by K. A. Tucker
Plenty of time to lace someone’s drink with a handful of crushed pills.
Jace appears on the screen again, this time on his way out.
With a cardboard box tucked under his arm.
“Freeze it!” I lean over Zac’s shoulder to get a better look at the box. It’s sizeable and brown and stamped on one side with blue arrows pointing up, and on another side with the word “FRAGILE.” The box in Jace’s office tonight was stamped the exact same way.
I’m pretty sure it’s the same box.
“The vase could be in there! Just because it’s not in there now doesn’t mean it wasn’t here.” I jab the screen.
Out of the corner of my eye, I catch Zac’s eyes dipping down the top of my blouse. I stand, pulling my coat shut.
“How far does this video feed go back?” Doug asks.
“It’s motion-activated, so I’m hoping for two weeks, at least.”
“Keep going back through it. Let’s see how many times Jace Everett has come to this address. And who else may have paid her a visit,” Doug says, his voice demanding.
“Yep . . . You said you guys found something tonight?” Zac doesn’t seem bothered by Doug’s brusque tone. He also doesn’t seem like the kind of guy who moves too quickly for anyone.
“This.” Doug sets the tiny gray jump drive I found at Jace’s on the desk in front of Zac, along with the ransom note. “It was hidden well.”
Zac doesn’t even ask how I found it. “Okay . . . let’s see what we’ve got.” He clears whatever he’s doing until a black screen appears. After he plugs the jump drive in, his fingers begin moving so fast over the keyboard that I can’t even read what he’s typing before the words disappear into hacker’s oblivion. “There’s only one file on here. A video file.” He pauses, glances from me to Doug. “This isn’t going to be a gory beheading or some shit like that, is it? Because the last time you made me open one of these secret files—”
“Play it, Zac.”
My stomach drops. I really have no idea what could be on here, but my gut says it has to do with Celine.
“Okay . . .” With one key stroke, a video begins to play.
I gasp as a chestnut-haired woman on a mauve couch, surrounded by shelves upon shelves of antiques, comes into view. “That’s Celine. That’s from inside her apartment!”
“From her IP camera,” Doug answers, as if expecting this. “Recognize that angle?”
She sits cross-legged, a heavy-looking hardcover book in her lap, jotting down notes as she reads. The apartment is dim, the corners occupied by shadows, with the only light coming from the lamp beside her. “It’s from one of the shelves beside her desk. But why would she have a security camera in her apartment?”
“Single woman living in New York City, valuable items in her apartment, from what you’ve said. It’s not that surprising, actually. She probably tucked it between her books on the shelf and turned it on when she went out at night. And look at that.” Doug’s stubby finger touches the bottom of the screen, where the time stamp reads October 8, more than a month before her death.
“Well, she’s not out, here.”
“You’re right, she’s not.”
I’m struggling to wrap my head around this as I watch Celine on the screen, alive, a painful ball lodging itself in the base of my throat.
“The software for it is still on her computer, but the feed that was being directed to a cloud was wiped clean,” Zac explains.
“Celine deleted all of the videos?”
“Not unless she had mad tech skills that you forgot to mention. But someone who knew what they were doing did. They erased all of the metadata to prove any videos ever existed.”
“Celine was never a fan of computers.” How she even set a camera up is beyond me. She must have had help. “So it’s possible to delete camera feeds? Like that one from Jace’s camera? Because if you could—”
Doug cuts me off with, “Deleting evidence is illegal.”
“So is hacking into computers and camera systems,” I counter. “You’re having a case of a guilty conscience now?”
“Searching for hidden evidence that could lead us to an answer is one thing. But I won’t destroy evidence, and no amount of money will change my stance on that.”
Doug’s tone—the gravity in it—surprises me. I assumed there was nothing he wouldn’t do for the right amount of money. While it certainly doesn’t benefit me, I think I’ve found a new level of respect for the PI.
