on deaf ears when a deep voice at the side asks, “Cleo, can you do it?”
My eyes—along with numerous others—snap to Mr. Carson sitting at the head of the table.
Stunned by Mr. Carson’s request, Delilah scoffs, “No offense, Jack, but this task requires more diligence than a so-called journalist whose knowledge on investigative reporting only extends to looking attractive in a satin slip.”
Some of the panic smeared on my face switches to anger when members at the higher end of the table snicker at her bitchy remark. More than half of the people sitting around this table should be suffering the same fate I was handed four years ago. The only reason they aren’t is because I sacrificed myself to ensure no one on my team went down with me. My team may have researched, wrote, and edited the articles that went to print, but I was the one who approved the publication order. I thought my decision to cop the blame showed class and maturity. Clearly, the only fool seated around this table is me.
The room falls into resolute silence when Mr. Carson snarls, “Enough! Contrary to what you muttonheads believe, Cleo is the lead investigator on this case. I personally selected her as she is the best candidate to bring this story to print, so if anyone in this room has a problem with her processing the surveillance tape, I suggest you bring your concerns to me. You all know where my office is.”
His confession silences the critics surrounding me and forces my mouth to gape.
Standing from his seat, Mr. Carson puts on his suit jacket before swinging his eyes to me. “Do you have the resources and time to assess the surveillance footage?” he questions me, his tone understanding—almost nurturing.
I pause for a minute, gulping in breaths to calm the panic flaring in my veins. When my delayed response causes Mr. Carson’s brows to tack, I nod, spinelessly agreeing with his request.
His eyes soften from my harmonized response. “Good. If the timeline becomes too challenging for you, Cleo, request assistance from anyone in this room.”
“Okay,” I force out, my word as shaky as my composure.
While skimming his eyes across the room, Mr. Carson adds on, “If anyone refuses Cleo’s request for assistance, your severance package will be forwarded to you the following morning. Do we have an understanding?”
The collective sighs of “Yes” come out of every dignitary seated around the table—Delilah included.
Happy the soldiers have fallen into line, Mr. Carson dips his chin in farewell before exiting the room.
4
Three brisk taps at my office door distract my attention from the hotel surveillance images I’ve been perusing the past three days. Cranking my neck to the side, I spot Dexter, IT expert and resident hottie of Global Ten Media, standing in my doorway. He has a cheeky smirk etched on his adorable face, and his broad shoulder is propped on the doorjamb separating my office from the bustling foyer of New York Daily Express.
Smiling, I
stand from my seat and pace towards him. My brisk strides slow when Dexter says, “I heard you need my help, Cleo.”
When I was seconded to IT to demand a replacement device for Delilah’s lagging laptop six months ago, I left looking like a blushing idiot. With a name a little on the geeky side and a job title to match, I never thought I'd come face to face with a real-life Greek God when I was introduced to Dexter. Dark, luxurious hair, a little bit of stubble covering his chiseled chin, ice blue eyes shielded by a set of incredibly thick lashes, and a body that hits a few of my hot buttons all combine to make Dexter an incredibly appealing package. Not quite as appealing as Marcus—but that would be a hard feat for any man to conquer.
I stop frozen halfway between my desk and Dexter. My heart slithers into my churning stomach. I haven’t heard hide nor hair of Marcus the past four days, yet he is still on my mind so much I’m comparing him to other men. What's wrong with me? I must be a severely demented person. He is the one who invaded my privacy, but I’m the one on the verge of falling to my knees and begging for forgiveness. This is not the woman my parents raised me to be. I am better than this. I am stronger than this. I am a Garcia woman through and through.
Pushing aside the little voice inside me vehemently denying every statement I just made, my eyes drink in how incredibly tempting Dexter's well-built frame looks in a pair of low-hanging jeans, black commando boots, and a plain V-neck tee.
“Sorry to bother you, I’m just a little stuck on a project I’ve been working on.” I stop to stand in front of him. “Me and computers have never been friends.”
Dexter smirks a grin that makes my heart skip a beat. “Lead the way, Cleo. I can’t work out your kinks if I don’t know what I am handling.”
Pretending I didn't hear the cheeky innuendo laced in his question, I gesture for him to enter my office. Smiling at the heat creeping across my cheeks, Dexter pushes off his feet and moseys into the vast space, filling it with the piquant smell of bottled cologne.
After checking the corridor is void of prying eyes, I close my office door and lower the privacy blind. I don’t need to peer at Dexter to know I’ve gathered his inquisitive stare; I can feel it. His gaze is so warm it eases some of the uncertainty swirling my stomach. If only it could do something to calm the panic blackening my veins.
Swallowing down the dread creeping up my esophagus, I spin on my heels to face Dexter.
“Top secret project,” I mumble, lifting my index finger to my lips.
Dexter nods as if he is buying my explanation, but his forthright eyes still harbor suspicion. With a wave of my hand, I gesture for him to sit in my office chair. When he does, I lean across his body and swivel my mouse to awaken my sleeping monitor.
“Is this the hotel footage Delilah’s been hounding you for?” Dexter asks when the screen illuminates, his pitch indicating his curiosity.
Masking my surprise he is aware of Delilah’s taxing personality, I nod. “Yes. Like everything, she wanted this video processed last week.”
A feeble laugh rumbles from Dexter’s lips. “She’s a bit of a prickly pear.”
“Prickly pear is too nice of a description for Delilah,” I snarl under my breath. “If it wasn’t bad enough she assigned me this task on a long weekend, there seems to be an issue with how the surveillance video downloaded from the hotel’s mainframe.” My words come out sharp, confidently concealing my lack of computer skills.
