Quiet Protector: Brandon's Story

by Shandi Boyes

  Once I have three large walnut cookies stored in a white paper bag, I return to Fetu’s side. “Hungry, miss?” he asks, holding out my coat for me.

  “They’re not for me.”

  When I press my finger to my lips, he nods. I don’t want Julian knowing I’m sending meals out to the man Brandon has sitting outside of his penthouse. It isn’t that I want to lie, I’m just unsure how Julian will feel about it. He’s encouraging my friendship with Brandon as he believes it will be good for my state of mind, but he’s also been distant the past few days.

  Have you ever felt lonely even with someone sitting directly beside you? That’s the only way I can explain Julian’s distance of late. Part of me wonders if it has to do with his run-in with Vincent McGee. Although no formal charges were filed, their tussle was certainly picked up by the media. It thrust the story of Henry Gottle getting friendly with a woman half his age to the bottom of the stack.

  It isn’t what you’re thinking. I’m confident Henry has plenty of young beauties at his beck and call. I’m just not one of them. The media didn’t care about that, though. They saw the age-gap between Julian and me and assumed I have a thing for older men. In all honesty, the headlines made me ill. Julian is ten years my senior, but you wouldn’t know it by looking at him. Henry Gottle is around the age my father would have been if he were still here.

  Before I can let my thoughts run loose, I thrust my arms into the lightweight coat Fetu is holding out for me. “I’ll drop these off while you grab the car, then I’ll meet you out front.”

  “Yes, miss.”

  Fetu stops heading toward the underground parking garage when I call his name. “Will you please call me Melody? If you’re willing to take a bullet for me, I’d say you’ve earned the honor to call me anything you like.”

  Dimples pop in his cheeks when they incline. “I can, thank you.” My smile matches his when he adds, “You can also call me Tiny. It was what my mama called me.”

  My heart pains for him. If I had missed the ‘was’ part of his comment, I certainly couldn’t ignore the grief in his eyes. He’s lost his mother too. I guarantee it.

  Embarrassed I caught his quick reflection of sorrow, he says, “I’ll meet you out front.”

  Smiling to assure him he has no reason to be embarrassed, I nod. “I won’t be a minute.”

  Cool evening winds whip under my skirt when I exit the warmth of Julian’s building a few seconds later. I tug my coat in close to my chest as I make a beeline for a car I’m stunned doesn’t have a heap of parking infringement notices stuffed onto the windshield. Although I’ve never personally delivered the food as I am now, I know I’m heading for the right vehicle. It’s the only one that hasn’t budged like my ass the past couple of days. No matter what time of the day or night I check Julian’s security feed, I see the same vehicle.

  “Ma’am…” The driver greets apprehensively when I knock on his fogged window. He’s younger than I thought he’d be. His dark hair is short at the sides but hangs loosely on top of his head. His eyes are blue, and his lips are plump despite being twisted with confusion. If I were single, his handsome features would certainly have my libido taking notice.

  Once the stranger has his window wound down, I hand him the cookies I snagged from the cooling rack. “I’m heading back to my loft for an hour or two, so dinner will be a little late this evening. Figured these would tie you over until then.”

  “Oh…” He looks both confused and pleased. “Thank you. They smell great.”

  “Celeste is the best.” I wave like an idiot before spinning around to face Julian’s car rolling up the ramp of the underground parking garage. My eyes roll when I spot a man halfway down the ramp, snapping my picture. He can’t get into the garage since it’s guarded by security officers, but he’s right at the gate, invading Julian’s privacy as much as he can.

  “Damn paparazzi,” I mutter under my breath as I slip into the passenger seat next to Fetu.

  Once my seat belt is latched into place, I drift my eyes to the side mirror. My brows furrow when the dark sedan parked at the front of Julian’s apartment doesn’t merge into traffic behind us. It stays in the loading bay, doubling not just my heart rate but my suspicions as well.

  “You took brunch out to Brandon’s PI yesterday, didn’t you?”

  Fetu’s eyes stray from the road to me before he lifts his chin.

  “What did he look like? Was he handsome? Big, brooding, somewhat the quiet type?”

