He flicked his thumb across his phone. My clutch let out a melodious tone I set specifically for this event. I opened it and checked my phone. A new email from Augustine waited in my email box. I tapped it.
A contract. Agreement between House Montgomery . . . He was offering me employment, but not with MII. With House Montgomery. This was new. Base Salary. Employee shall receive a Base Salary in the amount of $1,200,000 per year . . .
That couldn’t be right.
Payment. Base Salary shall be payable in accordance with the customary payroll practices of the Employer . . .
Adjustment. On November 1st of each year during the Term, (i) Employee’s Base Salary shall increase by no less than 7%; (ii) The Company shall review the Employee’s performance and may make additional increases to the Base Salary in its sole discretion.
What was the term? I scrolled through it. Ten years.
Augustine Montgomery had just offered me a contract that guaranteed a payment of one million two hundred thousand per year for ten years with an annual 7 percent increase and bonuses based on performance.
I could buy Rogan out. I could pay off our mortgage. I could guarantee my sisters’ education. I could . . .
What was the catch? There had to be a catch.
Noncompete Covenant. For good consideration and as an inducement for Company to employ Employee, if such employment is terminated for any reason during the Term, the employee shall not engage directly or indirectly, either personally or as employee, associate partner, partner, owner, manager, agent, or in any other capacity in any business within the Unites States and its protected Territories involving private investigation, security services, or personal interrogation for a period of ten years. Any private security or investigation businesses currently owned by the Employee must be dissolved prior to employment.
If I took this contract, Baylor Investigative Agency would cease to exist. And if I quit or was fired for any reason, I wouldn’t be able to support my family.
Augustine smiled at me. Funny; from this angle you couldn’t see his shark teeth at all.
If I took this deal, all of my years of hard work would be gone. The agency was my father’s legacy, but it was also so much more than that. It was a testament to our perseverance as a family.
As my dad’s health rolled downhill, the business had dwindled to nothing. He couldn’t work. My mother was focused on taking care of my father. When I thought back to that time, it was muted in my memories. Dark and oppressive, as if filmed through a blue filter by my brain. There was time before Dad got sick and then there was time after he died. Between that lay awful memories I was trying to forget in self-defense.
I couldn’t help Dad. I had made things worse. I had read a letter from his doctor, and he caught me and asked me to not tell anyone. I kept his secret for far too long. Had I spoken up sooner, he might have lived longer. When he was sick, I couldn’t reassure my sisters and cousins. Anything I could’ve said would have been a lie. We all knew the awful truth from the start. Dad was going to die. We fought for weeks, not years.
In that time, the only thing I could do was to step up and try to earn a little bit of extra money for us. I stepped onto the sinking ship that was Baylor Investigative Agency and plugged the holes one by one. I fought for every new client. I ferreted out every crumb of work we could get. And slowly the business started moving. It stumbled, lurching forward, but it was no longer standing still. Then, after Dad died, we all desperately needed something to hold on to. We were like runners who had run a long, grueling race, crossed the finished line, and didn’t know how to stop running. We needed a focus and the agency became that. It kept a roof over our heads and put food on our table. My sisters and cousins hadn’t asked for an allowance in the past three years because they earned it through the family business. If things ever went wrong for them in their adult life, the business would be there to provide some income. It would never make them rich, but it would pay the bills. It was there for all of us. It thrived now, living proof that we stood together as a family. We were all proud of it. My father had hoped it would take care of us and it did, in so many more ways than just money.
If I took Augustine’s offer, all of this would disappear. Yes, I would earn more money. Crazy money, the kind I would never see otherwise. But instead of earning their own money, the rest of the family would now depend on my handouts.
I wanted to get away from Rogan. I wanted it so badly. With this, I could.
What would I be doing for this money? Probably the exact thing my parents had fought so hard to keep me from doing: working for Augustine as a living lie detector. Making people curl into fetal positions on the floor as they wept after I violated their minds.
“That’s a very generous offer,” I said.
“No, it’s a fair offer. I’m a businessman, Nevada. I always watch my bottom line. This offer isn’t modest, but it isn’t generous either. It is, in my estimation, adequate and fair compensation for the valuable service you will provide to House Montgomery. Compensation which, I might add, will increase. There is so much I could do with your talent, Nevada. You have my word that I’ll never attempt to emotionally manipulate you. You have my word that I’ll never threaten your family or attempt to purchase all of your loans without your permission in some underhanded attempt to influence you.”
He had looked into my finances. Of course. He owned a private detective agency, after all. And he had looked into them so he could do the exact same thing that Rogan had done. Except Rogan had beat him to it.
“I offer a professional alliance, Nevada. A mutually beneficial partnership. If you scroll down, you will see a sign-on bonus. It will take care of your immediate debt obligations and permit you to put a down payment on a reasonable residence, should you choose to move out of the warehouse and begin a more independent lifestyle. Again, I’m not doing it as a charity. I’m doing it because I would like you to be professionally happy. In my experience, happy employees mean a stable, healthy business.”
