by Ashley Lyn
“I love you, Becca.”
“I love you too, Tristan.”
TRISTAN
“Talk to me,” I say the second I get to the conference room, which thankfully someone cleaned.
Cash bites out, “Nothing! Fucking nothing!” He takes his hair out and his long brown hair falls around his face before he jerks it back up in a bun. “House is cleaned the fuck out. Charles has no other listed houses, and Brock’s place is the same thing, cleaned out. Called your contact in the FBI, said they’re aware of the situation.”
“Did he know anything about Rayleen?” I ask, rolling up my sleeves.
“He has, but they have bupkis. She sold the company, had a child and disappeared.”
“What the fuck? Seriously, it’s not like she just up and poofed into thin air,” Carter grinds out. I close my eyes because if Charles got Ray in the business deal for whatever fucked-up reason, found out the kid wasn’t his, she could very well could have poofed, just not in the way he’s referring. Everyone’s thinking the same thing, but not Carter.
“She isn’t fucking dead! I would know! I would fucking feel it, so get that shit out of your heads right fucking now.”
“Come on, think. Anything…family, friends whatever.” I look at Carter when I say this, hoping he might remember someone that Rayleen would have gone to.
“Charles King has a sister who lives in Florida in a nursing home, had a stroke two years ago. Brock also has a sister and a brother. Brother is incarcerated in Cannon City for attempted murder. Sister lives in Greeley and is racking up medical bills for breast cancer treatments.” Miranda puts her head on the table, barely able to keep her eyes open.
“Go talk to her, see if she has any information. Past employees of Charles’s? Household staff? House that size has to have had a staff of some kind. Go back eleven years, maybe a past employee will know something.”
Everyone has their marching orders. “Carter, we’re getting closer. Remember that this is more than we had in the last couple days. I’m calling Richardson, tell him what we got, find out what he knows. He can’t use anything Miranda got, but he might be able to point us in the right direction.”
Turning around, he stomps out the door. Pulling out my phone, I send a message to Bec.
Tristan: How are you feeling?
Becca: Starving to death!!!!!
Tristan: I promise, as soon as they give the all-clear for regular food, I’ll be there with tacos and cupcakes.
Becca: Promise?
Tristan: Yes, I promise, baby. How are you feeling? Other than your poor empty belly?
Becca: Sore, but good. Jace and I are watching Sixteen Candles.
Tristan: I’m sure he’s loving that.
Becca: He is.
Tristan: I love you, baby.
Becca: I love you too. Stay safe.
Putting in the call to Richardson, an old buddy of mine who works in the FBI, he answers right away.
“Richardson.”
“Todd.”
“Tristan, how are things?”
“Not good, my man. You know Carter? His girl Rayleen disappeared about eleven years ago. He’s trying to find her, and it looks like there’s a connection to Charles King. Rayleen told Carter she was marrying someone else, then just two days after that, she falls off the grid and sells her father’s shipping company to Charles King. Nine months later she had a baby, a little boy, listed Carter as the father. No sign of the boy or Rayleen since.” I take a minute to get my temper under control. “Four days ago, had my IT guru look into Rayleen. Two days later, someone broke into Carter’s sister’s house, my fiancée, and beat the crap out of her, telling her to tell Carter to stop looking for Rayleen. That person was Brock Harris.”
“Fuck, that guy is bad news. Warrants out all over the United States, an enforcer for anyone who pays. Dude is slippery as fuck, and no one’s been able to nail him down. The Rayleen thing, when we first started looking into Charles King, I was the one who looked into the sale of Reynolds and Son Shipping. Strong company. Rayleen Reynolds was groomed to run that company and was good at it. Followed the money, started in her accounts. It was then transferred three months later into the account of a dead woman.”
I’m confused beyond belief now. “A dead woman?”
“I would have to pull the files. It was looked into and disregarded. There was another signer on the account, woman was in rehab. The line got cold so I switched my focus. If you’re looking for Rayleen, my guess is that would be the line to follow.”
