He Will Be My Ruin

by K. A. Tucker

  I fix my smile in place and duck back out to the living room, to find that the lights have dimmed and a low lull of music plays on the surround system. Jace stands by the coffee table with two freshly poured glasses of red wine.

  “Anything more to discuss in the office?” If I can just get a look inside that cardboard box . . .

  “If you can’t see that I’m the best person to handle your money then I don’t know what else to say to you.” I guess that officially concludes the professional part of the night. But I can’t leave yet, because I need to see inside that damn cardboard box.

  The tiny pill vial that contains two crushed Ambien weighs heavily in the pocket of my pants. It’s now or never, because as soon as Carla leaves, I won’t have any excuses to stay without looking like I want a repeat of the elevator, and then some.

  But I didn’t see him pour my glass and, maybe I’m overly paranoid, but Ruby’s warning plays loudly inside my head. “Where’s that painting from?” I point toward the large courtyard picture hanging on the wall behind him, forcing him to turn around. I quickly swap our wineglasses.

  “Paris. I did an exchange there during my undergrad.” He gazes at it admiringly. “I miss it. Have you ever been?” Leaning down, he collects his glass. Bright blue eyes study me through a sip.

  “Twice. I prefer the French countryside to the city, though.”

  His gaze dips to my mouth. “Why doesn’t that surprise me?” I sense him leaning forward, and I’m caught in a split second of panic that he’s going to kiss me and I’m going to have to let him.

  “Mr. Everett,” Carla calls from the kitchen doorway. “Un momento?”

  I stifle my sigh of relief.

  “I’ll be back in a sec,” Jace says, setting his glass down and giving my elbow a light squeeze as he passes by me.

  This will be my only chance.

  With one eye on them, Jace’s back to me as he gives Carla his attention, I unscrew the cap and dump the powder into his glass, swirling it with my finger to help it dissolve. My heart is pounding so hard in my chest that I’m afraid he can hear it.

  God, I hope this works.

  “So, how long will you be in New York City?” he asks, returning to the living room and his wine. “The last time we talked about it, it sounded like you’d only be here for a few days.”

  “It’s taking longer than I expected to clear out Celine’s things.” Any chance to use her name, I’ll take.

  His eyes drift to the Persian rug under our feet. I hold my breath as he brings the glass to his lips. Is that . . . ? A bolt of panic shoots through me as I notice the small particles floating along the surface.

  He takes a long sip.

  I peel my eyes from his mouth and turn away to wander toward the floor-to-ceiling windows and look out at the night sky, all the while watching his reflection in the glass.

  “So, how did your friend die?” he finally asks.

  “She killed herself.”

  “I’m sorry.” There’s a long pause, as I watch his reflection frown at the floor. “Do you know why she did it?”

  “I’m still trying to figure that part out.”

  He nods slowly, cradling the bowl of his glass within his fingers. “Sometimes there is no answer good enough.”

  I wonder how long it will take for the Ambien to work. Will it even work? If not, and Jace tries something on me, I’ll leave.

  And I’ll never know if he has Celine’s dragon vase in that box.

  I need to keep him talking so he doesn’t have time to try anything on me before the sleeping pills take effect. “Do you see yourself ever leaving New York?”

  “Not anytime soon. Maybe in a few years, when I find the right woman and settle down.”

  I wonder if he’ll still pay for prostitutes when that happens.

  “Where will you go?”

  He slowly rounds the coffee table, approaching me from behind in a casual stroll. “Oh, probably the Cape. I have an investment property out there right now.” As he gets closer to me, I begin moving away.

  “Cape Cod? That’s nice. Tell me about it.” I edge around the space, fingering the large tropical leaves of a philodendron. A thin sheen of sweat coats the back of my neck. I’m not cut out for espionage.

  He begins describing the beach house—it sounds lovely—and I pretend to be interested, inserting suitable questions about it whenever there’s a second’s lull, all the while keeping a comfortable distance from him, until it begins to feel a bit like a game of cat and mouse.

