by Elise Noble
Dan carefully sealed the swab in a plastic tube, then did the same with a second as per Valerie’s instructions. Valerie hadn’t been keen to leave Riverley to do the job herself, and I totally understood why after the scare she’d had yesterday. Spencer’s years of abuse had left her twitchy, always checking behind herself, and when Bradley had gotten a little too enthusiastic closing the kitchen door this morning, the bang had made her jump so violently she’d knocked over her glass of orange juice. Cue a thousand more apologies. At Blackwood’s last board meeting, we’d discussed hiring a psychologist, both to assist with cases and to listen if staff members needed to talk. Perhaps we should hurry that up a bit?
“I don’t know much about this DNA stuff,” Gwendolyn said.
“Me neither,” I told her. At least, not outside of a crime scene setting. “But we’ve got an expert involved, and she’s going to be helping with the difficult parts. The lab results should be back in a week or so, and then she can start work.”
Valerie wanted to run two separate tests—one on mitochondrial DNA and one on autosomal DNA. She’d told me all about it over breakfast, and I was pretty sure I’d nodded in the right places. From what I understood, mitochondrial DNA stayed pretty much intact through the mother’s side of the family. For men, it was possible to run another test based on Y chromosomes, which were passed down through the male line in a similar way. The autosomal test would look at the other chromosomes, which contained a mishmash of DNA shared with everyone a person was related to.
“No José today?” Dan asked, and I knew why. Nobody had offered us any coffee or cookies, and she’d skipped breakfast in favour of a trip to the gym.
“He doesn’t work on Sundays. I suppose that’s a good thing, really. You’re going to so much trouble over my silly Christmas wish, but nobody can make his come true.”
“We looked up his father’s case. He got sentenced under the federal three-strikes law, right?”
“I don’t have all the details. I only know that he’s in prison for life, and José’s written so many letters trying to get his time reduced, but nobody will listen. He even hired a lawyer once, some hotshot from New York, but the man didn’t help one bit.”
The situation sucked. Mack had emailed me the file late last night, and I’d read it while I was on the treadmill this morning. Luis Montero had been a roadie for a rock band, and in his spare time, it seemed he liked to unwind with the occasional tab of acid. He’d been arrested twice as a teenager and got done for possession with no jail time, just three years of probation. By the time he reached twenty, he’d become a father, and I guess babies were expensive because he’d progressed to selling hits to his friends. When the police got called to one of the band’s after-parties to break up a brawl, they’d searched everyone there and found seven hundred tabs of LSD in his inside pocket. Sounds a lot, but it was basically seven folded sheets of paper, soaked with several grams of liquid in total. Anyhow, he got convicted for drug distribution and sentenced to life in prison without parole because of his two previous convictions. The law’s stipulations meant the judge couldn’t consider mitigating factors, such as Luis’s age or lack of violent conduct. So twenty-three years ago, Montero senior had been sent to FCI Petersburg, and there he’d been languishing ever since.
The problem was, there were no grounds for appeal. The law as it stood was clear, and Luis admitted he’d committed the crime. José’s shyster of a lawyer must have known that, and still he’d taken his money. Honestly, if I’d been in charge, I’d have given that prick a longer sentence than Luis.
“It’s a difficult situation. We’re seeing if there’s any way we can arrange a special visit on Christmas Day. It’s possible the warden might make an exception.”
“José would love that. Even though his father’s been behind bars for nearly his whole life, José says he’s his best friend. I don’t think José’s ever missed a Sunday visit, apart from one time when there were riots at the prison and they closed the whole place down. That was a terrible week. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him so worried.”
“Hopefully the warden will show a little compassion, especially if Mr. Montero is a model prisoner.”
Being honest, I wasn’t sure about the compassion part, but Oliver, my own lawyer, had heard the guy was a big fan of the Washington Nationals. Now we just had to work out whether he was bribable or not.
“José says his pop does his best to stay out of trouble.”
“Then let’s hope we can work something out.”
