by J. Kenner
“That car didn’t have a plate,” a thin woman with a stroller says. “That’s not legal.”
“That’s not legal?” I can hear incredulity in the skateboarder’s voice. “The fucker tried to run her down.” He flashes a crooked smile at me. “Probably some woman pissed off you’re nailing Saint and she isn’t.”
“Idiot,” another woman mumbles, and I swallow a nod of acquiescence. Except, of course, he could be right.
“Come on,” Lamar says. “I’m walking you home.”
I don’t resist when he takes my arm. We wait for the walk sign as the small crowd fawns over me, and I reassure them that I’m fine. I check and double-check the intersection before finally crossing the street with Lamar, then we start the slow climb up the hill toward Brandy’s house.
It’s dusk now, the area suffused with a hazy gray like a movie from the Forties. “Do you have any idea who that was?” Lamar asks.
I shake my head, but even as I do, I say, “Whoever’s been sending the texts, I assume.” I drag my fingers through my hair, then tell him about Joseph Blackstone.
He pauses by a lamppost as we reach the turn toward Brandy’s house. “But Devlin doesn’t think Blackstone knows he’s Alejandro Lopez?”
“Right. As far as he knows, Devlin is just Devlin Saint to Blackstone.”
“So what’s getting leaked in these breaches?”
“That I don’t know,” I tell him. “But the DSF works with law enforcement and rehab groups to help shut down criminal enterprises. Maybe he’s getting advance notice of raids?”
“Maybe,” Lamar says. “Only way to find out is to ask Devlin. Is he going to be pissed you told me this?”
I shake my head. “No. For one, he told me I could talk to you, and he didn’t put any parameters on that. And two, if that was Blackstone in that car, he’ll be happy with any help you can provide.”
“Fair enough. I’ll see what I can find out.”
“It might have been a drunk driver,” I say, wishful thinking running amok.
He looks down his nose at me, but doesn’t even bother to respond. Just starts walking again.
“I know. I know,” I say, falling in step beside him. “But the bigger point is that there’s no indication Blackstone knows who Devlin really is. But whoever is sending the texts clearly does.”
“Are you sure they do?”
I pause. “What do you mean?”
“The texts only say Devlin is dangerous, right? Have any of them suggested he has a secret identity?”
I think back, then shake my head.
“So maybe this Joseph has it in for Devlin, and you seem like a good way to get at him.”
I frown, but don’t respond. It’s an interesting theory.
“You carrying?”
I shake my head, gesturing to the tiny crossbody that holds my phone, a credit card, and an emergency fifty. I’d told Devlin I was armed, but I didn’t technically mean at that moment.
He rolls his eyes. “You have a permit. Carry your damn weapon.”
I don’t argue since I don’t disagree.
When we reach the house, I head inside, then set the alarm. Brandy doesn’t always bother with it, often arming it only when we go to bed. Now, I want it permanently on.
“Brandy? You home?”
“Coming!” She appears almost simultaneously with the word. “Hey, I was going to meet Christopher for a drink later, but—”
She cuts herself off, frowning as she looks between Lamar and me. “What’s wrong?”
I glance at Lamar. “Will you fill her in? I think there’s a bruise on my ass. I want to check it out.”
“Okay, now I really want to know,” Brandy demands, her words directed toward Lamar as I head to my room. Sure enough, there’s what’s sure to be a doozy of a bruise rising on one ass cheek. Great. But as far as I can tell, that’s my only injury. Even my palms are fine, despite aching a bit. I don’t specifically remember, but I’m sure I must have used them—and my butt—to stop my fall.
When I come back, I bring my gun. As soon as I’ve put it down, Brandy tosses her arms around me. “You’re really okay?”
“I’m fine. I swear.”
“What’s Devlin say?”
“I haven’t told him yet.”
She grimaces. “I’m new to the boyfriend thing, but even I know you’re breaking the rules by not telling him.”
