by Shandi Boyes
When I find a roll of Scotch tape and a blue and purple marker, I push some rubbish from the kitchen counter to the floor so I can turn my iPhone into a UV light. After covering the flashlight in the back of my phone with a layer of Scotch tape, I color over it with the blue marker before adding a second layer of tape. Once the outer layer is filled in with the purple marker, abracadabra, I have a bodily-fluid detector.
With the sound of dripping water filling my ears, I wave my iPhone over the three-seater couch. As suspected, it has been scrubbed clean. Alas, unless you use a ton of bleach, semen, urine, sweat, and all those other nasty bodily fluids remain. The amount of semen on the three-seater couch isn’t surprising considering it appears to have been purchased when Carlyle was in his late twenties, early thirties, but the other compound is shocking. I can’t tell if it’s urine or sweat, but considering it is mainly on the base of the couches, I’ll go with the former.
With my fingerprints covered by the waistband of my shirt I tugged out of my trousers, I toss the removable seat covers off the couch to expose the sofa bed underneath. The damp smell I mentioned earlier doubles when I carefully fold out the bed. The mattress is the cause of the horrid smell filling my nostrils. It’s stained—badly—enough to have me convinced the Shroud ranch doesn’t have a downstairs bathroom.
Although disgusted about how some people live, ten minutes later, I’ve failed to stumble onto any evidence that will aid in my investigation of the Castros and Bobrovs. If I hadn’t seen Megan’s birth certificate, the mess would have me convinced Carlyle never had a wife, much less one trained to answer his every whim.
As I climb the stairwell, taking extra care not to fall through like Hugo did, I overhear Hugo telling Isabelle the master bedroom’s closets are full of clothes, but the room is empty.
When the creak of warped floorboards announces my arrival, Isabelle’s eyes swing my way. They are more questioning than her words could ever be. She’s hoping I stumbled onto a vault of secrets. All I got was hives.
“Excluding a dozen rats, there’s nothing down there but rubbish.”
She looks as disappointed as me but knows a lack of evidence doesn’t necessarily mean there isn’t something shady going on. Carlyle’s checks have been forwarded to this address for over two decades. His truck is parked at the front of his equipment shed. So where the hell is he?
As my heart beats out of funky tune, I follow the slant of Isabelle’s head. There’s one final room we’ve yet to search. It’s at the very end of the hall.
Once Isabelle is safely behind us as she was when we entered the lower level of the property, Hugo curls his hand around the brass doorknob. After twisting it as far as it will go, he swings his eyes to me. “One… two… three.”
On three, he flings open the door for me to enter it. Bleach is the first thing to hit me. Shock closely chases it. This room is nothing like the ones downstairs. It’s white, spotlessly clean, and reeks like someone showers in bleach.
“Holy shit,” I mutter under my breath when I take in the room as a whole. Megan’s medical records revealed that she’s unhinged, but this is ridiculous. Every inch of her room is covered with cut-outs of Isaac’s brother, Nicholas. Not even the ceiling is free of his face. For the most part, the collection seems to have been amassed through the gossip magazines that tail every move Nick’s band makes, but there are a handful of images that deserve closer scrutiny. They couldn’t have been taken by members of the paparazzi. They’re in closed quarters—private quarters—such as childhood bedrooms.
I stop scanning the images for any pictures that don’t include Nick when Isabelle asks, “Is this Jenni, Nick’s fiancée?”
When she hands a photograph to Hugo which has Jenni’s eyes gouged out and blood trailing down her legs, Hugo nods.
“Does Isaac have someone watching them?” Isabelle queries.
I hear the gurgles of my gut in Hugo’s reply when he says, “He has Peters watching Nick from a distance, but I don’t know about Jenni. His security team determined the threat pertained more to Nick than his fiancée.”
“You need to get protection for Jenni,” Isabelle says matter-of-factly before she shifts on her feet to face me. “What’s the closest division associated with this district?”
