Bell went silent.
“Hello?” Kadir said. “Are you still there?”
Bell tightened his grip on his cell phone.
“Agent Bell?”
“Yeah. I’m still here,” he responded through gritted teeth.
“Good. I need to speak with your supervisor or director first.”
“I don’t know, Kahlifa. That’s a pretty tall order, seeing how—given your circumstances. The higher-ups are in a more ‘shoot first and ask questions later’ kind of mood.”
Silence.
“Believe it or not, I’m the closest thing you have to a friend here at the agency.”
“Then I choose not to believe that,” Kadir said.
The veins along Bell’s temples bulged and pulsed. “It’s up to you if you want to come in quietly to rectify this situation—or you can come in a body bag. It really doesn’t matter to me. Your choice.”
“You’re not offering me a whole hell of a lot of assurance. Given how you feel about me.”
“Trust me. There are no feelings involved. I’m just doing my job. And I’m damn good at it.”
Silence.
Bell’s grip hardened. “Kadir?”
“I’ll stay in touch.”
“Kadir,” Bell snapped, feeling his opportunity slip. “Don’t be stupid. You want to turn yourself and the girl in.”
Silence.
“Kadir?”
“Here’s the thing,” Kadir said. “I don’t trust you.”
“That’s unfortunate,” Bell said. “Because if you run . . . I’m going to have to put you down.” A grin finally returned to his tight mouth.
Another silence lapsed over the line before Kadir responded, “I’ll keep that in mind.”
Click.
Shawn White opened his eyes at Hadley Memorial Hospital.
Weeping, Draya, Tivonte, and Julian all leapt up from the few chairs gathered around and rushed to his bedside.
“Oh my God!” Draya gripped his right hand despite the butterfly needle and tubes springing out of it. “It’s a miracle.”
Confused, Shawn blinked several times before his vision cleared. “Heeeeeey,” he said, forcing on a smile. In the next second, he was swept up into a coughing frenzy that seemed to set his chest on fire.
“It’s okay. It’s okay,” Draya soothed, and then she barked at others, “Water! Somebody get him some water.”
At the same time, Julian and Tivonte spun toward the only table in the room—where bundles of flowers, a phone, and pitcher of water sat. Julian held the plastic cup while Tivonte poured.
Once the water was passed to Draya, she pressed the cup to Shawn’s parched lips. “Careful. Careful,” she coached. “Take your time.”
Shawn heeded her words, realizing how the cool water soothed his throat. However, the burning in his chest and gut remained. After draining the cup, he dropped his head back against the pillows and chugged pure oxygen for a full minute.
“How are you feeling?” Draya asked, fretting.
“I’m feeling . . . pretty fucked up—but grateful to be alive,” he admitted.
Tivonte edged closer to the bed, his long mink lashes crooked as he batted them. “What is the last thing that you remember?”
Shawn frowned as he struggled to remember. The patchwork images were confusing at first, but then it all flooded back to him. “Bree,” he gasped, springing forward.
“Whoa. Whoa. Whoa.” The three friends placed a restricting hand against his chest.
“And where do you think you’re going?” Draya asked, taking over as mother hen. “Do you have any idea how long it took for the doctors to put Humpty Dumpty back together again? Nuh-uh. You’re going to lay right back down here and rest so your body can heal.”
“Where’s Bree?”
Draya placed a silencing finger against her lips. The friends looked at each other.
Julian rushed to the hospital door and glanced outside. “It’s clear,” he whispered, but when he crept back toward the bed, he added, “But probably not for long.”
Impatient, Shawn attempted to get back out of bed. “You don’t understand. She’s in trouble.”
Draya was having none of it. “Trust me. We do understand,” she said, pushing Shawn back down. “The entire country is looking for Bree.”
At Shawn’s pinched face, she continued, “She’s wanted for murder. They think that she killed a very important political guy.”