He smiled again. “I understand that right now things are chaotic and this is a big decision. Take all the time you need. There is no expiration date on this offer.”
I smiled back at him, trying to show no emotion except light amusement. “You’re confident Rogan won’t offer me more?”
“He may offer you more. The question is, what will you be expected to do for that money?”
I raised my eyebrows at him.
“I didn’t mean a sexual engagement,” Augustine said. “Rogan may try to seduce you, but unless his personality has undergone a very drastic change, he’ll never pressure you into a sexual relationship against your will. Do you know what Rogan does for a living?”
“A great many things, from what I understand.”
“No, he owns many things. There is a difference. I also own a great many things, but I run MII. It’s my day-to-day business. Rogan is a warlord in a very real sense of the word. His people are mercenaries. He does have one of the best private armies in the world, I’ll give him that, and on the surface he does fun things with it like hostage rescue, security detail for aid workers, and stabilizing operations. However, we’re both adults. You know as well as I that the most profitable operations are rarely white knight affairs. Even more interesting is what he does in the city of Houston.”
“He owns a private security firm, from what I understand,” I said.
“He owns Castra. It’s an ancient Latin word for military fort. Every day Roman legionnaires would march twenty miles in full gear and then they would set up camp and build fortifications of dirt and timber around it before going to sleep. Castra is a shelter in an inhospitable land, a wall of protection impenetrable to outsiders. Rogan’s Castra provides security to Houses. Do you need to meet with your rival? Don’t trust him or your own people? Are you afraid of an ambush? Castra will secure the site for you. They are elite, expertly trained, and incorruptible. They are the reason why Rogan knows every major player in the Houst
on underworld and why he is well informed about most major feuds between the Houses. He takes time to cover his tracks really well. I know of it because I was involved in a complex transaction between two parties, secured by Castra, and I recognized one of his people.”
It didn’t surprise me. Rogan had said before that when he wanted someone found, his people brought that person to him within hours. That wouldn’t be possible without an extensive network of contacts among the shadier side of Houston, and one didn’t get those contacts by being an altar boy.
“Does he know you know?”
Augustine shook his head. “I wasn’t present as myself. With me, your work would be legitimate and legal. I can’t promise that once in a while you won’t run across a situation that will compromise your principles, but such situations would be an anomaly, not the norm. What kind of work would you be doing for Rogan? Who would you question for him?”
All valid points. Except Rogan didn’t want to hire me. He wanted me, in every sense of the word. He wanted me to be with him. It was more than lust. I wasn’t quite sure what it was yet.
Augustine smiled. “It might pay to consider your options carefully.”
The limos slid up the curving driveway past lush gardens and beautiful granite terraces.
“Where are we?” I asked.
“Piney Point Village,” Augustine said.
Piney Point Village was officially the wealthiest place in Texas. Like many of the neighboring communities, it started as a small city that had been gobbled up by Houston’s sprawl. I had cause to briefly visit it last year in connection with a runaway case. Part of the Memorial Villages’ wealthy bedroom community, Piney Point restricted businesses of any kind within its borders, employed an urban forester, and regulated everything, including the format of the For Sale signs. According to the census, the tiny municipality had only three thousand residents. The taxable value of real estate they owned totaled two billion dollars.
The limo slid into a roundabout, circling a breathtaking fountain. At the other end of the parking lot a huge white mansion rose from the trees. From here the massive building resembled an eye. A large round tower sat in the center, like an iris, guarded by towering white columns supporting a circular balcony above. Two curved wings stretched from the tower, gracefully couched by the greenery. Arched glass doors and windows glowed with inviting amber light. I could almost hear some luxury-home Realtor’s voice: “Built in an elegant fusion of Italianate, French, and early Disney styles, this magnificent estate offers a thousand bathrooms for all of your executive Cinderella needs . . .”
“How big is this house?”
“Thirty thousand square feet,” Augustine said. “Baranovsky built it specifically for the gala a few years ago. The tower houses the central ballroom, the right wing has a restaurant space and a presentation auditorium, the left contains the living quarters. He rents it out as a corporate retreat when he isn’t here.”
The limo slid to a stop. Here we go.
“No worries,” Augustine said. “You will do well. Be yourself, Nevada.”
The driver opened my door. Augustine walked around the limo and held out his hand. I leaned on him and stepped out of the car. He offered me his arm. I shook my head. The point was to make a statement and stand out. Being attached to Augustine as his date would cause most people to overlook me. We walked up the wide staircase to the arched entrance between towering Corinthian columns. A man and a woman, both in severe dark suits, waited by the entrance. Augustine made eye contact with the woman and held up a small card.
She inclined her head. “Mr. Montgomery. Welcome.”
“Good evening, Elsa.”
The man raised a scanner. Red laser dashed across the card.
The male guard touched his headset. His voice sounded in two places at once, from his mouth and from the speaker somewhere within the house. “Augustine Montgomery of House Montgomery and guest.”
They probably knew my name, weight, and shoe size. But next to Augustine, my name meant nothing. I became “and guest,” and that was precisely how I liked it.