  Eventually he must have gotten tired of playing the cat, because he wanders back over to take a seat on the couch.

  And yawns. A blip of hope spikes in me.

  “What about you? How long do you see yourself saving the world?”

  “Until the world doesn’t need saving anymore.” In truth, I haven’t set an expiration date. There may come a time when I want something else more, when I’d rather stay on the sidelines of San Diego’s suburbs and help my own children learn how to read and swim. But without a suitable partner, I don’t see that happening anytime soon.

  He chuckles. “That’s quite the commitment.”

  Another yawn sneaks out as he lifts and stretches his arm along the back of the couch. I can only hope that the Ambien kicks in soon. I do have to give him some credit, though. He hasn’t just assumed that the incident in the elevator granted him automatic access to me tonight.

  “So tell me about your firm. I read that your father was a founding partner before he retired so he could run for governor?”

  “Yeah. He helped build FCM from the ground up. It was bittersweet when he decided to step away, but like he always says, ‘When you conquer a challenge, it’s time to move on to another one.’ ” Jace begins talking about the rise of Dale Everett, first as a private sector businessman and then as the most powerful government official in the state. His yawns grow more frequent as he talks.

  “I’m so sorry. Red wine sometimes does this to me.”

  I smile, and it’s genuine but for all the wrong reasons.

  Rubbing his eyes, he murmurs, “I may have to call an early night on you.”

  Shit. That’s not part of the plan.

  Swallowing my pride, I edge over to take a seat on the couch. “Come here.” I set a pillow on my lap and then tug his arm.

  A sly smile curls his lips, but he doesn’t complain, resting his head on the pillow and stretching out along the couch on his back. He closes his eyes as I weave my fingers through hair that is too soft and silky to be on a man’s head. “I can’t say I’ve ever done this with a client before.”

  “I guess we’ve broken a few rules then, haven’t we?”

  “I can’t seem to get a handle on you, Maggie,” he murmurs. “One minute you’re slamming me over that day in the elevator, the next you’re inviting yourself over for dinner at my house.”

  “I like to be unpredictable.”

  “Is being nice not an everyday occurrence for you?” His eyelids are becoming heavy, even as he smiles up at me.

  “I’m a hard person to win over again if you’ve pissed me off once. And I’m extremely judgmental at times.”

  “Yes, I got that, too.” His lips are moving, but the words coming out aren’t completely coherent. “I have to say, this is not how I saw this night going . . .” He lifts an arm up and over his head, to curl his fingers around my wrist.

  And then, as I quietly watch with trepidation, Jace Everett falls asleep on my lap.

  I’m afraid to move, so I don’t, watching his chest lift and fall in slow, shallow breaths.

  I watch the minute hand on the clock across from me until five minutes have passed, then ten, and only then finally do I dare loosen his grip of my wrist and carefully shift out from beneath him, holding my breath the entire time. He doesn’t make a sound.

  God, I hope I didn’t just kill him.

  Pushing that worry out of my mind—I didn’t give him that much, and his chest still rises a
nd falls in a steady, slow rhythm, after all—I head straight for his office.

  For that cardboard box.

  My stomach is a tight ball of knots; my heart pounds inside my chest. If it’s the vase, then it’s coming home with me, and I have no idea what I’ll do to Jace.

  With the lightest touch, I peel the top of the box back and peer inside.

  A blue-and-white floral bowl sits inside.

  Dammit. I wanted it to be Celine’s vase so badly. I wanted it to be Jace who stole it. It would mean I’m on the right track. Instead, it’s the death of another wild rabbit that I’ve been so aggressively chasing.

  I spy a birthday card and certificate tucked into the box. It appears that this bowl is an authentic Ming Dynasty gift for his mom, based on the official appraisal document.

  From Ling Zhang, aka the Bone Lady.

  I snap a picture of the document and the bowl and send it to Doug. Ten seconds later my phone rings.

  “That’s not it.”