My lips twitch, but I don’t get a word out before Hugo jumps back into the conversation. “Don’t call the authorities until Isaac’s security team gets a look at this first. If you bring in the feds, this will get shut down quicker than Hunter turning down an offer to dance.”
I’m torn when Isabelle wordlessly seeks my advice. Nothing here could hinder my personal investigation into the Bobrovs and Castros, but we entered the property under false pretenses. If there’s a possibility that could have me sidelined for the next six to eight weeks, I’d rather not risk it. But I can’t force Isabelle to tiptoe onto the wrong side of the law for me, can I? She already has IA riding her ass, so I can’t dump more shit onto her pile because I have a private agenda.
The worry in Isabelle’s eyes doubles when I place the burden of her decision back onto her shoulders. “It’s up to you, Izzy. I’ll go along with whatever you decide.” I’m not lying. If she wants to call this in, I’ll do it, but if she wants to conduct her own private investigation as I’ve been doing the past six weeks, who am I to judge her?
After a tense stretch of silence, Isabelle removes the sweat from her nape before digging out the cell phone Hugo handed her earlier. When she passes it to Hugo, I move to join her on the other side of the room. Although she’s technically breaking protocol for Isaac, I want to offer her my support because this joint operation could benefit me as much as it does her. If Isaac views me as more of an ally than a foe, my chances of working out exactly what he’s purchasing from the Popovs triples. Thus, not only giving me the opportunity to show Isabelle who he really is but also allowing me to do the job I’m paid to do without fear of repercussions.
It’s a win/win for me.
The same can’t be said for Isaac.
10
Brandon
“Jesus, is she all right?”
Phillipa’s battered breaths jingle down the line as she replies, “I believe so. A friend working that case said she seemed a little rattled at the time, but was more lucid when he arrived at Julian’s penthouse to take her statement.”
My body doesn’t know which comment to react negatively to first—the fact Melody got into a tussle with my father or Phillipa’s confirmation she stayed with Julian overnight. From the hours of surveillance videos I’ve trawled through the past few weeks, last night was the first time Melody would have been witnessed arriving at Julian’s building by my private investigator. She usually sleeps at her loft apartment every night. Not always alone, but it was better than the thoughts entering my head now.
“Did your friend mention what spooked Melody? My father has always been a hard-ass, but Melody rarely responded to his riles. She usually left that bidding to her father.”
I exhale deeply when the truth smacks into me. Her father can’t fight her battles anymore. That task is now up to me, and if I had been fulfilling my position as promised, I wouldn’t be hearing news about Melody’s exchange with my father second-hand. With my head focused on Carlyle Shroud and his thirty-year-old purchase, I let my private investigator’s email sit in my inbox unopened this morning. That’s not acceptable, and I won’t let it happen again.
“Better yet, can you forward me a copy of the police file—”
I swallow my words when Phillipa interrupts, “I would if either party was pressing charges. With both parties wishing not to pursue the matter further, there are no reports to forward.”
“My father isn’t pressing the matter?” Shock resonates in my tone. “I thought you said Julian hit him?”
“He did,” Phillipa replies through a breathless chuckle. “Socked him right in the eye. From what I heard, his shiner took a makeup artist an hour to cover it for his conference this morning.”
Something isn’t right here. My father sues if the press so much as calls him an asshole. He’s had tweets yanked and has been accused of suppressing freedom of speech on more than one occasion, so there’s no way in hell he’d let a billionaire off scot-free without first fleecing him a few million. More is happening here than we realize.
“Did your police friend take notes of the incident?”
Phillipa hums out an agreeing noise. “I’d say so. They don’t have information-retaining brains like agents do. Do you want them?”
“Please. Also…” I move to the notepad I scribbled a date on earlier. With my mind askew the past few days, I’ve started taking notes, so I don’t forget all the little tidbits I keep setting aside when something more urgent comes up. Although this doesn’t directly affect Melody, it’s been playing on my mind all day. “Can you run a quick search for me? I’d do it, but the internet service here is rat shit. I’m shocked my call went through.”