“See.” I point to the monitor.
Dragging his eyes away from my heaving chest squashed against his shoulder, Dexter locks his blue eyes with my computer screen. I cough to clear the tumbleweeds from my throat before straightening my spine. I didn’t realize I was standing so close to him until he pointed it out.
The impious gleam in Dexter’s eyes switches to curious when, for a fleeting moment, the video freezes. It's only the quickest nanosecond. If it were being watched by anyone but me, they wouldn’t have noticed it, but it's still there nonetheless.
“The pixilation didn’t change,” Dexter mutters, more to himself than me. “Whoever doctored this tape knows what they are doing.” He scrubs his hand over the stubble on his chin as he sinks into my office chair. “Have you located any of the images of the man you're searching for on this video?”
With reluctance, I shake my head. “No. From the photos the PI took, the man Delilah wants identified is easily distinguishable,” I reply, my tone low and wary.
When Dexter peers at me with confusion etched on his face, I add on, “A pocket on his trousers was badly torn.”
Sick gloom spread through me when I discovered Marcus had left the hotel in the same suit he arrived in. From what he informed me Saturday, I know he had suits readily available in his suite. The hotel we occupied Saturday afternoon is on permanent reservation for him. It's his go-to zone whenever the band is in town for radio events or press tours. Although surprised he’d need a hotel room when he owns a residence within an hour drive of the city, at the time, I didn’t put much thought into it. My mind was too stuck in the trance of lust to think about anything but devouring the deliriously handsome specimen in front of me.
I fiddle with the chain link pendant around my neck to appease my nerves before asking, “If the tape has been doctored, is there any way the images can be restored?”
My debilitating head versus heart battle undertakes another round as I await Dexter’s reply. My head is praying there won’t be a chance in hell the missing footage will be recovered, whereas my heart is hoping every second will be retrieved. It isn't what you're thinking. It doesn't want the footage to expose Marcus and advance my career; it just wants the chance to answer lingering questions. My weekend with Marcus was such a confounding time, I'm starting to wonder if I am remembering it right. Not just the end of our exchange when the curtains closed for the final time—the entirety of it.
“I guess there is only one way to find out.” With a determined scowl, Dexter scoots in close to my desk. His fingers tap wildly over the keyboard as a sexy pout forms on his lips.
Remaining quiet, I watch him bring up a black prompt screen and fill it with code. It's fascinating witnessing him in his element, but it does nothing to ease the contempt swishing in my stomach. If I weren’t still lost on where my loyalties should lie, I could aid Dexter in his investigation by giving him a timeframe to work with. But since days of deliberating didn’t scratch the surface of the confusion muddling my brain, I’ll keep my big mouth shut. This surveillance tape could vindicate both Marcus and me, so remaining quiet is the smart thing to do—even if it tilts the axis of my moral compass.
"Whoever doctored this surveillance footage is a genius,” Dexter mumbles, his eyes never once moving from the screen.
I nod in agreeance. I’ve watched the 24-hour long surveillance tape numerous times the past three days. In reverse, slow motion, and even at three times the speed. There is not a single frame on the entire tape that includes Marcus or me. Not even when I fled the hotel with a sheet of tears streaming down my cheeks. It's as if Marcus stripped me from his life even faster than I entered it. I don’t know whether I should be offended by his dedication or honored.
“You’ve got at least twenty minutes of missing footage,” Dexter says, snapping my attention back to the present. “Here, here, here and here,” he continues, pointing to time periods that match when Marcus and I entered the hotel foyer together, to when we exited separately.
I stand still for a beat, dazed Dexter unearthed the lapse in surveillance so quickly. I heard he was a computer genius, but I didn’t realize the gossip was literal.
Once the panic has cleared from my eyes, I ask, “Is there any way to recover the edited footage?”
Dexter holds my gaze for several moments, strangling my heart with deceit and silent pleas. “The person who hacked the server is good. The video plays seamlessly. Even slicing the footage apart doesn’t take away its authenticity. To the naked eye, this tape appears legitimate and unedited.”
&nb
sp; “So how do you know there are missing segments?” I query, my tone a unique mix of intrigue and alarm.
Smiling, Dexter brings up the surveillance footage again. Although he plays it at the same speed he used previously, this time, he leaves the timer splayed across the monitor. “Watch closely,” he instructs.
With my heart shrilling in my ears, I tilt in close and lock my eyes with the screen. The silence between Dexter and me is so immense, I can hear his pulse surging through his body. It's as manic as the mad beat of my heart. Before I have the chance to understand why his pulse is beating so fast, the air is forcefully removed from my lungs.
“The timer’s out. The last second took longer to click over,” I gasp in surprise. The only reason I notice the lapse in time was because my heart thumped twice in the last second instead of its usual one beat.
“Yes.” Dexter’s short reply is unable to conceal the pride in his tone. “If every minute loses a second, by the time twenty-four hours ticks by, you’ve got twenty-four minutes of lost footage.”
“Wow, that’s incredible.” I honestly don’t know whether I’m in shock or awe right now.
“It is,” Dexter agrees.
My wonderment switches to hope. “So the chances of getting the uncut version of this footage is practically non-existent?” I try to keep the glee out of my voice. My attempts are borderline.
Dexter grins a cocky smirk. “If you had asked any other member of my team, I would have said zilch. Luckily, you sought the best man for the job.”
My mouth twitches, preparing to speak, but not a single syllable escapes my thin, grim lips.
Taking my stunned expression as excitement, Dexter says, “I know you're under the gun with Delilah, but stuff like this takes time. Even more so because of the caliber of work the person put in while doctoring it.”