The Fixer

by Jessica Gadziala

  "Do you like coffee?"

  "Coffee. Espresso. Raw beans to gnaw on. Anything to get my fix," I agreed as she led me outside, then walked me around the building toward the front.

  "Great. We will stop and get you some. I know you've been up all night. I'm so sorry someone couldn't have stepped in before it was too late."

  She did sound genuinely sorry about it too. And I remembered what Quinton said about the girl at the office sending him over. That girl had to be Jules.

  "Thank you for pushing your boss to come help," I told her as she led me up the front steps. "You have no idea how much I appreciate it."

  She gave me a smile as she reached for the front door, but didn't pull it open.

  "Sometimes, these guys get so wrapped up in the job, they forget about the people. And I have no problem telling some jackass politician or corrupt cop that he can go suck an egg, but I will never feel comfortable turning away a woman who sounds desperate. I don't play my cards often in this place, but when I do, it's for women like you. And because I don't ask Quin for favors, he listens when I occasionally press an issue. He might not have gotten there in time, but he got there. And because he got there, and got to see the human element, he took you on. Sometimes, these men just need a little push, you know? They can be dense at times," she added as we moved inside to the reception area.

  "Who can be dense sometimes?" a male voice - not Quinton's - asked as he walked out of a hall from the left. He was younger, maybe only a few years older than Jules herself. And while I wasn't great with telling features apart, I was pretty sure he was Korean with slightly shaggy inky hair, dark eyes, great skin, and a tall, somewhat lanky build. He had on fitted, but not tight, gray jeans with an untucked blue button-up that had wrinkles like he was accustomed to lounging about in it like it was a t-shirt.

  "You, Kai. Whenever I am talking, it is always about you," she told him, teasing, but not unkind as she led us inward.

  "If only that were true," Kai declared, holding onto his heart. "If only you fell as madly in love with me as I am with you, I could die a happy man!"

  "Aren't you dating that sweet girl who delivers the pastries?"

  "Dating is too strong a word," Kai said, grin a little wicked.

  "Whore," Jules shot at him, giving him fake small eyes.

  "I would gladly be your whore, Jules. Only yours."

  There was a hint of sincerity under the joking, jovial tone, making me wonder if maybe Kai wasn't just playing around with his coworker, if he genuinely had feelings for Jules. It wouldn't be too hard to believe. She was beautiful. She seemed sweet. And if she had men like Quinton and Finn who did things when she asked at times, she must have been a good employee, and therefore, have a good head on her shoulders.

  "I'll keep that in mind," Jules said, her tone a little cautious suddenly. "Kai, this is Aven. Quin just took on her case. Aven, this is Kai. He's a puppy dog," she explained, though that seemed self-evident.

  "Aven, from the reject pile?" he asked, then sent me an apologetic look. "Sorry. But Smith didn't sign off on you."

  "I signed off on her," Jules cut in, her chin raising like she was daring him to comment on that, though he didn't seem the type at all.

  "Well then! If Jules signed off on you, then you must be pretty awesome. See, I know this," he told me, moving closer until our shoulders almost brushed, turning his head like he was telling me some big secret, "because I know that Jules is pretty awesome herself."

  I felt my lips curving up despite my shitty day. How could you help it with someone as charming as him?

  "Kai, do you maybe want to show her to Quin's? This damn phone won't stop today," she said as it started ringing.

  It was the first time since walking in that I was aware that I was actually in an office building.

  A nice one at that.

  Things were decorated in a way that made it clear that the place was - for the most part - occupied by men. Meaning everything was streamlined to the point of almost OCD-neatness, and dark.

  The floors were hardwood, gleaming, but almost black they were stained so deep. The couches and armchairs to either side of the front door were navy, as were the walls. Jules's desk was sitting in the center of the room, long, dark wood that matched the floor. Behind her on the wall was silver letting declaring Quinton Baird and Associates.