“I know. I’m not keeping it from him, but he’s in Vegas dealing with some important stuff, and I don’t want to distract him. You guys are here, and I’m safe.” I can tell Brandy’s about to argue, so I hold up a hand. “Really. He has shit to deal with. I’ll tell him tomorrow when I see him. Right now, I just want that wine.”
“Red or white?” Brandy asks, and I choose a Pinot Noir. “How about you?” she asks Lamar, who shakes his head.
“I completely forgot,” I tell him, an apology in my voice. “You’ve got a date. Go,” I say. “I’m fine.”
He studies my face, as if looking for hidden signs that I’m about to break down. I cock my head. “Seriously? You know me. I don’t get spooked easily. The house has an alarm, and I’ve got a gun. And whoever tried to run me down is a coward anyway. Tinted windows. No plates. That’s not someone who’s going to risk getting seen by the neighbors.”
“I’ll stay with her,” Brandy says, as if none of my speech means a thing. “I was supposed to go out with Christopher tonight, but he had to bail.”
“I’m sorry,” I say. “What’s up?”
She shook her head. “Not sure. He said he was having a bad day. I think he’s having trouble with the book, so, you know, I figured I wouldn’t bug him about it.”
“If you’re sure,” Lamar says. “Because I can rearrange, too. Or I can have Tracy come here and we can all watch a movie. Seriously, whatever you need.”
“I know,” I say, moving close to give him a hug. “But I’m really fine. Now go. Brandy and I are doing girl talk.”
Lamar flashes a toothy smile. “Oh, sugar, you know I can stay for that.”
I roll my eyes. “Go. Before I tell Tracy what a pain in the ass you can be.”
“You love me.”
“Only because I’m an idiot.”
He pulls me into a tight hug. “You be careful,” he whispers.
“Thanks for saving my ass.”
He kisses me on the forehead, looks me up and down, then backs away. “Take care of her,” he says to Brandy.
“Always,” she replies with a wave. “You do think it’s safe, right?” she asks once he’s out the door and we’ve re-armed the system.
“We’re armed and locked in tight with 911 on speed dial. We’re fine,” I say as we settle on the couch. “And I don’t want to think about it anymore, much less talk about it. Tomorrow, I’m doubling down to figure out who this fucker is. Tonight, we chill. Okay?”
“Sure. No problem.” She bites her lower lip.
“What?”
“Is it okay if we talk about Christopher while we’re chilling?”
“Of course! By the way, what does he drive?”
Her eyes go wide “Wait, what? You don’t think—”
“No, no!” I hurry to reassure her. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t think about how that would sound. I just have cars on my mind.”
Her shoulders sag as she visibly relaxes. “An Audi,” she says. “And, he always opens my door for me, which I like. I don’t care if I’m a disappointment to womankind the world over.”
“I like it, too,” I admit. “But only because I also get to be on top.”
She pretends to be offended by my crudeness, but I use it as a natural segue. “Well?”
She reaches over and grabs for her wine, then downs the rest of the liquid. I settle back, realizing this means the conversation is about to get real.
“You guys talked while I was in with Devlin,” I guess.
She nods, then shakes her head. “We chatted, and I wanted to talk. About, well, you know. Bu
t it wasn’t exactly ideal surroundings with all his musty boxes of research and his plot bothering him. He was so distracted—I mean totally in his head.”
“Probably good you didn’t bring it up. You need a cheese plate and a bottle of wine for that kind of talk.”
“Exactly. I was going to talk with him tonight, but…” She trails off with a shrug, then meets my eyes. “Actually, this is better. You can help me figure out what to say.”
“That’s what I’m here for.” I shift on the sofa, tucking one leg under me. “So you want to…”
“Yeah,” she says, after releasing a deep breath. “I want to. It’s just…”
She trails off with a shrug, then visibly searches for words. “Okay, it’s like this. He knows I’ve been hesitant, so he’s not going to push. Except now I think maybe I want him to push.” She meets my eyes, hers imploring. “So how do I make him push?”
