Restrain

by Shandi Boyes

  “Not September this year,” Lexi clarifies, drawing my attention back to her. “September fifteen years ago.”

  “What?” I ask, certain my lack of sleep is playing tricks on my spent brain.

  Lexi spins her laptop around to face me. There is a picture of a teenage boy and a girl I'd guess to be around the age of ten. It's a newspaper article about a local baseball charity game played in Jersey. All benefits from the game were donated to a domestic violence shelter the community was endeavoring to get off the ground.

  “That looks like Keira,” Lexi summarizes.

  I nod in full agreement. Although she is much younger, she has the same eyes and hair color. “It's either Keira or her twin sister.”

  “Is that Mr. Carson?” Lexi points to the handsome teen in the photo who has his arm wrapped around Keira.

  I lean in to inspect the photo more thoroughly, not wanting speculation to run wild in my mind. The teen's cheeks are shiny since they are covered in sweat; his eyes are as wild as the messy mane of inky black hair on his head, and his jaw is stiff and rigid, even though he'd be barely over the age of fifteen. He is Mr. Carson. I am certain of it. I was so fascinated by the local boy from Jersey who turned into a self-made billionaire, I gobbled up every article I could find on Mr. Carson when I was younger. This picture matches ones I've seen of him in his teen years.

  “That's Mr. Carson,” I confirm to Lexi.

  "So they've known each other for fifteen years, as this photo is way too chummy for a random stranger pic," Lexi says as shock replaces the tiredness in her eyes.

  When I nod, Lexi asks, “Where do we go from here?”

  I scroll through the additional images attached to the article Lexi discovered, striving to devise what this new information could mean for my investigation. This changes everything, because not only are Keira and Mr. Carson well-known to one another, but unlike this photo, they are playing on opposing teams. Is that what their confrontation was about in his office last week? Maybe Keira thought using tears was a way to break through Mr. Carson's stern resistance? Much like she used a chain-link choker as a way of capturing Marcus’s attention.

  Suppressing my jealousy before it gets the better of me, I click through articles matching the story on the charity baseball game. Just thinking about Marcus being intimately connected with another woman triggers feverish jealousy, but I’ve got too much on my plate to add anything else.

  My manic clicking stops when I stumble upon a picture of a lady with a broad smile and vibrant eyes. It takes several minutes staring at the familiar-looking brunette's face before I realize how I know her. Just as quickly as recognition surfaces, so does the familiarity of her surname.

  With my heart sitting in my throat, I do a quick internet search on the brunette’s name, but instead of using her whole name, I focus on her surname. My eyes go crazy when they are bombarded with hundreds and hundreds of responses for my search. Newspaper clippings, arrest warrants, photos, everything and anything you could imagine is displayed in front of me. It's exciting and stomach-churningly worrying at the same time.

  I remain quiet, struggling to join each piece of the puzzle to the right section. It's a complex puzzle that comes together surprisingly quickly when all the main players are exposed.

  When the final piece locks into place, shock hits me so hard and fast, I’m nearly knocked onto my ass. I connect my eyes with Lexi. “Do you need a ride to Links today?”

  My words are hurried as I jump up from my seat to gather all the documents sprawled across the desk at a more frantic speed than the one I was using earlier.

  “I was going to catch the train. Why, are you going that way?” Lexi answers, watching me with bewilderment etched on her face.

  The fettering of her brows increases when I nod. "I have a brunch date I completely forgot about. Get dressed; I'll update you in the car."

  Several hours later, I’m mingling in the lobby of an extremely elegant apartment building located across from Central Park. That smell of wealth I whiffed at the fundraising gala two days ago is as blatant in the building as the scent of taxi fumes in Times Square.

  After running his eyes down mine and Brodie’s body for the tenth time the past twenty minutes, the pompous-looking receptionist says, “Yes, Ma’am. I’ll send them straight up.” He is talking into the small black device lodged in his ear canal.

  With a snarl, he gestures his hand to the mirrored glass elevator banks behind his station. “Penthouse floor. George will show you the way.”