Of course, right now there are bigger issues than my criminal activity. “Someone did destroy evidence here, though, didn’t they? What if . . .” My voice trails off as Celine suddenly looks up on the monitor, her attention toward the door. She sets her book down and walks over to the panel on the wall, hitting the “answer” button on the intercom. Her lips move, but there’s no sound.
“Can you turn it up?”
“The audio’s not set up. She didn’t have a microphone on it.”
Whoever is coming, I don’t think she expected the visitor, because she’s quickly pulling her T-shirt over her head as she disappears into her bedroom, out of range of the camera. In less than fifteen seconds she reappears, buttoning her jeans and smoothing a flattering black sweater over her curves. She yanks the elastic out of her hair and has just enough time to finger-comb it before she opens the front door.
Jace steps in.
A second bitter wave of vindication courses through me. This time we can see his face, clearly.
She smiles up at him and steps back to let him in, reaching out to touch his arm. He doesn’t lean down to kiss her or hug her or anything that would suggest a romantic relationship, but when she lifts to her tiptoes to lay a quick kiss on his mouth, he doesn’t pull away.
I squint. The angle is a bit off, but I can tell they’re having a conversation as they walk over to the couch. A casual-looking conversation. Celine moves her book out of the way to allow room for Jace. He tidily folds his jacket and lays it across the arm, just like he did the day he came to get those papers signed.
By her mannerisms—her light giggles, the way she tucks her hair behind her ear, the way she touches his knee several times, though only a quick touch—it’s obvious that she cares for him, that she’s flirting with him. But I also know Celine well enough to see that she’s nervous.
It looks like he’s smiling at her as he talks, but it’s hard to tell.
And then he must say something to her that isn’t friendly or nice or casual, because her face crumbles. Even from this angle, even in the dim light, I can see whatever spark of excitement had surged through her the second he was buzzed in is now extinguished.
She’s surprised, she’s stammering, she’s ducking her head, she’s shaking her head in denial. He’s calmly answering her, but the hairs on the back of my neck are still standing on end.
This goes on for a good twenty minutes, with her continuously swiping the tears from her cheek. Is this a fight? Were they together? Are they breaking up?
He reaches a hand out for her, beckoning her closer. She hesitates for one . . . two . . . three seconds before she stands. He doesn’t get up. He simply sits there and stares up at her. I can see his face clearly. It wears an almost indifferent expression. He’s waiting for something.
And then she peels her shirt off.
“Damn . . . it’s one of these videos,” Zac mutters, dumping more mayo onto his half-eaten container of fries, his chair creaking as he leans back as if getting comfortable, watching her unzip and push her jeans down.
When Celine tosses her bra to the floor, I demand, “Shut it off.”
“We need to see this. There could be something important in it,” Doug explains.
Celine climbs onto Jace’s lap and begins unbuttoning his shirt. She leans in to kiss him and he responds, his hands sliding up her bare arms to grip the sides of her head.
I recognize that move. It’s the same way he kissed me, that day in the elevator. My stomach turns.
/> But then his hands slide back down her arms, to her thighs, and he breaks free of her mouth, turning just enough to make it clear that he doesn’t want that. He gently pushes her back, farther and farther until she yields and slides off to kneel in front of him. He undoes his belt and zipper, and pulls out his very erect dick.
“I’m going to be sick.” This is horrifying. I can’t watch this, and I hate that they’re watching this. I turn around and insist, “Can you at least fast-forward through it?”
“Fast-forward? This isn’t 1995,” Zac says. “If I speed it up, we could skip over key frames.”
I want to miss all frames, and so I remain with my back to the screen, my eyes glued to the digital clock across from me as it flashes through the seconds and minutes as Doug and Zac watch my best friend perform oral sex on Jace. “Are they done yet?” I demand to know at the four-minute mark.
“The first act, yeah,” Zac confirms. “But now they’re doing it on the couch. She looks like she’s enjoying it, at least. And, damn, is he givin’ it to—”
“Shut up, Zac,” Doug barks.