I dropped Dan off at the office and carried on to Riverley. Alex, my personal trainer, had a torture session planned for me this afternoon. Being an assassin wasn’t all fun and games, you know. But today did have its plus points—Black had called on the drive back, and he was about to board a plane. He’d be home this evening, thank goodness.
I’d been missing him like crazy.
The phone rang again as I walked up the front steps, and I made my own wish. Please don’t let the flight be cancelled. But it wasn’t Black’s number on the screen.
“Hold for the president.”
“Don’t be a dick, James.”
“Aw, come on. There have to be some perks to the job.”
Some, but not as many as you’d think. Although he’d never come out and said so, I secretly suspected that James was quite lonely in the White House. All those people around, but he had nobody to actually talk to, nobody that he trusted anyway. Most politicians would smile to your face and then stab you in the back. And although James was married, he had little in common with his wife. Diana was a pretty figurehead, there to fulfil a role, and I had to concede she did an excellent job as First Lady. She’d made it her mission to tackle child poverty, but few knew the reason that her speeches were so heartfelt was because she’d once been in the gutter herself. She hid her past well. We all did.
Perhaps that loneliness was why James phoned me? The calls had grown more frequent in the last year, much to Black’s annoyance—mostly a few snatched minutes here and there, but occasionally a longer conversation. Once, it had been Black who James rang for a chat. They’d grown up together, been best friends at school, and I’d always regret coming between them. Back then, I hadn’t realised the damage I’d do.
“Sorry, I’m just not feeling the Christmas joy today.”
“Still trying to work out how to get Black to serve lunch to the seniors? You know I’d offer, but the Secret Service would shit themselves.”
James was joking but also serious. If he was still a senator, he’d have shown up and helped out. Adhering to the dress code might prove awkward what with the number of camera phones around, but for sure he’d make Joan and Doris smile.
“And also Black might kill me,” James continued.
“True. Especially since the waiters are meant to be shirtless.”
Hmm. That actually gave me a seed of an idea. James wasn’t the only ex of mine who could charm the ladies…
“Are you kidding?”
“Unfortunately not.”
“Dan might as well give me the fifty bucks now.”
“Oh, come on. You know she doesn’t give up that easy.”
Neither did I, and since I was helping her…
“Unfortunately, I’m all too well aware of that fact. Apart from that, how’s the Christmas prep going? Has Bradley turned Riverley into a toy factory yet?”
“It was quiet when I left, but I haven’t been home for three hours so anything’s possible. Yeah, the rest’s mostly okay. But…”
“But what?”
“There is one other small problem.”
“Tell me. People say I’m a good listener.”
Yes, he was. He always had been. And something Gwendolyn said earlier had given me an idea.
“So there’s this guy…”
CHAPTER 11
AAAAAAAAND SEND…
I pressed the button, and my last pre-Christmas report whizzed into cyberspace. Unless everybody’s fav
ourite arsonist decided to set something else on fire, I was officially off work until Boxing Day afternoon, four whole days away. In the past, Black and I had paused for long enough to eat a turkey dinner and that was it, but since his near-death experience, we’d been trying to take the occasional break. “Trying” being the operative word. So far, we hadn’t been entirely successful.
Hmm, what to do with all this spare time… I could sneak out to Mickey D’s. Or try to figure out how Netflix worked. Or catch up on sleep.
“Emmy!” Valerie appeared in the doorway. “I think I found something.”
Oh, fantastic. Would it be wrong of me to cry?
Valerie had spent the past week and a half sitting at the table in the small conference room, surrounded by piles of paper and her laptop. That seemed to be her happy place. I’d been keeping a close eye on her since the day she arrived, plus Bradley had been reporting back too, and Valerie was notably more relaxed now. There was still tension, but from fear for the future, not the all-consuming panic that Spencer was suddenly going to pop up and hurt her. Everyone could see the difference in Chay as well. He’d started talking more and eating more too, now that his stomach had stopped hurting.