  He twists his lips as his cheeks whiten. “Not that I pay much attention to men, but if I did, I wouldn’t categorize him as the handsome, moody type.” He shrugs. “Perhaps it’s just me. Maybe mid-fifties blond men don’t tickle my fancy.”

  The humorous glint in Fetu’s eyes dampens when I ask, “He’s blond?”

  When he lifts his chin for the second time, my stomach gurgles. If I didn’t just hand freshly baked cookies to Brandon’s private investigator, who did I hand them to?

  14

  Brandon

  “I’m an agent for the Federal Bureau of Investigation, how can that not outrank an apartment owner’s ‘request for privacy?’” I air quote the last half of my sentence, pissed as fuck.

  The twists in Megan’s case won’t stop coming. Phillipa is speaking to me as more of a work colleague than a friend, and for some reason, Melody was photographed by my private investigator liaising with a man in a car with stolen plates. She’s safe, and at her loft, but I’m juggling so many balls right now, I’m bound to drop one.

  If that occurs because the head security officer at Isabelle’s building won’t let me up to see her, he’ll be hit with the majority of my anger since he’s responsible for it.

  After exhaling a long, anger-relieving breath, I give it a final shot to have him seeing sense through the madness. “I’m not here to visit Mr. Holt. I’m here to see one of his tenants, and it’s for a matter of utmost importance.”

  He keeps his tone calm and neutral when replying with the same crappy excuse he’s been giving me the past ten minutes. “I’m sorry, Mr. James, Mr. Holt’s directive includes Ms. Brahn, so I can’t let you up, no matter how urgent the matter.”

  Steam billows from my ears as my anger boils over, but before I can vent a smidge of my annoyance, a familiar voice sounds from over my shoulder. “Brandon!”

  When I spot Isabelle darting my way, smiling, I twist back around to face the security officer responsible for the heat burning my cheeks. “Would you look at that? Ms. Brahn appears eager to see me. Perhaps you should pass that onto Mr. Holt the next time you see him. Or better yet, why don’t you call him now, and I’ll let him know if he had put as much effort into safeguarding his family as he does in controlling Ms. Brahn, his sister-in-law wouldn’t have almost bled-out giving birth to his nephew.” The last half of my comment is more a reflection of my failure to safeguard my family than Isaac’s, but with my mood the lowest it’s been in years, I’ve got to release some of it before I crack.

  “I’ll be sure to pass on your message, Mr. James. Have a pleasant afternoon.” The security officer peers at Isabelle over my shoulder for the quickest second before he returns to the office his sidekicks absconded to when they begged their supervisor to back up their claim that Isabelle isn’t allowed any visitors.

  After a second exhale, I bridge the gap between Isabelle and me. As my shoes click against the gleaming marble tiles in the lobby of her building, I try to shake off my funk. The short length of my strides does me no good. You can hear the annoyance in my tone, much less feel it vibrating out of me when I snarl at Isabelle. “Are you aware no one can gain access to your floor without it first being approved by Isaac?”

  Isabelle is quick to tuck it away, but I see shock dart through her eyes before she fully shuts it down. “No, I wasn’t aware of that, but it does sound like something Isaac would do.” She mumbles her last sentence under her breath.

  “Not even an agent, for fuck’s sake.” I grit my teeth when m
y words come out with a roar. I’m annoyed and tired, but Isabelle doesn’t deserve the wrath of my anger. She could have boarded the lets-hate-Brandon train back at Parkerville when Isaac arrived in the middle of the night. Instead, she told Isaac she trusts me as I do her.

  Noticing the anger enveloping every inch of me is weakening, Isabelle asks, “What’s going on, Brandon? You seem a bit stressed? Is it because I bailed on you at Parkerville? I’m sorry about that, I just wasn’t—”

  “Don’t apologize, Izzy,” I interrupt, “You have nothing to be sorry for.”

  When I spot the security officer I was tussling with earlier eyeballing our exchange, I guide Isabelle to a bank of chairs lining the lobby of her building. After planting my backside on a chair as I wish I could a bed, I scrub the back of my hand over my tired eyes. Have you ever been awake so long, you have a hard time separating reality from fiction? That’s me right now. I’ve barely had more than three hours of sleep a night for over a week. I’m wrecked.