“I need access to CCTV cameras. Brock has a—”
“Range Rover. It was picked up yesterday morning outside a Motel 8. It had been broken into, radio ripped out. The thing was, it was cleaned. No prints, no hairs, nothing to even indicate the car was used by anyone. He does have a taste for the Range Rovers. If he stays in the area. we have a lookout at dealerships in the area. I’ll pull the files and get the info, accounts, and address to you.”
“Thanks, Rich.”
Not what I wanted to hear, but it’s something at least.
I hit the call button. “Miranda.”
“What!” she yells from across the hallway.
“Get your ass in here.”
She stomps in, pajama pants, monster slippers and a hoodie, hair looking like she jammed her finger into a light socket.
“Richardson is sending over files. In the meantime, he said Brock likes his Range Rovers. Look anywhere that might sell Range Rovers either in Denver or surrounding areas.”
“Sure, Tristan, that’ll be super easy,” She huffs, sarcasm dripping from her voice.
“Secondly, the money from the sale of Reynolds and Son Shipping.”
“There wasn’t any.”
“Not according to Richardson. Money was deposited into Rayleen’s accounts, then transferred into a dead woman’s account. The line stopped there so they stopped looking.”
She looks intrigued. “I would need account numbers.”
“He’s sending everything over on the Rayleen side of their investigation. In the meantime, I’m going to go looking for Charles fucking King.”
“You just going to go walking all over the damn city?”
“No.”
TRISTAN
We have a list of locations Charles is known for visiting. We split the list and gave everyone a different set. The list I’m working on is low on the priority list.
Locations he only visited once, sometimes twice, but were suspicious.
Every single one so far has been a bust. I’m at my apartment, cleaning up before I go back to the hospital. My phone rings as I pull up a fresh pair of jeans.
“Hello?”
“Tristan!”
I check my ear to make sure I’m not bleeding out.
“Someone was using the money, pulling cash out of the account monthly. This is a solid lead. I feel fucking great about this lead,” Miranda gushes.
“You said was?”
“Withdrawals stopped about three months ago.”
“Any word on Brock?”
“Negative. My guess is that an enforcer of his caliber gets paid the big bucks. He’ll probably buy that piece of ca-ca SUV for cash. What I don’t get is why that fucker registered the last one in his name? He’s never done that in the past, so it makes no fucking sense.”
“When do criminals ever make fucking sense?”
“Truth.”
“Can you see what location the cash was being taken out of? Is it on a schedule of some kind that we could stake out the location?”
“Yes. The money was withdrawn from an ATM in Minden, Nebraska.”
This throws me for a loop. “What the fuck is in Minden?”
“Not much, really. Tourist crap and such. It’s a little town.”
“Any connection to Ray? Family, friends, anything?”
“Not that I can tell. Three months is a long time. Not sure if we’ll get any footage of the person pulling it out.”
“Keep
me posted, and call Richardson, see if he can contact the bank.”
“Will do. I’ll call you and let you know what I find.”
“All right.”
Looking around my apartment, my brow furrows. This isn’t the kind of place I envisioned bringing my wife home to. Carrying her over the threshold of an apartment seems not as special, a place that thousands have stepped over.
It’s so far from the vision I had for myself. I hated the house that I had with Tess, ostentatious to the gills. Packed with so much snobbery and artifice, I was choking. I want a home, not a showboat, a place to make memories with my wife and children.
Snagging a shirt, I pull it on and text Becca.
Tristan: On my way. You need anything?
Becca: Southwest egg rolls from Chili’s, a pack of hair ties, and a sweet tea from McDonald’s.
Tristan: Random.
Becca: Also need duct tape, a set of pliers, and a bag of Fritos.
Tristan: I need you to do something for me.
Becca: Hit me, big guy.
Tristan: Start looking for our home.
Becca: I thought you had a pad?
Tristan: It’s an apartment, I want a home…for us
Becca: I can do that. (Yay)
Tristan: Be there soon, minus the food.