  A gentleman in a dark burgundy suit and top hat dips his chin in greeting before waving his hand to the elevator banks. When he pushes off his feet, Brodie and I shadow him. I've always felt out of place around the wealthy, but my neurosis has been pushed aside today because Brodie's discomfort is strong enough for the both of us.

  Our ride in the elevator with George happens in silence. I'd like to say resolute silence, but with elevator music filling the void, it isn't entirely silent. My eyes rocket to Brodie when he whistles along to the tune. If it isn't bad enough my ears are being subjected to torture from the elevator music, having him whistling along makes it ten times worse. I don't hate many things, but whistling is on my concise list of dislikes.

  “You should sleep more. You get grumpy when you’re tired,” Brodie snickers as we follow George out of the elevator, straight into the lavish foyer of an opulent home.

  A large crystal vase full of fresh lilies and pussy willow branches sits on an antique round table in the middle of the vast space. The extravagant floral arrangement fires the air with a refreshing scent of pollen, ridding it of the wealth its maplewood wainscoted walls and tiled marble floors convey. After scrubbing his polished shoes on the bristled mat, Brodie places the box we arrived with at the side of the glistening space before joining me in soaking up the lifestyle many dream of but will never achieve.

  I stop appraising an original Monet when the distinct rumble of Cartier rolls through my ears. “Darling, if I had known you were coming, I would have seen my guest out earlier.”

  She floats across the room like an angel gliding over a cloud. She is dressed more casually than she was when I saw her Saturday. Her fit body is covered with a floral kimono cinched so dangerously loosely at the waist, Brodie is mere moments away from inspecting precisely what she is wearing under her satin gown.

  A grin curves on my lips when Cartier greets me with two air kisses to each of my cheeks. The unique scent of flowers and spices lingers in her wake when she welcomes Brodie in the same fashion. My grin enlarges to a full smile when the beard covering Brodie's chin can't hide his smirk from Cartier’s friendliness.

  My brows bow when a handsome man in his mid-thirties struts into the room. From his disheveled hair and rumpled clothing, it isn't hard to decipher what he was doing, but his peacock attitude is a good give away. After smirking a greeting to us, he leans in to whisper something into Cartier's ear. I slap Brodie's arm at the same time Cartier hits the unknown man's chest.

  “Do you recognize him?”

  “HBO?” Brodie mouths, acknowledging my suspicion he is one of the lead actors who stars in a popular sitcom on HBO.

  When the dark-haired man finalizes his conversation with Cartier, he shifts his gaze to Brodie and me. We both stand a little straighter, trying to act like we weren’t just spying on their exchange. It's a woeful effort. The instant his highly recognizable eyes lock with mine, I know he is precisely whom I suspected, which makes me grin like an idiot. I’ll be honest, I’m a little starstruck right now.

  Cartier waits for her guest to leave with George before drifting her eyes back to me. “Look at you, just as ravishing in casual clothing as you are in designer dresses. I understand Marcus’s beguilement.” Every R she pronounces rolls off her tongue with a throaty purr.

  “Come, let’s get something to drink.” She pivots on her heels and saunters into a room on our left.

  “It’s not even 10 AM,” I grouse, shadowing her i
nto the massive living room.

  My jaw slackens in an unladylike manner when the wonderment of silk, gold, and maplewood bombards me. At least my response was more subdued than Brodie’s. He didn’t manage to hold in his curse word.

  This room is massive, stretching the entire length of the apartment. The views of Central Park from the floor-to ceiling-windows are breathtaking. This would have to be one of the most valuable properties in New York City. Nothing could replicate this view—not a single darn thing.

  Cartier giggles, adoring our slack-jawed expressions. I guess she has become accustomed to the awe she wakes up to every morning. Arriving at a bar on our right, Cartier offers us a drink. I kindly refuse. I've never been fond of drinking so early in the morning, and my lack of sleep last night has already given me a severe case of dizziness, so I don't need anything to add to it. Brodie also refuses her request, citing, "I don’t drink while on the job."