I try not to let my smile grow too broad “You’re going to have to actually talk to him, I’m afraid.”
She groans. “I’m terrible at that.”
“No,” I assure her. “You’re not.”
She pulls her knees up and hugs her chest, mimicking my earlier position. For a moment she says nothing, then, “I’m nervous.”
I take her empty wine glass from her and put it on the table before taking her hands. “I’m not surprised that you’re nervous, but you’ll know if it’s right.”
“I only—I mean I’m twenty-eight, and I’ve only slept with one guy. Two guys if you count the one I don’t remember, which I don’t. And as for Billy...”
I nod sympathetically as she trails off. The only guy she’d slept with willingly had been a terrible lover with no patience for her fears and issues. He hadn’t hurt her, but it hadn’t been good for her, either. “Come on, Brandy. You just have to find the one who’s right for you. Who’s patient and sweet and isn’t in it only for sex, but because he wants to be with you.” I study her face but see only a mixture of confusion and terror.
“Hey,” I say, squeezing her fingers. “Christopher seems like a great guy, but you don’t have to move fast if you don’t want to.”
“I know. And I do want to. But it’s gotten so much bigger than it really is now that I’ve waited so long.” She offers me a smile. “I would say you got lucky early on,” she tells me. “But even with you and Alex, it hasn’t exactly been easy. You have him back, except it’s not really him. Except it is. And now you’ve got a freaky texter to deal with. It’s like you two are cursed.”
“Thanks,” I say dryly.
“Yeah, I know. It sucks. But don’t worry. In the stories, the girl always wins the prince.”
I force a smile, but keep my thoughts to myself. Because even though it’s nice of Brandy to say, my life has never been anything like a fairy tale.
Chapter Twenty-Six
“Did my notes come through okay?” I ask Roger. It’s not quite noon, and I’ve spent the morning organizing my research on the Peter article and icing my sore rear end. I sent a summary over an hour ago, and since I hadn’t heard back, I’d taken the initiative and decided to harass my boss.
Normally I wouldn’t bother calling, but since I plan to focus on the Myers investigation for a bit, I want to make sure that he’s set with the Peter project.
“I’ve skimmed them, but I’m going to read more closely later today,” he assures me. “Meanwhile, you got a PC?”
“Lamar snagged a laptop for me. I’m going to set up an email account and forward that URL in a little bit. Cross your fingers there’s something there and not a link to porn.”
I make a face, because considering the creativity of spammers these days, that’s probably a legit possibility.
“Crossed,” he assures me. “And thanks for talking to Corbin yesterday. I got his article this morning, and he did your research proud.”
I grunt, and he laughs. “I should lock you two in a room until you make nice.”
“But we both get so much satisfaction out of our mutual dislike.”
“Can’t argue with that,” Roger says. “And for the record, we miss you here. Or, at least, I miss you. Well,” he continues, humor lacing his voice, “I miss Shelby.”
“You realize that it’s totally unfair that I can’t call you an asshole since you’re my boss.”
“Pity that,” he says. “We should talk about working out some sort of shared custody agreement. When I agreed to let you work from the West Coast, I forgot about Shelby.”
“You wish.” For the last three years, I’d been keeping Shelby garaged at his house since parking in Manhattan was well beyond my means.
“You can always do what my father did,” I suggest. “Find yourself a ’65 Shelby Cobra in need of some TLC and get to work.”
At the other end of the line, I hear him chuckle. “Too bad I don’t have your father’s particular skillset.”
“Ha. Even my dad didn’t have that skillset. Or Peter. Read the notes. The mechanic didn’t know much, but he mentioned a girlfriend. I haven’t tracked her down—and I had no idea Peter dated anyone—but I’m hoping if I poke hard enough, someone in town will have a lead. And if it turns out that she was more than a sidepiece—like if she was dealing or working for The Wolf or anything like that—the story will get that much more interesting.”
“And you’re okay with that?”