“I know,” Shawn said. “Well—not who she killed. Uh. She told me this . . . story about a john from that masquerade party Friday night.”
“What did she say?” Julian asked.
Shawn hesitated. He struggled to recall the story—or, to be frank, still grappled with whether he believed her. But at his friends’ anxious faces, he repeated Bree’s story.
One by one, he saw the same disbelief creep across their faces.
When Shawn finished, Tivonte settled a fist against his right hip. “What the hell was she on this time?”
Shawn groaned, closing his eyes. “I didn’t believe her either,” he said, regretfully.
“Uh.” Tivonte glanced around the small group. “I can’t front. The shit sounded suspect to me, too. Especially since we’ve all seen the pictures from Hay-Adams circulating on the news every hour on the hour.”
Julian nodded and added, “You mean, especially when the dead dude in question is like second in line to the presidency. Fuck. When the government gets their hands on our girl, they’re going to put her and that hottie she’s playing Bonnie and Clyde with up under the jail.”
At Shawn’s look of confusion, they realized it was their turn to fill Shawn in on the video of Abrianna and this suspected terrorist engaged in an epic shootout. It had gone viral around the country.
To Shawn, it seemed as if the whole world had gone crazy. “So they got away?” he asked.
None of them heard Castillo enter the room or witnessed her silently listening by the door. She spooked them when she finally spoke up. “She’s gotten away—for now.”
Everyone’s heads whipped around.
The former lieutenant unfolded her arms and waved to Shawn. “Hello. Remember me?”
Shawn did remember but didn’t wave or smile back. “Make a habit of listening to private conversations, do you?”
Castillo smirked and bobbed her head. “Yes. Actually, I do.” She casually strolled to the side of the bed. “You’d be surprised how much information one can glean when people think that no one is listening.” She smiled. “Regardless, it’s good to see you again—still among the living.”
“What can I do for you, Lieutenant?”
“Well, actually. I’m not a cop anymore,” she informed him. “I’m a private investigator now.”
“Really?”
“Yep. And once again, I’m looking for Abrianna.”
“Why? So you can turn her over to your old friends?”
“So I can help her,” Castillo corrected. “Your friends are right—Abrianna is in a lot of trouble. If you care about her, which I know that you do, you’ll help me.”
Shawn evaluated her sincerity, but in the end he had to break it to her. “Sorry. But I have no idea where she is.”
Castillo nodded, waited, then asked, “You said that you didn’t believe Abrianna’s story . . . about waking up next to a dead guy. How about now?”
Shawn lifted his chin. “I’m lying in this bed—because somebody tried to kill her. So yeah. I believe her.”
Castillo nodded. “Good. I do too.”
That admission received surprised looks.
“I can’t say that I understand everything that’s going on. But my natural conspiracy-theorist mind thinks that whoever did murder Speaker Reynolds either didn’t know Abrianna was there or . . .”
“Thought she was already dead,” Julian said, thinking aloud.
The group looked at him.
“C’mon. Think about it,” he said to his friends. “We always have to do
uble-check that she’s breathing when she’s asleep. The shit is fucking creepy.”
Castillo frowned, not understanding.
Julian continued along Castillo’s conspiracy theory. “If the killer thought Abrianna was already dead, they must have been damn surprised when she woke and sprinted out of there. That’s why they showed up at Abrianna’s place, gun blazing. To finish the job.”
The rest of the group started nodding along.
“It explains the high-speed chase,” Castillo added before reaching into her jacket and pulling out pictures that she’d bribed Holder’s forensic team for and now placed on Shawn’s lap.
Shawn glanced around and then hit the power button on the bed that elevated his upper body so that he could take a better look.
“These are the men that were killed at Abrianna’s apartment—not too far from where you were lying. And these two men were pretty mangled after the car chase across town. Do you recognize any of them?”
Shawn stared at the pictures and then back at Castillo.