We stepped through the arched entrance onto the granite floor polished to a mirror shine. White walls rose high, decorated with long banners showcasing the various exhibits of the Museum of Fine Arts, Houston: a woman in an impossibly wide mother-of-pearl dress with an equally wide hairdo and the caption “Habsburg Splendor: Pieces from Vienna’s Imperial Collections”; a ceramic statue of a man in a round helmet sitting cross-legged with his hands resting on his knees, labeled “Ballplayer: Arts of Ancient Mexico”; and an insane-looking plastic bracelet in orange and red, with a pattern of black dots encircled with white and multicolored spikes, marked “Ronald Warden’s Enigmatic Jewelry.”
A wide door offered access to the ballroom directly in front of us, giving us a glimpse of the main floor and the crowd inside—women in bright dresses and men in black. Two suspended staircases with elaborate iron railings swept up on both sides of it, leading to the upstairs floor and two additional doors.
Augustine headed straight for the ballroom. I lifted my chin and walked next to him like I belonged here.
“Why not just hold the gala at MFAH?”
“Baranovsky is a Prime. We like to control our environment. Follow my lead. We’ll walk in and then we’ll simply drift.”
We walked through the door and I had to concentrate on walking instead of stopping in midstride and gaping. The vast circular room gleamed. The floor was white granite with elaborate flourishes of malachite-green inlay. The walls were polished white marble with flecks of green and gold. A wide marble staircase at the other end of the circle offered access to an inside balcony that ran the entire circumference of the ballroom, punctuated by doors, which probably led to the outside balcony. Seamless floor-to-ceiling windows soared on both sides of the balcony, caged by columns. Here and there small groups of plush chairs and tables were tucked in near the walls. Houston’s magical elite stood, sat, and strolled, conversing. Laughter floated. Diamonds shone. Waiters glided through the gathering like ghosts, carrying trays of delicacies and wine.
True to his word, we drifted. People looked at us. I glanced at Augustine. Somewhere between the front door and ballroom, he’d become stunning. He was usually handsome—his illusion affording him an icy perfection—but now he’d transformed into a Greek demigod. A living, breathing work of art, superhuman in its beauty. Women looked at him, then invariably at me, their gazes snagging on the bruise on my neck.
Augustine led me to the left. A waiter ghosted over to us, offering champagne. Augustine took a flute, but I waved mine off. The last thing I needed was to get drunk. We kept strolling, bits of conversation floating to us.
“You look divine . . .”
“Lie,” I murmured under my breath.
“. . . so lovely to see you . . .”
“Lie.”
“. . . would have never thought her capable of such a direct action . . .”
“Lie.”
“I hate these gatherings.”
“Lie, lie, lie.”
Augustine laughed quietly.
A woman thrust herself into our way. In her forties, with a carefully structured blond hairdo, she wore a turquoise dress. A man who had to be either her son or a lover half her age accompanied her. Dark-haired and handsome, he was overgroomed and slightly effeminate. Too much eyebrow tweezing. I didn’t recognize either face, so they probably wouldn’t murder me.
“Augustine, my dear, what a delight.”
Lie.
“Likewise, Cheyenne,” Augustine said.
Lie. Clearly this wasn’t a close friend.
“We’ve been admiring your lovely companion,” Cheyenne said. Both she and her boy toy looked at me and for some reason I was reminded of hyenas baring their fangs.
“So interesting,” the boy toy said. “Perhaps she can settle our dispute. See, Cheyenne here contends that a woman should retain some hint of her natural state, while I firmly believe that
a female body should be bald from the eyebrows down. Care to opine?”
Aha. Clearly he was some kind of idiot. I had no time for that nonsense. I looked directly at him, holding his stare for a full five seconds, then deliberately turned my back to him. Augustine and I walked away.
“Well done,” Augustine whispered.
“Who were they?”
“Nobody important.”
An elegant African American woman was making her way toward us. She wore a pink dress, not the overwhelming bright pink of Pepto-Bismol, but the gentle pastel pink a mere shade redder than white. The dress, slightly looser than a mermaid shape, hugged her statuesque frame. A half cape spilled from her shoulder, giving her a regal air. From the distance she looked ageless, but now, close up, I could see she was probably twice my age.
Augustine bowed his head. “Lady Azora.”
“May I borrow you for a moment, Augustine?” She glanced at me.
Augustine also glanced at me.
“Of course,” I said.
“Thank you, my dear,” Lady Azora told me.
They strolled away.
I turned so I could keep them in my view without staring at Augustine’s back. A man emerged from behind a group of people. African American, in his mid-thirties, he moved with an athletic grace, walking until he stopped next to me. Or rather loomed. He had to be three or four inches over six feet tall. Every tuxedo and suit in this place was custom-made, but his must’ve taken a couple of extra yards to accommodate his height and broad shoulders. His hair was cropped very short, and an equally short goatee beard and mustache traced his jaw, cut with razor-sharp precision. Our stares met. An agile intellect shone from his dark eyes. One look and you knew that he wasn’t just intelligent, he was sharp and shrewd. He wouldn’t mow down his opposition. He would disassemble it.
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