  After pouring herself a three-finger serving of fancy whiskey in a crystal glass, Cartier takes a seat in one of the four voluptuous sofas in her living room. Brodie and I also sit, but on the couch across from her.

  "I thought Marcus said you were a journalist?" Cartier queries, peering at me with a set of suspicious eyes.

  “I am,” I confirm, nodding.

  “Then why do I get the feeling I’m sitting across from two detectives?” She holds her hands out in front of her body like she is pleading innocence. “I swear, Officers, I don’t know anything. I’m a good girl.”

  Brodie's throaty laugh rumbles my nerves out of my stomach. While kicking his shoe with my heel to halt his immature response, I mumble, "I'm not here to interrogate you, but I did come here to ask you something in confidence."

  Cartier reads the honesty from my eyes before her dazzling gaze shifts to Brodie.

  “This is the first I’m hearing of it,” Brodie advises her questioning glare.

  “He didn’t know we were coming here until he pulled into the valet,” I inform Cartier when her suspicion remains high.

  Cartier shifts her eyes back to me. “How did you even know where here is, darling?”

  “This,” I reply, scooting to the edge of my chair to show her the article I saved on my phone during our hour commute.

  She gasps in shock when she recognizes the image reflecting back at her. It's a photo snapped of her when she was cutting the ribbon at a domestic violence shelter in New Jersey nearly twenty years ago—the same shelter Keira and Mr. Carson were raising funds for fifteen years ago. Although Cartier is decades younger, and her hair is as dark as the storm looming in her eyes, I have no doubt it is her. The modern fashionista smiling at the camera is wearing a replica of the small thin necklace she hides under her big bulky ones. I only caught the quickest glimpse of the collar she was fiddling with Saturday night, but its infinity eight design was captivating enough for me to remember. It's simple but classically elegant.

  Since the photo was snapped years before Cartier began using nicknames to hide her true self, her full name was displayed: Phoebe Annabella Gottle, wife of the suspected mob boss of New York City. Although I was unaware of Mr. Gottle’s influence in New York when he arrived at my home with Marcus after he was arrested last month, my impromptu internet search of him this morning unearthed more information on him than months of investigative journalism could ever locate on Cartier. Unlike his wife, Mr. Gottle’s personal life isn’t personal.

  “The Gottle surname is not unique. . . except in New York.” My eyes wander around the affluent surroundings. “I knew the exact building to find you as Henry looks after his family members very well.”

  Brodie's eyes snap to mine at the same moment Cartier's do. His eyes are wide, and his mouth is gaped. Cartier's expression isn’t as shocked as his. Her plump lips have scoured into a thin line, and her eyes have narrowed.

  “I am not his family, darling. I was nothing more than his whore.” Her words are hurled off her tongue like daggers, but it does nothing to hide the massive sentiment dangling on her vocal cords.

  “A whore who happens to still carry his last name?” I query softly, my confidence lacking from the dubious glare she is directing at me. “Please correct me if I am wrong, but how can the title of ‘wife’ be misconstrued as ‘whore?’”

  Cartier straightens her spine before her eyes drop to the diamond chain-link pendant nestled in the groove of my neck. “Some things are more valuable than titles. If you lose that, you lose them. Simple. A last name means nothing, and neither does the piece of paper stating it does. The law doesn’t tell you whom you belong to, darling; your heart does.”

  My heart breaks from the pure agony in her words. This was not my intention. I didn't come here to drag down her eminent personality I adore. I just want answers to questions I know she can provide.

  When I explain that to Cartier, she stops peering at my pendant to look at me. “Does Marcus know you're here?” .

  Missing a backbone, I shake my head.

  I thought my admission would pain her more. It doesn’t. The faintest smile creeps across her face as she says, “Oh, darling, you remind me so much of myself at your age. You revel in defiance. I’m just grateful you learned in weeks what took me years to work out.”

  “Learned what?”