Patiently, she waited. The other three friends wreathed around the bed had already given her their answers the day before. The typical: they didn’t know anything, see anything, or hear anything. She hoped that Shawn, given their previous history, however brief, would trust her more. “Do you know them?” she asked again.
He swallowed hard, debated. “You’re going to help her?”
“I’m going to do all that I can.”
The room fell silent. “I’ve seen that guy,” Shawn confessed, pointing to one of the pictures from the apartment.
“Yeah?”
Shawn nodded. “He . . . works for this major street kingpin. He’s known as the Teflon Don. Ever heard of him?”
“Zeke Jeffreys?” Castillo questioned.
Shawn nodded, but Castillo’s confusion remained. “And why would Zeke’s guys try to kill Abrianna? Was she dealing or something?”
Shawn sighed and then said, “Maybe you should pull up a chair. This might take a while.”
45
Abrianna tossed and turned throughout her fevered nightmare. Everywhere she turned, she felt evil’s razor-sharp claws slash across her body. She screamed, terrified. Visions of her being strapped and tied to a pole and then spun over a fiery pit filled her head. In the distance, she could hear maniacal laughter, but she couldn’t make out where it came from.
“Please! Let me go,” she shouted and begged. Hot tears scalded while they streaked across her face. The more tears she shed, the louder the laughter grew. Her pain had never meant anything to anyone. Hadn’t she learned that lesson already?
The pole turned, spinning her over a growing pit of fire. The closer the flames came toward her face, the louder she screamed and fought to get loose. Somewhere in the recesses of her mind, she knew this torture wasn’t real. It couldn’t be. If she could just wake up, she would be able to prove it.
But no matter how loud she got, the torture went on forever.
“Wake up! Please!”
The fire singed every hair on her body while her skin blistered and curdled. Surely, she was cooking from the inside out. Her grip on reality waned. Maybe this horror was really happening. She would die roasting on this spit and there was nothing that she could do about it.
“Pleeeaassee. Wake up,” she sobbed.
“There. There. Everything is going to be all right,” a voice soothed from the great beyond.
For a brief, miraculous moment, something cool pressed against her forehead. She attempted to lean into it, but the coolness disappeared as fast as it came. The fire below resumed its endless torture.
“Noooo. Please,” she cried.
The voice and the cool touch returned. “It’s all right. It’s all right.”
She sighed, too exhausted to build up hope. But soon the fire retreated, crackling so far below her that she could no longer see it. The tears blanketing her face cooled. At long last, Abrianna tumbled into a deep sleep where she thought of nothing and no one.
Madam Nevaeh put on a brave face when the cops finally showed up at her door. At this point, she’d been expecting them. Too many guests from her masquerade party had placed Speaker Reynolds at her home Friday night for the department to ignore. Those same guests were calling in droves canceling their RSVPs for her next event. It was no surprise. It would be hard for business to rebound as long as there was a taint of homicide associated with her—just as she’d tried to explain to Zeke.
The police kept the questions light. Yes, Reynolds had attended her party, but she had no idea whom he’d brought or left with. When presented with a picture of Abrianna racing from the hotel, she feigned ignorance.
But when the cops left, the FBI showed up. Handling beetle-eyed Bell and his humongous partner was more difficult. For the first forty minutes, Bell treated her like she’d set up Speaker Reynolds for the hit job and hinted more than a couple of times that he knew exactly what and who she was and wasn’t buying for a second that she had nothing to do with Abrianna. But he was definitely more interested in the suspected terrorist that Abrianna had been captured on video getting into an SUV with. On that point, Madam Nevaeh was sure that her innocent performance worked because she really didn’t have any idea about any of that bombing bullshit.
Finally, when Bell was completely red-faced with veins bulging everywhere, Special Agent Hendrickson stepped up and reeled in his partner. Madam Nevaeh didn’t know the dynamics between the two men, but she knew people. And these two didn’t like each other. She also held no illusions and knew that the agents hadn’t bought all of her story, but she didn’t care either. She just wanted them out of her house.