  "Oh," she said suddenly as Kai held out an arm to me. Her hand was covering the receiver, and her eyes were apologetic. "I promised her coffee."

  "I can get her coffee," he assured her, making her shoulders relax as though she had genuinely been worried about that. "This way, Aven," he said, leading me toward the hall he had walked out of as we came in. There were doors on the sides with names, but no job titles. I saw Finn. Smith. Kai. Miller. Lincoln. Ranger. Gunner. At the very end of the hall, there was a coffee station complete with a drip pot, a single-serve machine, an electric tea kettle, and a glass front fridge full of creamers beside a shelf with various coffee and tea and even hot chocolate selections.

  Prepared, these guys were.

  For anything from corpse clean-up to sudden hot chocolate craving.

  "Pick your poison," Kai invited, letting me select a pod, but then taking over from there, brewing it into a paper to-go container. "How do you take it?"

  "Cream, three sugars," I admitted, cringing a little at my sweet preference, but knowing I wouldn't be able to drink it without all three of them.

  "Sweets for the sweet," was all the comment he made as he prepared it. "No no," he said, gently swatting my hand away when I automatically reached for it after he clamped a top on it. "Can't have you burning your hands," he told me as he slipped a coffee collar around it, then held it out to me.

  "Thank you. You're really sweet," I told him, meaning it.

  "Thanks. Can you put in a good word with Jules for me?" he asked, teasing, but there was an earnestness to him as well.

  "Every chance I get," I agreed as he led me to the door to my side, the one with Quinton's name on it, knocking gently.

  "Thanks, you're a peach," he declared as he pushed the door open. "Don't worry. He's not as scary as he looks at that big, intimidating desk of his," Kai assured me as I moved in.

  The door closed behind me, and we were alone again.

  At least this time, he was dressed. His hair was damp as well, like he had somehow found another shower in the building, and he was redressed in perfectly pressed gray slacks, a black belt, and a matte black dress shirt. No tie this time.

  His office was much the same as the rest of the building, heavy on the navy, dark wood, and silver.

  "Aven, have a seat," he offered, waving to the two across from his massive executive desk. I moved across the room, all a sudden very, very aware of my bralessness when his eyes moved over me again. I swear my traitorous nipples seemed to harden slightly under the inspection, making me raise my arms like I was bringing my cup up higher as I sat down. "Feel a little more human?" he asked.

  I nodded at that. Taking a small sip of the still too-hot coffee.

  "I brought your purse in here," he said, nodding to where it was sitting on a desk behind him next to a printer and a file stacker. "Now, we need to talk."

  "Okay," I agreed.

  "We are going to start at day one, then work our way all the way to last night. I want every detail you remember about every incident, even if you can't keep the timeline straight in your head. What he was wearing, what he was doing, what time of day or night it was. The more I know, the better I can shut all this down. The pictures on his camera suggest he has gotten really close to you, likely before any of the actual peeping behavior at your house started. There are pictures of you sitting outside She's Bean Around, standing beside your car that appears to be smoking, walking into Kennedy's where, I take it, you work."

  "The car smoking incident was over a year ago," I said on a hushed whisper. That long? He had been obsessed with me for a year? How the hell had it slipped by me for all that time?r />
  "Don't start over-thinking this," Quinton demanded, shaking his head a little. "Creeps find ways to creep. That's what they do. It's not your fault that you didn't notice it. Now, when did you first remember seeing him?"

  "Valentine's Day of this year."

  I remembered it perfectly. Work had been busy all week in anticipation of all the V-day hanky-panky that was sure to go on. And all the people in the salon got obnoxious, cheesy, but envy-worthy bouquets of flowers, and boxes of chocolate, and teddy bears, and jewelry delivered all day long. I was, apparently, the only single person in the building. Usually, I was completely fine with being single. I always got to pick what was on the TV, and what take-out to order. Nothing ever had to be compromised on. It was freeing. But on days that celebrated togetherness in all its many forms from Christmas and New Years to the very obvious day of love itself, yeah, there was always a pang. Small, but there.