At the beginning of last week, I’d talked with Valerie about her goals. All she wanted was a normal, boring life for herself and Chay. She dreamed of a divorce with full custody, but although I’d had Oliver draw up the papers, Valerie was too scared to have them served in case it pushed Spencer over the edge. Her worst nightmare was that he’d snatch Chay in retaliation and she’d never see her son again.
But we’d fix the problem. Yeah, yeah, I know I said I was gonna chill, but you didn’t think I’d stand down completely, did you? Pretty sure I was incapable of that. Brainstorming a solution to Valerie’s problem was at the top of my list of things to do tomorrow, or at least, it had been until she appeared in my study.
“That’s brilliant. What have you found?”
“A possible relative of Gwendolyn’s. Based on the data, I think maybe a niece.”
“So Gwendolyn was right? She does have a mystery sister?”
“It sure looks that way.”
Much as I wanted to chill out and eat junk food for the rest of the day, that actually was good news. Who knew? I might even be able to tick off all four of my Project Mistletoe tasks by Christmas.
“Who is she? How do we get in touch?”
“Her name’s Mina Miracle. I sent her a message via the genealogy site’s secure system last night, but she hasn’t gotten back to me yet.”
“Mina Miracle? Seriously? That’s her real name?”
“Yes, her married name. I looked her up on social media and messaged her there too, but it doesn’t look as though she uses it much. Her Facebook page is mostly recipes, but there are photos from her wedding a year ago.” Valerie smiled sadly. “She was such a beautiful bride.”
“So what do we do now?”
“Wait, I guess. Hopefully she’ll see one of my messages sooner or later.”
It was the “or later” part I was afraid of. We had less than three days until Christmas, and while I was sure Gwendolyn wouldn’t mind waiting for news until January, Bradley would moan like hell if his master list still had open items on Boxing Day. Everyone was sick of his daily demands for status updates already. Apparently, the team was on track with ninety-six percent of tasks completed, and I was joint bottom of the league table. Me and Black both had nil points. The fact that Black had spent December attempting to prevent death and destruction didn’t seem to matter to my darling assistant. Green check marks were green check marks. Which reminded me, I had to get that shirtless waiter thing sorted…
“Do you know where she lives? We could send someone over.”
Having offices in every state came in handy on occasion.
“Isn’t that a bit creepy?”
“Not really. We’re private investigators—it’s our job to visit people and ask questions. We’ve got the proper credentials.”
“Right.” Valerie didn’t sound convinced. “She’s in Las Vegas. Her Facebook profile says she started working at the Silver Shamrock Casino six months ago.”
Dan materialised behind Valerie. “Did somebody say Vegas?”
Valerie only jumped an inch or two, which was progress. A fortnight ago, she’d have been a foot off the floor.
“One of Gwendolyn’s relatives lives there,” I said. “Probably.”
“Cool, when do we leave?”
“What? We’re not going to Vegas. We’re going to McDonald’s.”
Or maybe Taco Bell. Or both.
“Aw, come on… We haven’t had a girls’ night out in ages.”
“It’s a five-hour flight.”
“And we can start the party on the plane.” Dan grabbed my hands, hauled me up, and tried to make me dance around the room. “It’ll be fun.”
“I’ve barely seen Black outside of work for weeks.”
“Nate’s hosting a football night tomorrow. Black won’t be home anyway.”
Oh. Nice of someone to mention it to me. “Seriously?”
“Ethan’s taking the kids over because apparently it’s never too early to start them on sports, and Mack’s coming here. Carmen too, since she doesn’t want to play waitress.”
“Why does nobody tell me these things?”
“Sloane copied it to your calendar.”
I pulled out my phone to check, and sure enough, there it was. Black’s diary was blocked out for the whole of tomorrow evening, something about a boys’ get-together. So much for three filthy days of French fries and fucking. Not at the same time, I hasten to add.
“Great.”
“So, Vegas?”
“Now you sound like Bradley.”