Becca: UGH! Love you, Pookie.
Tristan: Love you too.
Her blurry, watery eyes open and she looks at me. I see a tiny sliver of her striking blue eyes in a sea of purple and green bruising. Her nostrils are packed with gauze, making them look massive.
She still looks beautiful though.
“Who’re you?” she asks…I think. Her speech is slurred, and with her nose packed, she sounds like she’s talking through a tube.
“Your fiancée.”
“No fucking way!” She looks happy, then confused. “Have we had the meeting on genitals?”
I’m trying not to crack up laughing. “Yes, my love.” She bursts into tears. “Are you okay? Let me go get a nurse.”
“I’m fine,” she groans, “but I think someone shoved hot dogs up my nose, and I was saving my V card for my soul mate.”
“Who might that be?”
“His name is Tristan, and I love him. He’s so handsome. Also,” She holds her hands up like she’s cupping an ass, “he has an ass that makes you want to stop, drop and roll, it’s so fine.”
“Baby?”
“Yeah?”
“I am Tristan.” I smile at her mouth hanging open.
“You look like frozen-over shit, and you’re wearing plaid and jeans.”
“It’s been a rough couple days.”
Tears start to leak out of her eyes. “Why did you put smoked meat up my nose!” she wails.
“It’s not hot dogs, baby. You had to get your nose fixed.”
“Someone hit me,” she says, and I nod. “What a twatwaffle.” I can’t help it, I bust up laughing. “Are we really getting married?” she asks.
“Yes, darling.”
She brings up her hands and claps really quietly. “Yay,” she whispers.
“Tristan?”
My lips quirk. “What, babe?”
“My panties are splitting my vagina. Can you pull out my front wedge?”
Dropping my head into my hands, I cannot believe she just asked me that. Looking around, I don’t see any nurses, so I reach over and pull her panties out of her crotch. She gives a deep sigh and closes her eyes, then a snore is all I hear.
There’s a knock on the door. “Who’s there?” I call out, not sure if Becca wants a bunch of people seeing her all loopy. Then she pipes up when I thought she was sleeping.
“Ivana,” Becca says, her eyes still closed, and I smile.
“Ivana who?” I ask
“Ivana fuck your brains out.”
I see Carter standing in the doorway, looking shocked. “Jesus, Bec!”
“Carter?”
“Hey, baby sis.”
“Why are you here?” she asks, genuinely confused. I can see it hit Carter and he flinches.
“I came to check on you.”
“You did?” And here come the tears again. “Did you know I was getting married?”
“Yes.”
“To your best friend, Tristan!” She cracks up laughing and closes her eyes, and once again, she starts snoring.
I look at Carter, who’s laughing. “She’s having a hard time waking up.”
“How did it go?”
“Having Jace there was a godsend. I didn’t want to pack up her underwear and shit. But we got all her essentials packed and over to your place. Jace was unpacking when I left, and we brought over her dresser since she had so much shit.” She’s probably going to be pissed that we moved her into my apartment, but I have a doorman and a security system.
“Jace also packed all her perishable food and shit. She’d just gone grocery shopping.”
“Nice, I didn’t even think of that. He’s okay staying at my place for a while?”
“Yeah, he seems to like it.”
“Any word on Charles King or Brock?”
“No on both. Richardson called, said they contacted the bank, and the woman who pulled the money was always pretty covered up. The ATM is inside the building. They always noticed her because she had a hoodie and sunglasses on every time, but they haven’t seen her in months.”
“Could it be the woman who’s on the account?”
“Miranda looked into it and she moved to Connecticut, but she found the connection. Cheryl Barnes was in the same dorm as Rayleen. Took me a while to remember her. She was always as quiet as a church mouse. Surprised she was in rehab. Ray always made it a point to talk to her. How she got involved, we won’t know until the FBI agents in Connecticut can talk to her.”
“So not a dead end.”
We both jump when Becca starts talking. “Do you have any baseball pants?”