  “Yeah, I know. Thanks.” I can’t keep the bitterness from my whisper. “Is there anything else I should look for before I get out of here?”

  “Where is he? Shower?”

  “Shower? Why would he be . . .” I clue in and scowl. “No! What, you thought I would actually sleep with him? Are you nuts?”

  “Fine, fine . . . sorry.”

  I roll my eyes. “I slipped two sleeping pills in his wine. He’s out cold on the couch.”

  “Jesus, Maggie. Are you nuts?” he yells.

  “It was Ruby’s idea!” Even I know that’s not a good excuse.

  “And that makes it acceptable? Okay, just . . .” He’s agitated. “Get out of there. Zac’s already in his mainframe. I can’t help you if he wakes up and figures out what you did to him.”

  I hang up, my heart still racing and my eyes stealing frequent glances toward the office entrance.

  But I’m not ready to leave yet. This is my one and only chance to find out what Jace’s secrets are.

  Everyone has secrets.

  I struggle to stay quiet as I rush through his office, slamming desk drawers shut, fumbling with cupboard doors, searching for anything hidden. I’m aware of each second ticking by like I’m waiting for a guillotine to drop.

  But there’s nothing but paperwork and more paperwork. A bowl that’s not the vase I want. No diary, no iPhone.

  A small decorative box.

  I nearly pass by it in my frenzy, but then I do a double take, eying the intricate details, the brushed bronze material. It reminds me of the lockbox I bought Celine.

  What are the odds . . . ?

  Setting it on Jace’s desk, I lift the lid to find it empty save for an envelope resting on a pristine velvet interior. With eager fingers, I slide a white note card out of the envelope and open it to read the message in computer print:

  Five hundred thousand to this account by November 1 or your home movie will be released online.

  I frown. This is a blackmail note. Did Jace get it from someone? Or was he going to give it to someone?

  What is this home movie?

  It’s hard to tell, but the inside base of the box looks slightly too high. I let my fingers probe the grooves and details of the exterior, searching for a latch or a button, something that will release a hidden compartment. I can’t find anything.

  My phone’s ring cuts through the eerie silence, making me jump. I lose my grip and the box goes flying, crashing to the hardwood floor with a loud thump.

  The bottom cracks open and something tumbles out.

  I fumble with my phone as I drop to my hands and knees, reaching under the desk as far as I can. “Hello?”

  “Get the hell out of there, now!” Doug yells. “This is exactly how things turn bad, fast.”

  My fingers close over a small, smooth rectangular object. I pull it into the light.

  And smile. “It’s also how we find evidence.”

  “If you don’t walk out the main door within three minutes, I am quitting this case,” he threatens.

  “Fine! I’m coming!” I scramble to put the box back exactly as I found it, and then, keeping Doug on the phone, I rush down the hall on the balls of my feet, blood rushing through my ears.

  I round the corner into the living room that I’ll need to cross to get to the foyer, my teeth gritted with the fear that the loud clatter I just made might have woken him up.

  Jace’s motionless body still lies stretched out on the couch.

  “He’s still sleeping,” I whisper with a sigh of relief.

  Still breathing.

  It isn’t until I’m three steps from the exit that I look up and notice the small white security camera above the front door.

  CHAPTER 24

  Maggie

  “Does everyone have a fucking security system these days?” I snap, watching Doug’s eyes on the camera hiding in the corner of the overhang.

  Jace, Zac . . . even Celine, though hers was stuffed in a drawer. Sure, we had cameras on the perimeter of our property in La Jolla, but given our money and valuables and high-profile lives, we had good reason.

  “Puts a damper on your criminal activities, doesn’t it?” Doug has barely said two words to me since I jumped into his sedan outside of Jace’s building, and the few he has said have been laced with annoyance.

  I grip my scarf tighter around my neck as we stand by the side entrance of an unimpressive bungalow in Queens, concealed by an untamed cedar hedge and lit by a motion-detector spotlight. “This is where your high-priced hacker lives?”

  “Research expert,” Doug corrects.