“I’ll call Brett.” Brett was Blackwood’s pilot. Retired military, happy to fly wherever, whenever. He wrote historical spy novels while he waited around for us. “Valerie, are you coming? Spencer won’t be anywhere near Nevada.”
“What? Uh, I can’t. I have to look after Chay.”
“He can stay with Josh. They’re friends, right?” Josh was Nate and Carmen’s son, a few months younger than Chay, and they’d fast become buddies. They were both downstairs right now, helping Mrs. Fairfax to make a Christmas cake. “I know it’s hard to let him out of your sight, but he’ll be safe at Nate’s place. It’ll be like a special forces convention.”
“You said you wanted Chay to have a normal life,” I reminded her. “Why not start now? Ask him. See what he thinks of the idea.”
Dan grinned in triumph. “So we’re going?”
“One night. I have to be back here by ten a.m. on Christmas Day to take Kiara up in the helicopter. I promised.”
“Absolutely. One night. I’ll just have to lose my money quickly.”
“Dan, this is a work trip.”
“I know, I know. But that doesn’t mean we can’t have a little fun at the same time.”
CHAPTER 12
VALERIE NEEDN’T HAVE worried about Chay. As soon as she mentioned the possibility of a sleepover, his eyes lit up with excitement.
“Josh has a shark in his swimming pool,” he told her.
“Not a real shark,” I quickly clarified, although I wouldn’t have put it past Nate. “An inflatable one.”
“Mommy will just be away for one night.”
“Can’t you be away for two nights?”
“Uh…”
Before Valerie could finish the sentence, she’d already lost Chay’s attention. He ran out of the kitchen, shouting for Josh because who needed grown-ups anyway?
And as quickly as he’d left, the door flew open again.
Somehow, Bradley had found the time to redo his hair. Yup, the white tips had made their appearance, and they matched the notebook he clutched to his chest. The paper carrier bag in his other hand suggested he’d been shopping yet again.
“What’s all the excitement?” he asked.
Don’t say it, don’t say it, do
n’t say it.
“It looks as if we’re going to Las Vegas,” Valerie told him.
“Ooh, excellent. When do we leave?”
No, no, no. This was not part of the plan.
“When Valerie says ‘we,’ she means her, me, and Dan.”
“And me. You can’t possibly go to Vegas without me. Someone has to find your shoes when you lose them and hold back Dan’s hair when she vomits.”
Thanks, Bradley. Now Valerie looked horrified.
“It’s a work trip. There’s not going to be any vomiting.”
“Oh, that’s fine. I can just go to the spa while you shoot people or whatever.”
For fuck’s sake.
I forced a laugh. “Chill, he’s only joking. We’re definitely not going to shoot anybody either. Bradley, don’t you have your own work to do? Project Mistletoe?”
“Everything’s totally organised. Ready for lift-off. T minus three days and counting.” He glanced at the bag in his hand. “Except for these slippers. I’m not sure who they belong to. Come to think of it, I don’t even remember adding them to the list.” Oops. “But now that you mention it—the only people who haven’t been pulling their weight are you and Black.”
“I told you I’m taking Kiara flying on Christmas Day.”
“That’s one task out of four, Emmy. And Black didn’t come to my Christmas lunch briefing yesterday.”
There was a good reason for that. “I haven’t told him about the lunch yet.”
“You haven’t told him?” Bradley put his hands on his hips. “One thing, Emmy! You were meant to do one thing.”
“Five things if you’re counting the lunch as well.”
“Whatever.”
“I’ll sort it, okay? And the reason we’re going to Vegas is to work on Gwendolyn Ingold’s Christmas wish. Happy now?”
“What about José Montero?”
“It’s in hand.”
Bradley narrowed his eyes. “Really? Well, I should definitely come to Vegas to make sure you stay on track. I’ll go and pack right now.”
Welp, I could wave goodbye to my three-day break. Was it too late to take a leaf out of Black’s book and escape to Sierra Leone?