“The part about my mom knocked me for a loop,” I admit. “But I’m trying to step back and look at it as a story. I’ll add in the personal bits when I write it up, but if I’m going to keep a clear head while researching then I need to compartmentalize. You taught me that.”
“And you learned well. I’m proud of you, kid.” He pauses. “How are things with you and Saint?”
It’s an interesting transition considering my relationship with Devlin had almost gotten me fired and had definitely lost me a byline. “We’re great,” I assure him.
“No regrets about staying in Cali?”
“It’s been about five minutes,” I remind him. “But nope. No regrets at all. And I don’t foresee any coming.”
“I’m happy for you, kid. You want me to stay online while you set up that computer?”
“And let you hear me cursing at all the crap that’ll go wrong when I try to set up an email account? No, thank you. I’ll call or email an update later.”
We agree that’s a plan, and as soon as we end the call, I refill my coffee and settle in to work. I have the place to myself—and I’m locked down tight. Brandy’s in LA doing stuff in the garment district, but she’s checked in twice. Lamar came by on his way to his shift, and has texted three times. Devlin, who still doesn’t know about the Range Rover, has pinged me twice to say he’s thinking of me. And as much as I love my friends, it’s Devlin’s messages that make me smile the most.
Since I don’t want to do anything related to the Terrance Myers email at Brandy’s house or on her network, I head down to Brewski so that I can use their free Wi-Fi. I know Brandy and Lamar are going to be annoyed if they realize I went out, but I’m not inclined to be a shut-in. Besides, I’m in Shelby instead of walking, the seating at Brewski is outdoors and very public, and this time I have my gun in my purse.
All rationalizations, but the truth is that I like the idea of going out and then coming home safe. Because seriously, when have I not taken the opportunity to give danger the middle finger?
Within the hour, I have the new laptop set up and connected to Brewski’s network. Next, I create a new email address for Nosey Parker, a name I picked because Gmail requires you to put in a name and other identifying information. Which, in this case, is absolutely fake.
The account has no ties to my name or any of my usual passwords. Then, because I’m seriously paranoid, I create a second fake email account. This one I call Flat Earth, for no reason other than an utter lack of imagination on my part. I write a few emails from Flat Earth to Nosey Parker, and they show up just fine.
When I open my real laptop
, I glance around, expecting people to be looking curiously at the woman with two computers at a coffee shop. But nobody pays attention. That’s the benefit of living in a tech-centric world. I could have two computers, a tablet, a cell phone, and a portable printer on this tiny table and no one would even bat an eye.
I pull up my work email on my real computer, then forward the anonymous Terrance Myers email to the Flat Earth address. Once it shows up there, I forward it on to Nosey Parker.
And then, when it arrives in Nosey’s account, I finally—finally, click that URL, then cross my fingers as I hope that I didn’t just jump through all of those hoops for nothing.
The connection is ridiculously slow, and I tap my finger impatiently on the tabletop as the bar indicating the site’s loading moves with the speed of a snail across the screen
Finally, the site pops up. There’s text above an embedded video, currently paused. All I can see is an image of the Hastings Bank building and the blue arrow I need to click to play.
I use the trackpad to put the mouse in place as I read the short note:
Drone footage caught something interesting. Check the timestamp. Just a few hours before the assassination of Terrance Myers. Two figures rappelling down. Test run before the main event. Don’t let the fuckers get away with it. That’s not justice, it’s murder.
I read it twice, then even though I took a table where my back would be against Brewski’s exterior wall, I check for anyone looking over my shoulder. Because this is big—like holy fucking shit big—and there is no way in hell I’m going to lose a potential scoop of this magnitude.
Assuming, of course, that the video is what my mysterious benefactor says it is.
Please, I think. Please be real.
I draw a breath, then click play.
I watch, breathless, as the drone circles the bank building, finally focusing in on two figures rappelling down the side, just as I’d imagined it was done. As far as the police knew, there was only one person who descended the building at the time of the assassination, so I assume that the sender is correct and this is a test run.