“Sure. Shoot.” Approximately thirty-seconds after I give Phillipa Isabelle’s flight number and date, she updates me on the credit card details used to bump her ticket up to business class.
Shock dangles on my vocal cords. “Alex Rogers? As in the Alex Rogers?”
“As in the sup of your division Alex Rogers.”
“Are you sure, Phillipa? I’m sure Alex Rogers is a common name.”
I eat my words for the second time tonight when she interrupts, “It was paid for with his Bureau credit card.”
Fuck! “All right. I guess that’s confirmation enough. Can you forward me the details?”
“I thought your service was shit?”
I groan. “It is, but I’m sure it’s capable of downloading an email.”
“If it’s not, stand on your head and stick out your tongue. Perhaps the electrodes in your spit will improve the signal.”
Even knowing everything she’s saying is false, I can’t help but ask, “What does standing on my head have to do with anything?”
“I’ve had a shit day. I need a laugh.” My suspicion grows tenfold when Phillipa mumbles, “For a man with basically no ass, you certainly know how to fill in a pair of pants.”
All sense of normality is lost when I notice the tiniest speck of red shining from the top of my laptop monitor. “You’re spying on me. What if I were getting dressed?”
“I can only dream. Night, BJ.” She disconnects our call before half of my growl rolls up my chest. I’m certain she still heard it, though, because not only is a red light still beaming from my laptop, the peaks and troughs of my microphone graph are rising and falling.
Seconds after I close down Phillipa’s live feed of my room, my laptop dings, announcing I have a new email. Once again, prioritizing Melody above anything else, I print out Phillipa’s email before scrolling to the one my private investigator sent me this morning. Although his dot-formatted update includes the incident Phillipa filled me in on, just like Phillipa, he’s lost as to what caused Melody to flee her office building the way she did. He mentioned she was red-faced and on the verge of crying, but silent, which isn’t surprising considering she can’t talk.
I sink low in my chair as I consider what to do. I could FaceTime Melody to make sure she’s okay, but even Phillipa’s confirmation that my ass fills in my trousers well doesn’t have me convinced we wouldn’t spend a majority of our conversation endeavoring to improve our connection. I could email her, but that feels impersonal, not to mention the fact it’s the weekend, and I only have her work email. So, instead, I text her.
It’s a basic, I hope you are okay. Buzz me if you need me text, but it lightens the load on my shoulders enough to shift my focus elsewhere for a second. It isn’t to Isabelle or the fact Alex is more scrupulous than first perceived, it’s to Grayson, and the vanishing act he’s been conducting the past few weeks.
“Come on, Grayson, pick up,” I mutter through the long shrill of my unanswered call.
Just when I think my call is about to be sent to his voicemail for the fourth time, it connects. “Hello?” I say down the line, stunned by the silence. Usually, you’ve got to grapple to issue a greeting before Grayson. “Grayson, are you there?”
I squash my phone in close to my ear when a faint voice whispers, “Grayson isn’t here.” It isn’t the voice of a child, but it’s weak and timid. “I haven’t seen him in days.”
“Katie?” I don’t know what compelled me to say that, but I’m glad I couldn’t hold back when the female on the other end of the line gasps in a shocked breath. “It’s you, isn’t it?” When she rushes out that she has to go, I breathe out even faster, “Is Grayson okay? That’s all I need to know. You don’t need to tell me anything else.”
With silence teeming between us, nothing but the sounds of her tiny breaths resonate down the line for the next several seconds. They fill me with horrid thoughts that only clear when she mutters, “He’s okay, but he needs to go. Kirill isn’t happy.”
“What do you mean? Why isn’t Kirill happy—” My interrogation ends early when the creak of a door is quickly chased by a thick Russian voice. I can’t hear exactly what the person says since Katie has the microphone muffled before a squeak pops from Katie’s mouth, then our calls ends. I don’t know if Katie disconnected it or if spotty service is responsible. Whatever the reason, I dial Grayson’s number on repeat for the next eight minutes, only stopping when the cruel punches of my thumb on the screen has me accidentally connecting to an incoming call.