  Isabelle plops into the chair next to me before bracing her knee against mine. “What’s going on?”

  With more knowledge than I have time, I push out, “Carlyle Shroud’s death came back as a homicide.”

  Isabelle’s throat works hard to swallow as her eyes widen. “But he was…” After a second swallow, she adds, “… hanging.”

  “I know, but the coroner determined he died before then. They found poison in the food scraps in the kitchen. It looks like whoever killed him did it slowly in the hope it wouldn’t be noticed by the authorities.”

  Isabelle looks like she can’t take much more, but unfortunately, she doesn’t have a choice. Even excluding Carlyle’s purchase almost three decades ago, Harvey and I found links between the Shrouds, the Castros, and the man I know Isabelle is in a sexual relationship with.

  Although I could pass on my findings to Alex, this investigation puts me one step closer to finding out what really happened to Joey. Just the thought of getting closure on his death has me taking risks I’d usually steer well clear of.

  “It gets worse…” After a quick swallow to relieve my parched throat, I disclose, “Megan Shroud is in Ravenshoe. She has been for the past week.”

  Isabelle’s pupils dilate to the size of saucers. “How? We had protocols in place to ensure we knew her whereabouts.”

  “We did. Every database in the country was fixated on her. She must not have used public transportation or hired a car.” The pitch of my tone reveals I’m as lost as her. If it wasn’t for Phillipa sighting Megan during my drive back to Ravenshoe this afternoon, I wouldn’t have known she was back. The system is failing, and it’s failing badly.

  With her head in agent mode, Isabelle asks, “Where is she?”

  I nudge my head to the west, cringing when it amplifies the thump of my skull. “She's paying cash for a motel on the outskirts of town.”

  “Does Isaac know?”

  Against my better judgment, I shake my head. “Not yet, but he soon will.” When confusion distorts Isabelle’s features, I do my best to settle it. “The hospital Nick’s fiancée is staying at requested a police presence this afternoon. I hacked the hospital’s mainframe. Jenni’s blood workup showed she had a high dosage of Misoprostol in her system when she gave birth. It’s an illegal abortion drug only sold on the black market.”

  Isaac failed to mention two nights ago that Jenni, his brother’s fiancée, almost died giving birth. I don’t know if it was an intentional lack of disclosure or if he was truly in the dark as Isabelle is portraying now.

  “Do you believe Megan drugged her?”

  I don’t want to nod, but I must. If I want to keep Isabelle’s trust, I have to give her no reason to doubt me. “The drug is found stateside in New York City. Small minority groups use it for terminations when they can’t afford a doctor.”

  The prints on the vial found in Megan’s workshop of horrors wasn’t a match for neither Carlyle nor Rhianna, leading me to believe they belong to Megan. We’re waiting for comparison prints from one of Megan’s many psych-ward stays, but that will take a few days. They won’t even disclose if a patient is admitted without sighting a warrant first.

  My eyes float up from my hands when Isabelle garbles through big breaths, “Isaac will… he won’t handle this, Brandon. He loves his brother.”

  While ignoring the buzz of my cell phone in my pocket, I say, “I know. That’s why I haven’t passed on any of the information to Hugo or Hunter yet. I wanted to get your opinion first.” I lock my eyes with her, unsure of my next set of words, but confident they need to be expressed. “You’re the only person I trust, Izzy—”

  When she balks, I swallow the rest of my words. She isn’t sickened by my comment. She’s startled from being touched without warning. “I’m sorry, Ms. Brahn,” says the security guard who denied my first request to see Isabelle. “But there's a gentleman by the name of Hugo requesting to be informed if you're in the lobby.”

  I’m anticipating for Isabelle to immediately jump to the command in the security officer’s tone, so you can imagine my surprise when she swings her eyes my way to ask, “Do you have your car here?”

  Suspicion heats my face, but I nod my head, nonetheless.

  “I need one final favor.”

  “Anything, Izzy,” I reply without pause for consideration.