“No?” I’m confused.
“Where can we buy some?”
“I don’t know, a sports store? Why?”
“I vote that when you get home from work, you walk around shirtless and in baseball pants.”
“Go to sleep, Bec,” Carter tells her, his strangled laugh barely holding.
“I spent sixty-five dollars and one penny on a hundred and fifty condoms. I get up and around, we have some work to do, mister.”
“All right, that’s my cue to leave.” He gets up and kisses her forehead.
Bec is snoring again, so I lean back and close my eyes. I have a feeling I’m in for a long night.
BECCA
My fucking eyes are still watering after that hemorrhoid of a doctor pulled a ton of gauze out of my nose. I wanted to punch him in his nose so bad. I’m in the bathroom cleaning up and calming down after just being told I was moved into Tristan’s house and I had no say in it.
I’m a smart individual. Based on recent events, I would’ve had no issue with this if he would’ve asked and not told.
My feathers are ruffled. I’m trying to get dressed and it’s currently not going well. Trying to pull my panties up my legs with my toes would be funny if it wasn’t so sad.
“Baby, I’m coming in.” He opens the door and I do my best mean mugging look, which is difficult when your face is swelled up like a waterlogged pumpkin, and my face resemble a toddler’s fingers painting.
He kneels down and helps me get my panties up, then my yoga pants. He kisses both my knees and my snit wavers. We work together to get a large T-shirt on and me out of the bathroom.
“You know, I would have agreed to move in, no problem. Next time, just ask and give me the facts.”
Trying to pout when everything hurts sucks. My bag is packed and sitting on the bed, and now we’re just waiting for my discharge paperwork.
“Becca, I’ll do whatever it takes to keep you safe. I refuse to let anything else happen to you, I’m already kicking myself for allowing you to be hurt. I should’ve thought about it and put a man on you. I kno
w you’re cranky and sore, and I’m fine with that, just don’t be pissed at me for protecting that fine ass.” So gently, I barely feel his palms as he cups my face. “I love you, Becca.”
I sniffle, because he’s giving me a toothache with all this sweetness.
“You don’t fight fair.”
He kisses my forehead and the door slams open. Peeking over his shoulder, I cringe.
“Mom, couldn’t you have waited, like, five minutes? I was about to get some sugar.”
“Your salty ass needs all the sugar you can get. I’ll wait in the hallway.” She literally turns around and grabs a surprised Roger by the arm, dragging him back outside.
He kisses me softly. Anything more and I suffocate since I can’t breathe through my nose. But sugar is sugar.
“Mom!” For the last ten minutes, she’s been driving me crazy. Well, she’s been driving me nuts my whole life, but more so in the last ten minutes. Mom and Roger followed us to Tristan’s, or, I guess, I should be calling it home. I doubt the man will ever let me leave, not that I want to, mind you.
“When have you ever known me to be traditional?” I can barely spit that offensive word out, let alone allow my funky blue and blinged out wedding to be corrupted by boring crap.
“My dress is blue and sexy. I’m not wearing white because I’m no longer virginal. Ice blue is a perfect wedding color. Cupcakes are not juvenile, cupcakes are life! My bouquet will be made of buttons. Jace is my Man of Honor, and he isn’t carrying a bouquet of flowers, that’s just silly. And another thing! Marvin Gaye’s “Let’s Get It On” is a perfectly acceptable song for our first dance!”
She looks at me, completely exasperated. “The wedding favors?”
“Those are fucking brilliant!” My favors are beer koozies that say, “I came for the I do’s and stayed for the booze.” I laugh again, thinking about them.
“The programs?” Even Tristan thought that they were cool.
“Are also a brilliant addition to the awesomeness that is going to be my wedding.”
“Becca!” She holds up the one I printed out, waving it at me like when I was sixteen and she found the half-naked photo of Justin Timberlake I had shoved under my bed. “It says, “A practical guide to not falling asleep and figuring out what the hell is going on.”