Since it’s from an unknown number, I almost hang-up. Mercifully, Grayson’s gravelly voice sounds down the line before I do. “Miss me, punk? Sorry I’ve been slack. I forgot how tiring wading through shit was.”
“What the fuck, Grayson? You almost gave me a heart attack.”
He laughs, having no clue I’m being truthful. I am on the verge of a coronary failure.
I have a million questions to ask, and even more scorns to deliver, but I lose the chance when Grayson says, “Kirill is on the move. Caught sight of a flight manifest in his office when I was running errands. He’s heading to New York. The plane only has eight seats, so I don’t see a war starting any time soon. Thought you’d be interested, though, considering I saw tickets for your dad’s gig in the same pile of paperwork.”
“What gig?”
“Hold up.” I hear papers shuffle before he adds, “The Serena Scott Foundation. Your mom boards it, but from what I can see, your dad uses part of the funds to fatten up his campaign endeavors.”
Is it wrong I’m not surprised to hear my dad rips off charity organizations? You can’t do the devil’s work if you’re not willing to walk in his shoes.
“Is that why you gave Katie your cell? ‘Cause Kirill is traveling light?”
“Uh-huh. Kirill’s team constantly scans for bugs. I don’t need to plant one on Katie if she’s willing to cart my cell phone with her. I just need to trace my missing device on my laptop.”
If we were more work acquittances than friends, I would have mistaken the content in his voice for cockiness. “You’ve gained Katie’s trust?”
Grayson’s agreeing hum this time around is ten times more confident than his earlier one. “She’s not gone yet, BJ. I can see the good in her eyes.” Belief Katie is too far down the rabbit hole to be saved is the Bureau’s main reason for treading lightly with her case. Stockholm syndrome usually kicks in within weeks. Katie has been with Kirill for seven years. A loss is anticipated, although Grayson will never believe that. “Hold up. Go back. How do you know Katie has my phone?”
“She answered my call. Said you need to go because Kirill isn’t happy.”
“She answered your call?” When I murmur in agreement, he swears. “Kirill has eyes on Katie everywhere. If she talked to you on the phone, that means Kirill knows what she said, for how long she said it, and exactly how she said it.” He curses another three times in a row before he pushes out, “I’ve got to go.”
“Do you want me to call in backup?”
>
“No!” Grayson shouts over the frantic tap of his feet. “I’ve got this. Just do me a favor.”
“Anything,” I reply without pause for thought.
I don’t know whether to laugh or cry when he says, “Call your girl. This shit has gone on for long enough.” We could be in the process of being probed by aliens, and he’d still find time to rib me about reaching out to Melody. He’s done it for seven years now. I guess it’s hard to give up familiarities.
When Grayson disconnects our call, I sit on the edge of my bed for a few minutes. The urge to call Melody is somewhat overwhelming, but it’s late, and I’m fucking zonked. I wouldn’t hesitate if she had returned my text. The fact she hasn’t advises me she’s either sleeping or wants to be left alone. Neither thought appeases my edginess, but instead of switching off for the night and starting fresh in the morning, I tiptoe toward something that could end as awkwardly as I start it.
Me: What are you wearing?
Phillipa answers my text a few seconds later.
Phillipa: I’d rather show you than explain.
I stop chuckling about something Phillipa says when the door of my hotel room shoots open. With the reception as bad as I anticipated, we switched from texting to a phone conversation around thirty minutes ago. I won’t lie, it was a little awkward the first few minutes, but once we discovered we have more in common than just work, the conversation flowed more smoothly.
Although I don’t see that still being the case when the barrel of Hugo’s gun swings my way. “I’ll call you back,” I stammer into the phone, shocked at the fury on Hugo’s face.
I doubt we’ll ever be classed as friends, but I thought my understanding today when he requested to call in Isaac’s security team before the Bureau would have given me some leniency in our clashing personalities. Clearly, my attempt to flirt with Phillipa wasn’t the only foolish thing I’ve done today.