Twelve minutes and fourteen seconds later, Doug announces, “A1l right, they’re done.”
I turn around in time to see Jace sliding on his pants. Celine isn’t on the screen, so I assume she’s using the bathroom. The area looks like it’s been demolished—books shoved off the table and scattered over the floor, the side lamp leaning against the wall, flickering ever so slightly. Jace tugs on his shirt and jacket and, reaching into an inner pocket for his wallet, he pulls out a wad of cash.
He tosses it onto the table.
And then he slips on his shoes and walks out the door.
“And we have the governor of Illinois’s son paying for some hard-core sex on video,” Zac muses.
And my sweet childhood friend delivering it to him.
Celine appears again moments later, her pink silk robe tied tight around her, her thick mane of hair mussed. She stops in front of the couch, seemingly surprised as she looks to the door, then checks the bedroom. Did she expect him to stay?
She stops in front of the coffee table again.
Reaches down to pick up the money.
Looks back at the door.
And then crumples onto the couch, pulling her legs to her chest, her arms curled around her knees.
And begins to cry.
I hold my hand out. “Give that back to me. Now.” There’s no way I’m letting this tech geek beat off to Celine after I’m gone, and by the look of him and this place, that’s probably all the action he’s getting these days.
Zac glances first at Doug, who’s busy pacing laps around the cramped room, before unplugging the drive and handing it to me. “At least you have something to blackmail him with, if you need to,” he offers. I guess that’s the silver lining, though it doesn’t feel like it.
“Why would Jace have this video?” I demand to know, my voice shaky.
“We already know it was blackmail,” Doug says, kicking a box out of his path.
“So, what are you saying . . . that Jace hired someone to hack into Celine’s camera and videotape that whole scene, just so he could blackmail her?”
Doug frowns. “He’d stand to lose more than she would . . . And she doesn’t have that kind of money.”
“Would she blackmail him with this?” Zac asks.
“No,” I answer without thinking, at the same time that Doug says, “Maybe.”
I scowl at him. Would she? If so, it would definitely have given him motive for murder.
Doug shrugs. “She never looked up at the camera though . . . People who know they’re being filmed have a tendency to look at the camera. At least once.”
That brings me some small comfort.
Doug sighs. “We’re missing something here. There’s another piece to this puzzle.” He begins pacing again.
“Hacker,” Zac mutters, shoveling fries into his mouth with one hand while picking up the camera Doug took from Celine’s desk with the other. “Standard model. Cheap. Easy to bypass. A monkey with an SDR could do it.”
A sick feeling fills my stomach at the very suggestion. “But she took the camera down at some point before she died,” I say slowly, stating the obvious. “So she must have found out.”
“So she must have found out . . .” Doug drums his stubby fingers across the desk. He stops abruptly. “That someone had been watching her.”
CHAPTER 25
Maggie
Even though I’ve sat on Celine’s couch countless times—and slept on it once—I can’t bring myself to go anywhere near it right now. Not after that video. Not that it’s at all comfortable anymore anyway, surrounded by countless boxes that Hans and I have filled. Every last item of Celine’s collection is now ready for storage.
That is, except for the missing vase that I was so sure—so hopeful—I would find in Jace’s home but did not.
A part of me is desperate enough to knock on Ruby’s door and invite her over for some tea, but it’s after one in the morning and she’s long since fallen asleep. Another part of me wants to escape up to the roof, but I don’t think I can face Grady right now, and it has nothing to do with the fact that I’m still wondering who he had in his apartment yesterday.
So I hide the jump drive in Celine’s lockbox and curl up under the heavy duvet in bed.
And stare at my phone.
Doug called to relay a message from Zac that Jace did wake up. I guess the Ambien only kept him down for a few hours. At least I know that I didn’t kill him. Though, after seeing what I saw tonight, after seeing how he used Celine, how he left her there to cry, a part of me wishes that I had.
What’s nagging me is that she seemed shocked to see that money left on her coffee table. But why? Unless their relationship had evolved into something more. Something that didn’t involve cash payments. Then . . . having him throw money at her again after so long would be a slap in the face.