  Seconds later, footfalls sound from inside, like someone’s running up a set of stairs. The plain beige curtain shielding the small window in the door shifts and eyes peer out at me from the darkness. Then the dead bolt clicks and the footfalls sound again. Someone heading back down the stairs.

  “Come on.” Doug opens the door and gestures me in. He locks it behind us as I force myself down the narrow set of stairs, through another heavy door decorated with numerous dead bolts, and into a dim basement that smells of greasy fries and dirty socks and is stuffed with industrial shelves of computer equipment. Ahead of us, eight black screens with continuous scrolls of code form a wall. A low buzz of voices and beeps come from a row of police scanners in the corner.

  My chest begins to tighten. I close my eyes and remind myself why we’re here, hoping that’s enough to distract me from the impending panic attack.

  “Zac, this is Maggie. Maggie, Zac.”

  Zac is as average-looking as one could imagine. Mid-thirties, medium-brown hair, maybe two inches taller than me, arms lacking any significant muscle tone, and the beginnings of a belly protruding from his ensemble of T-shirt and sweatpants.

  He throws a lazy salute at me before dropping into his computer chair, a can of Coke in hand. “Should I guard my drink?” His voice is deep and gravelly, reminding me of a slovenly version of Philip Seymour Hoffman.

  I offer Zac a sour smile in return. Since when did these two take the moral high road? Though, I’d feel a lot better about what I did had I found Celine’s vase tonight.

  “How bad is it?” Doug mutters.

  Zac hits a key, and the inside of Jace’s apartment shows up. “Basic security measures, from the looks of it. There’s only one feed.”

  “But look at that line of sight.” I heave a sigh. Right into the living room, a narrow sliver that captures the couch area perfectly.

  Where Jace still sleeps soundly.

  “Okay, so . . .” With a few keystrokes, he’s suddenly gone from the couch. “Here’s J-Man, answering the door . . .” Zac commentates as Jace appears from the left, likely coming from his office. I realize that this is a replay. “And here’s Ms. Evil,” he adds as I stroll in.

  “What?” He shrugs when I shoot a glare at him. “You did drug him.”

  I’m not sure that Doug’s “research expert” and I are going to get along.

  He fast-forwards through th
e video feed—catching us moving past the camera several times—until the part where I wander over to a waiting Jace to, first, swap out our glasses with his back turned, and then covertly dump the Ambien into his wine while looking over my shoulder.

  Oh, the irony.

  Doug rubs both hands over his forehead.

  “That’s not going to look good in court,” Zac announces through a mouthful of fries.

  “No, it’s not,” Doug agrees.

  “Thanks, guys, for trying to make me feel better.”

  Shaking his head, Doug shoots a glare my way. “Anything useful in Celine’s apartment building video feed yet?”

  “Yup.” He wipes his greasy fingers on his sweatpants, adding to the dark stains already on his lap, before punching in a few keys. The lobby of Celine’s building suddenly appears on one of the screens, frozen on pause, and I see the top of Jace’s head as he passes through. It may not be a clear view of his face, but, to me, it’s so very obviously him.

  Suddenly my anxiety over the close quarters of this basement surveillance lab doesn’t matter.

  That fucking bastard. My teeth grit together. “He knew her, and he lied. Not ‘Maggie’ the call girl who shows up at hotels. Celine. Now we have proof.” There’s no longer any doubt in my mind.

  “No, we don’t. There’s no police investigation and we have no warrant for this surveillance and we have the top of a man’s head,” Doug reminds me. “Even with a positive ID, this at most puts him in the building. But we’d still have to prove that he was coming to visit her. Chester can’t do anything with this. You can’t say a word to him about it because we’ve acquired this through illegal means. And I can almost guarantee that if the cops show up on this guy’s doorstep, that little movie you just starred in will surface. That, Chester can use.”

  “The door system they’re using is ancient. I can’t get anything from it,” Zac drawls in this low, bored tone, fast-forwarding through the feed. “But let’s assume this is J-Man. He was there for about an hour.”