  So I had left work, picked up an enormous order of takeaway Chinese, some hard cider, and a six-pack of cheese danishes, intending to eat - and drink - every last bit of all of it while I snuggled on my couch in sweats watching Unsolved Mysteries reruns on TV.

  I had done all that too.

  Blissfully unaware of my open windows, and the darkness outside. The doors were locked because, well, I was single, not stupid. But that was the extent of my home protection plan.

  Until I got up to bring my plate to the sink.

  And saw a face in the window.

  I was not a screamer. I could watch jump-scare after jump-scare in any movie without letting a single sound escape my lips. But right then, alone in my home, without even a bat to defend myself with, the fear was something the likes of which I had never known before.

  So I had screamed.

  And, luckily, that time, that was enough to send him running.

  I launched into all the other incidents, each one getting a little more fuzzy as they all started rolling together with how frequent it all was. I remembered things, like what was said, what he had done, but I couldn't recall what he wore, what days of the week it took place, if there was any truly discernible pattern to any of it.

  Quinton took it all in stride, likely used to not having every last detail. But he scribbled away on a sheet of paper as I spoke.

  "Why is all of this necessary?" I found myself asking when I was tapped out of new information, my coffee was empty, and there was a throbbing headache starting in my temples.

  "Normally, it wouldn't be. But while you were showering, Finn called. The fuck didn't have an ID on him. We need to know who he is, so we can figure out if his house is plastered with pictures of you."

  "If it was, do you think the cops would question me about his disappearance? I mean he was clearly a stalker if he was posting up pictures of me at his place."

  "Yeah," he agreed, sitting back in his chair, a pen between both hands. "But the cops will cover their bases. Especially so if he has links to any of the syndicates in town."

  Right.

  The syndicates.

  You couldn't live in Navesink Bank and not know who really ran things. Not the cops or whoever the hell was in charge of them.

  But the guys they were supposed to keep off the streets.

  The Henchmen MC who ran guns.

  The Grassi family who ran the local Italian mob.

  The Third Street gang and their heroin and prostitutes.

  The weird paramilitary camp on the hill known as Hailstorm.

  And while I couldn't be sure about this, I was pretty certain something illegal was going on at night in the abandoned elementary school on the other side of the woods behind my house.

  So if this guy was somehow connected to any of that, and the cops had the greased palms I was sure they did, then they would help out the guys who slid them money every month find out what happened to one of their men.

  "I hope he's just a nobody," I heard myself say, sounding a little defeated.

  "Chances are, he is. The organizations around here run a pretty tight ship. But we need to make sure of that. So as much information as we can get about him, the better."

  "I think I have given you all there is. Oh, aside from the notes."

  "The ones in your kitchen drawer under the utensil organizer?" Quinton asked, the very edge of his lips curved up slightly.

  "What? How--"

  "Finn is thorough," he cut me off. "He cleans up what he needs to clean up. Then he does a sweep."

  "Looking for what?"

  "Anything that looks suspicious."

  "But... why?"

  "Second rule of our business. Never trust your client."

  Okay, maybe I found that mildly insulting but I imagined they dealt with a bunch of scumbags on a daily basis, and that such a rule was more than necessary.

  "And what is the first rule?"

  Quinton sat back forward, putting his elbows on the desk, leaning toward me a bit like he was about to share a huge secret. "Don't get caught."

  Oh, well.

  Duh.

  Yeah.

  That would be the first rule.

  A silence fell after that as I tried to focus.

  This was as far as he had told me to think. I had followed all the steps he had laid out for me. I had no idea what was going to happen next.

  "What's going on in there?" he asked, making my gaze shoot up.

  "What is going to happen now?" I asked, hearing a bit of vulnerability in my tone that I really hoped he didn't pick up on.