A sudden knock on the window startles me. I bolt upright, staring at the large shadow that looms behind the curtain.
Someone is standing on the fire escape.
I don’t know what to do. Do I see who it is? Call the police? I have my phone open, and I’m about to call Doug, when another knock rattles the old glass. “Maggie?”
I recognize Grady’s muffled accent through the glass.
Slipping out of bed, I slide open my window. “What are you doing out here?” Taking in his T-shirt and jeans, I surmise, “You locked yourself out.”
A sly smile touches his lips. “No. I just . . . You didn’t come up to the roof the last few nights.”
“I know. I’m sorry. I’ve been busy with stuff down here.”
He nods. “Well, I just wanted to check in.” His shoulders hunch in as he digs his hands into his pockets, glancing up the fire escape. “I’m right there. I just thought . . .” Gooseflesh covers his forearms. “I wanted to see you.”
He’s awkward and cute and shivering from the cold, as am I in my skimpy thigh-length cotton nightshirt. “Get inside. Quick.” I step out of the way, making room for him to climb in, and then I quickly shut the window.
He rubs his arms, his gaze rolling over Celine’s bedroom, landing on the bed. “How’s it going?”
I take a seat. “Shitty.”
Cool fingers graze my chin, and as much as I want to turn away from them, they feel nice.
“Have I done something to upset you?” He tilts my head up to meet his sincere hazel eyes. “You seemed pissed yesterday, when you came to my door with your PI.”
“Yeah, well you seemed really suspicious . . . like you were hiding something. Or someone.”
A slow grin finally stretches his lips. “Is that what this is about? I did have someone to hide. Two someones. Betty and Veronica.” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a joint. “They’re kind of hard to miss under my grow lamps.”
Realization dawns on me and I fall back into bed, suddenly laughing hysterically. “Of course tha
t’s what it was. You’re growing pot in your apartment.”
He chuckles. “Why? What did you think it was?”
I laugh even harder, because I was jealous for no reason. And because I was jealous to begin with. “I thought you had someone over.”
“And that would bother you.”
“I don’t know. I guess it would. I mean, yes, it did.” After a moment of silence, I peer over at him, standing at the end of the bed, staring down at me with intensity. I know what that look means because I’ve seen it several times already, only in thirty-degree temperatures, hidden beneath layers of blankets.
Reaching down, I pull my nightshirt up, over my head, and toss it to the floor. My panties go next.
Grady grins. “No energy for foreplay tonight?”
“Not tonight. And I don’t usually need it with you,” I admit truthfully.
I watch him kick off his shoes and peel off his shirt, jeans, and boxers in front of me. He kneels on the bed, pushing my thighs apart with his knees until he’s nearly shimmied up beneath me. Grabbing me by the wrists, he pulls me up, his hands landing on my ass to press me flush against him. “You have nothing to worry about. Just so you know, I’m a one-woman-at-a-time kind of guy.”
I don’t want that to mean something to me—we live worlds apart, and I’m leaving soon—but it does, all the same. I stay quiet, though, as he tears the foil wrapper open with his teeth and then rolls the condom over himself with one hand.
Meeting my gaze, he tenderly pushes a strand of hair off my forehead. “I’m so glad I met you,” he whispers, leaning in to kiss me.
My back hits the mattress at the same time that he slides into me.
————
“You don’t think we woke Ruby, do you?” I guess having walls around me instead of a rooftop garden and lattice screens weakened my inhibitions.
“Me? Not likely. But you and those screams of yours, I think everyone on the floor will be eying you oddly tomorrow,” Grady murmurs, lying on his back. Looking completely sated.
“Shut up. Really?” I feel my face flushing in the dark.
A tiny smirk curls his lips. “No, not really. Ruby takes her hearing aid out at night and Mr. Sherwood over here,” he reaches up to knock hard against the wall behind our head, “he sleeps like the dead.”