  Brodie tries to deflect his curiosity with a sizeable yawn, but I'm not buying his attempts. He is not only listening to every word Cartier and I speak, but he is also digitally categorizing it for future use. Although interested in learning what he is planning to do with the information, my primary focus must remain on the task at hand. If I juggle too many balls, some will eventually fall. Considering every ball I'm juggling has immense sentimental value to me, I'm not willing to let one topple from my grasp. So, for now, I'll push aside Brodie's interest as purely inquisitiveness until each ball is safely placed back into my pocket.

  Cartier licks her lips before replying, "Rebelliousness keeps the flame flickering longer. Don't ever lose that, darling, because when you do, the remains of an overinflated balloon are never as pretty as they once were."

  I’m shunted into silence, confused by her statement. Brodie appears just as baffled as me, but instead of keeping his bewilderment to himself, he asks, “What does that mean?”

  Cartier shifts her eyes to Brodie. “Have you ever had someone who makes you feel so wonderful, you believe nothing could ever bring you down?”

  Brodie nods.

  "Imagine every compliment or precious thing they did for you was the equivalent of pumping air into your balloon. Once the balloon is at its greatest, there are only two things that can happen: it either pops or they let it float away. To some, popping the balloon you've worked so hard to inflate seems cruel. The balloon may have an opposing opinion. Why spend years growing something to its best only to let it float away the instant it reaches greatness?"

  When Cartier toys with the thin necklace I referred to earlier, I blurt out, “Did Henry give you your necklace?” before I can stop my words.

  Cartier's hand drops from her neck at a faster rate than my plummeting heart slithers into my stomach. The devastation brewing in her eyes with a rueful smirk cuts me raw. It's the same turmoil Marcus's eyes held when he noticed my cut lip after I was assaulted in the alley weeks ago.

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to pry,” I apologize with sincerity in my tone.

  Cartier accepts my apology with an air of grace. “Intellectual curiosity is the forefront of knowledge, Cleo, but idle gossip is the first step to hell. Perhaps you should remember that when you're prying into people’s lives.”

  “I am not prying,” I assure her, stunned by her statement.

  "You're a reporter arriving at my home with a vault of old news that was buried faster than it was built," Cartier fires back. "Is that not prying?"

  I nod, agreeing with her. She seems shocked by my obliging response. She shouldn’t be. Everything she said was true, so why would I deny it?

  "Yes, I am a reporter, and I did
disrespectfully present myself to you this morning as if I am here as your guest. But you can be assured, I am not here to break a story, Cartier; I'm here to stop one unjustly being broken. One I believe is very dear to your heart."

  A tense stretch of silence passes between us. I wouldn't necessarily say her silence is off-putting; it's more like she is generating her own reason for me arriving unannounced by reading the truth from my soul-baring eyes instead of listening to the words I spoke.

  Realizing there is only one way to gain her trust, I expose my most lethal hand. A spark of curiosity blazes in Cartier’s narrowed gaze when I take the printout of Keira’s injuries from my purse. The heat of Brodie’s body blooms across my chest when he leans in intimately close to my side as I carefully open the folded-up piece of paper.

  "Where the hell did you get that?" Brodie asks at the same time an exasperated gasp escapes Cartier's O-formed lips.

  Ignoring Brodie’s question, I keep my focus fixated on Cartier. “That’s Keira Herrington, a founding member of Chains.”

  Cartier remains quiet, neither denying or agreeing with my accusation. She doesn't need to speak for me to hear the words she is saying, though. Her forthright eyes reveal the truth.

  “This is also Keira.” I hand her the fresh printout I printed minutes before leaving my home—the one that shows Keira volunteering at one of the many charities Cartier founded.

  “And so is this one,” I add on, handing her the final photo of Keira and Mr. Carson when they were younger. Cartier gasps with even more shock over this image.

  "I don't know how, but I know these two are linked in some way.” I gesture my hand between the photo of Mr. Carson and Keira and the single ones of Keira. "If my hunch is right, Keira's injuries were the catalyst behind Global Tens' investigation into Chains. I just haven't worked out that link yet. I was hoping you'd help me."

  I sheepishly lift my eyes to Cartier. She is glancing straight at me with shock and dread tainting her beautiful face. “Chains is being investigated?” Her tone is high with disbelief.