They left.
But then there was a third knock on her door and Henry ushered a private detective into the salon.
“My goodness, who’s next?” she asked, unable to contain her annoyance.
“Hello,” Castillo greeted her. “Ms. Ellison?”
Nevaeh blinked at the casual use of her government name. “Yes?”
“Hi. I’m Gizella Castillo. I’m a private detective. Mind if I take a few minutes of your time? A mutual friend thought you may be able to help me.”
“What mutual friend?”
“Here. Why don’t you say hi?” Castillo held out her smartphone so that Nevaeh could see Shawn White, grinning and waving from his hospital bed. “Hey, girl. You’ve been naughty.”
“What’s this?” Nevaeh’s eyes snapped back to Castillo. “What’s going on? Did . . . Abrianna send you here?”
Castillo smiled. “So you do know Abrianna Parker?”
Nevaeh bristled at her mistake. “Look. I don’t have to answer any of your questions. I don’t even know who you work for.”
Shawn took exception to her trying to dismiss him. “I’m looking for my friend. If you want me to come back with the cops . . . or the FBI, I can.”
Nevaeh crossed her arms. “What do you want?”
“Who was the other girl?” Shawn asked.
Madam Nevaeh stared at him like he’d grown a second head. “What other girl?”
“Bree said that another woman showed up at the hotel that night, but when she woke up, the woman was gone . . . and that Reynolds dude was dead.”
“And you fucking believed that?” Nevaeh laughed. “Then how about you check out this nice little bridge that I’m selling in Brooklyn?”
Castillo cocked her head. “Why would she make up something like that?”
“What the hell do you expect a murderer to do, confess? What? Do you think life is like an episode of CSI? Abrianna killed that man, and if she thinks that she can somehow implicate me, then she has another think coming.”
“What? You’re going to send Zeke to kill me?” Shawn challenged and then jerked up his shirt so she could see his bandaged midriff. “Again?”
Madam Nevaeh thrust up her chin.
“Yeah. Your henchman sent his hit squad to Abrianna’s house while I was there. Your guys tried to knock her off bef
ore the cops got to her, didn’t you?”
“No.”
“Liar!”
“What damn difference does it make?” the madam snapped, only slowly realizing what she’d said. “I want you to leave my house—now!”
Castillo took a seat.
“That’s not going to happen.”
“Don’t think I won’t call the police.”
“Call them,” Castillo dared. “Tell Chief Holder that I’ll need to move our dinner date back from seven to eight though when you do.”
Nevaeh glared.
Baby yelped, startling Nevaeh. She released the Yorkie, and he rocketed out of the room. “All right. What do you want? I don’t know anything about another girl showing up, and I don’t have any idea where Abrianna is right now. And I’m sorry that you got shot. Maybe you should reconsider the type of people you call friend?”
“You’re lying,” Shawn insisted.
“Believe what you want to believe,” the madam dismissed him. “I really don’t give a damn.”
46
For two days, Tomi’s front-page article identifying her former basement roommate as the leading suspect in Speaker Reynolds’s murder case made her a complete rock star on Capitol Hill. Martin Bailey beamed and strutted like a peacock around the office while the rest of her colleagues congratulated her to death. When the cable networks and talk radio programmers started calling, she realized that she had arrived.
Now, as she sat in the green room, while an intern who doubled as a makeup artist powdered the shine off of her face and Jayson told her how great she was going to be, the first wave of doubt crashed over her like a tidal wave. All platitudes went in one ear and out the other.
As airtime approached, simple things—like her name—became a blank in her mind.
Then: Showtime.
She was quickly escorted onto the set, where a microphone was pinned to her blouse. The host, Greg Wallace, smiled while his makeup was being touched up. His hair, which Tomi inwardly bet wouldn’t move an inch in an F5 tornado, was left alone.
Before she knew it, they were being counted down from commercial break and Wallace welcomed everyone to the show.
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