  "Now, I am going to lead you upstairs where you can have a private room that locks with your own bathroom. And you can sleep. Or break down in private. Whatever you need to do while Finn finishes at your place. My guys will deal with the dog, and look for leads on who this fucker was."

  "And after that?" I asked. At his questioning look, I shrugged a shoulder. "It helps having the steps," I explained.

  To that, he nodded, like that made perfect sense, making me feel a little less needy than I had a moment before. "After that, you can come back out, have some food, and sit in on a meeting with me and my team about what has gone on. After that, you are going to go back to your life. You get one day, and one day only, to lose your shit, Aven. After this, you need to go back to your house, even if it means you need to sleep in your basement to keep away from the images your mind will throw at you when you step back into that space.

  "You will need to get up tomorrow, get dressed, smear on some special makeup Jules will give you to cover up those bruises, and take yourself to work. You will engage your coworkers if that is your norm. You will wax all the pussies that come your way. And you will keep it together. Everything has to go on as if nothing at all happened. Because as of about five hours from now, nothing will have."

  He made it sound a lot easier than I knew it was going to be. Sure, I could follow the steps. I could get up and go to work. I could force myself to do things on auto-pilot.

  The problem wasn't daily activities.

  The problem was going to be existing in that house again.

  It didn't seem to matter that he was dead.

  The entire place somehow still felt unsafe.

  And tainted.

  But going back there was not the next step.

  I needed to focus on that instead.

  "Ready?" Quinton asked, moving to stand, grabbing my purse, and handing it to me.

  With little choice on whether I was ready or not, I stood, and followed him out to the hall, where he paused to let me get a refill on my coffee before leading me back toward reception, then through a door to the side of Jules's desk.

  We ascended the stairs in silence, nothing but the light tapping of our feet on the steps to fill the void. We reached a door at the top where Quinton stopped to punch another code in.

  The security at this place was insane.

  "Alright this is a common room," he told me, leading me inside to what was set up very much like a living room with couches, armchairs, a giant TV, coffee table, and plu
sh gray carpet. To the side was a large stainless steel fridge, counter, coffee machine, microwave, and what seemed to be a pantry. "If you're hungry before the meeting, help yourself to anything in here. Your room is this way," he told me, leading me down a hall to the side of the makeshift little kitchen. Much like the office downstairs, there were doors lining each side. Ten in total. One for each employee plus a spare. Or ten clients who needed a place to crash. "Here we go," he said, leading me to the one at the very end. "Settle in. Try to get some rest. Someone will be up to fetch you later tonight."

  Without anything else, he moved to walk away.

  My voice burst out of me suddenly, like my body couldn't contain it anymore. "Quinton!"

  He turned back slowly, one brow raised. "Quin," he corrected.

  "Quin," I repeated. "Thank you. For... all of this. I mean..."

  "This is what we do," he shrugged it off, moving to walk away before I could speak again.

  And, sure, this was what they did.

  But they did this for paying clients.

  Which I wasn't.

  But there was no use harping on that. He clearly knew I couldn't pay, but wanted to help regardless. What did they say about looking a gift horse in the mouth?

  I turned back to the door, pushing it open, and moving inside.

  The lights were already on in the comfortable, but sparse space. There was a full-sized bed with simple deep gray sheets and comforter, a deep wood nightstand and dresser that matched the wood on the floor, a small closet, and a door that led into a bathroom with a compact shower stall, sink with a medicine cabinet mirror, and the usual toilet. The space was small enough to practically touch both sides of the walls, but seeing as this was temporary lodging, there was really no reason to have a giant, spacious bathroom.

  I took a breath, sitting down on the edge of the bed, and kicking off my shoes as I dug through my purse to find my phone, thanking my lucky stars that Mondays and Tuesdays - yesterday and today - were my days off. Kennedy would have been flipping out if I just didn't show up to work, seeing as I was the only waxer on staff.