  It’s a little late for me to act honorably. Phillipa attached Isabelle’s picture to Melody’s file hours before we knew the full extent of the case in Parkerville. We needed to ensure Castro’s team had time to put measures into place since they’re believed to be on the other side of the country, but by offering up my assistance, I’ll feel less guilty. There’s no need for culpability when the benefits of a friendship are being equally distributed between participants.

  After exhaling a big breath, Isabelle returns her focus to the security officer. “Please inform Hugo that you have not seen me this afternoon.”

  She clamps her hand around mine before sprinting for the glass revolving door of her building. “We need to reach Megan before Isaac’s team. She may talk to me. I’m less intimidating.”

  That was my exact thought when I asked Phillipa to head to Megan’s hotel room after she unearthed her location by tracking her movements via the CTV cameras around Ravenshoe.

  “I already have a friend on the way to her hotel—” My sentence is cut off by my cell phone buzzing in my pocket.

  While digging it out, I hit the unlock button on my keys before gesturing for Isabelle to climb into the passenger seat. My heart beats in an unnatural rhythm when I see how many times Phillipa has attempted to call me the past twenty minutes. Since she didn’t leave a voicemail, I open her unread message first.

  Phillipa: Don’t go to Megan’s motel. She’s dead.

  When my eyes snap to Isabelle, instead of shocking her with the news of Megan’s death, I’m the one left reeling. Isabelle is no longer climbing into the passenger seat of my car. She’s being thrown to the ground by two officers double her weight and height.

  When their knees landing in her back steals the air from her lungs as forcefully as it does mine, on instinct, I race to the other side of my car. I knock one officer off Isabelle with a stern punch to the face before grabbing a second officer in a sleeper hold. He’s out in less than the time it takes for a third officer to attempt to subdue me by pressing his gun to my temple.

  Rookie mistake.

  It takes me five-seconds to disarm him before I set my sights on the fourth officer pinning Isabelle to the ground by his big, bulky frame. Even outnumbered, I hold my own for the next six or seven minutes, only lessening the severity of my attack when Isabelle is handcuffed and placed into the back of a marked cruiser by a female officer.

  As much as I believe the officers are in the wrong, I can’t hit a girl. I just can’t. Furthermore, I’m stunned by the officer’s disclosure that Isabelle is being arrested for the murder of Megan Shroud. Phillipa’s message was only received fifteen minutes ago.
That’s nowhere near enough time to unearth a suspect, much less execute an arrest warrant.

  “Get Isaac,” is the last thing I hear Isabelle say before my feet are pulled out from beneath me, and I’m pinned to the grimy sidewalk by three officers climbing onto my back while a fourth aims a taser at the vein working overtime in my neck.

  Ten minutes after arriving at Ravenshoe PD, and twenty minutes after being arrested, the rattle of a key being slotted into an old lock jingles into my ears. Believing it’s an officer hoping to trick a confession out of me, I keep my eyes planted on my feet.

  Inquisitiveness trickles through my veins when a gruff voice says, “For a man who swore an oath to defend the Constitution of the United States, you sure do get yourself in a lot of trouble.”

  My curiosity shifts to shock when the face in my head doesn’t match the one peering back at me when I lift my head. From how rough his voice was, I thought Detective Carter was Harvey.

  Even though I’m shocked, I’m too frustrated to hold back my retaliation. “Should you be quoting constitutional rights when you work in one of the most corrupt police departments I’ve ever come across?”

  My anger loses some steam when Detective Carter doesn’t attempt to refute my statement. He either knows every word I speak is true, or he believes his department has nothing to answer for. Both responses are unacceptable, but before I can tell him that, he nudges his head to the open cell door. “You’re free to go.”

  “Who paid my bail?”

  Detective Carter enters my cell, his swagger highly noticeable. “Who said anything about bail?” He straightens my crinkled dress shirt with more aggression than what’s needed before lowering his eyes to my bruised knuckles. “Bail is only needed for criminals, don’t you know?”

  After returning his eyes to mine, he waves his hand across his body, wordlessly offering to show me the way out. Although my suspicions are still high, I gather my coat from the bench my ass went dead on within two minutes of sitting on it, then enter the hallway.