by Shandi Boyes
Shit. I assumed her extensive knowledge on Marcus Saturday night meant she was aware of the investigation. I had no clue I would be the one breaking the news.
After swallowing down the unease lodged in my throat, I mumble, “Yes.”
I’m expecting Cartier to sigh in disappointment, or at the very least voice anger about people’s right to privacy, and how they shouldn’t be judged or ridiculed because of their sexual proclivities. She does nothing of the sort. She merely looks me straight in the eyes and says,
“Give me everything you have. All of it, Cleo. By the end of today, there will be no story.”
10
“I’ve got it,” says Cartier, her voice sounding more like a ticket hackler in Yankee stadium, than showing the refinement it usually holds. “I don’t know how I bloody missed it, but now it's as clear as day.”
The past several hours of research must be taking its toll on Cartier. From her dark-ringed eyes and gaunt expression, I'd say I wasn't the only one burning the candle at both ends last night. She looks as wretched as I feel. Even Brodie appears exhausted. He is slumped on a body-hugging chair, basking in the rapidly setting sun. If I didn't hear his faint snoring, I'd be none the wiser that he was napping.
My aching muscles squeal in protest when I stand from my seat to take up the vacant spot next to Cartier. She has numerous print outs of the Chains' event I attended last week, but the one she is holding in her hand is the group photo of Marcus, Keira and Mr. Carson taken at a charity event over twelve months ago. Following the direction of her gaze, I realize her eyes aren’t rapt on Marcus nor Mr. Carson; her gaze is firmly fixated on Keira.
Stumped as to why she believes this is the key to unlocking our confusion, I lift my eyes to her and say, “You’re going to need to fill me in. I’m a little lost.”
Cartier’s beautiful chuckle jingles into my ears, warming my heart and awakening Brodie. After scrubbing the back of his hand over his tired eyes, Brodie moves to join my intimate gathering with Cartier. I’m glad she and I managed to costar over the massive barrier I lodged between us this morning without too much drama. Cartier’s warranted unease only lasted the length of time it took for her to hear my quiet grumblings about Global Tens’ investigation into Chains while I was unpacking my box of goodies I took from my office when I was placed on suspension for striking Delilah.
“Look, darling. It’s Lauren Schwartz,” Cartier says, handing the photo to me.
I drop my eyes to scan the image once more, searching for the woman Cartier is referring to. “Who is Lauren Schwartz, and what does she have to do with this investigation?”
Cartier laughs harder. "Not Lauren Schwartz the person, Lauren Schwartz the thing. A wonderful thing only a small number of people can afford."
She extends her overly manicured index finger to a shimmering of glitter on a hand resting on the edge of Keira's small-framed hip. Although the image is bright enough to see the enormous diamond engagement ring nestled on a tiny finger, it does not indicate to whom the hand belongs as the owner has been cut from the photo.
“That's a one of a kind platinum ring encrusted with an Asscher-cut 18-carat diamond, specially designed by Lauren Schwartz,” Cartier explains.
“How can you be so sure?” I drag my face to within an inch of the image to inspect it properly. “There is no doubt that's a spectacular rock, but how do you know it belongs to Lauren Schwartz?”
Cartier cranks her head to the side. Her glare is so roasting, even if we were in the Antarctic, a coat would not be necessary. "I know my jewelry, darling. I was only researching new names last week. Lauren has a nice ring to it—no pun intended."
I giggle before handing the photo to Brodie as per his silent request. “Okay, so we know someone schmoozing Keira is extremely wealthy, but that doesn’t bring us any closer to discovering the link between Mr. Carson and Keira. Everyone at the charity campaign is wealthy.”
“But you wouldn’t cut just anyone out of a photo,” Brodie mutters more to himself than Cartier and me. “This was done on purpose.”
Brodie spins the photo around to face me before he glides his finger down a blurry section of the picture. "Someone used Photoshop to remove the person standing next to her. This photo would look more legitimate if they removed the hand curled around her waist."
"Exactly!" Cartier overemphasizes. "They assumed removing her face from the photo was stripping her of her identity, but they couldn't be any more wrong. That piece of jewelry is as identifying as a set of greasy fingerprints. We just need the right person to crack the code."
My pulse hastens when she secures her diamond-encrusted cell phone out of the pocket of her kimono and dials a number I know will haunt her for months to come.
"Phoebe," Henry Gottle answers not even two rings later. His deep, raspy voice bounces around the room on speakerphone. His voice is a flawless display of what you'd expect from a mob boss—sexy and dangerous. "It has been too long, my love. How are you?"
“Cut the crap, Henry. You know as well as anyone, Phoebe died a long time ago,” Cartier snaps down the phone, her tone forthright but jam-packed with emotions.
"Is that why you won't sign the divorce papers, because you're dead?" Henry retorts, his tone so low it spurs a smattering of goosebumps to race to the surface of my skin.
“No.” Cartier shakes her head, sending a rustle of blonde curls into her eyes. “It's to stop any other fool making the same mistake I did.”
“Mistakes have consequences—”
“And consequences have actions. I’ve heard it all before, Henry. I don’t need to hear it again,” Cartier interrupts.
Henry sighs. If I hadn’t read the many horrendous things he has done the past forty years of his life on the commute to Cartier’s, I’d swear he was a man harboring a broken heart. “What do you want, Cartier?”
Cartier tries to snuff the flare of disappointment raring through her eyes from him addressing her by her infamous nickname, but she wasn't quick enough to entirely shut it down before I saw it. "I need the name, address, and contact details for a woman wearing a Lauren Schwartz ring."
“Seeking prospective gifts?” Although Henry only utters three words, the disdain in them made his sentence appear much longer.
“If I said yes, would you give me the information?”
Henry takes his time configuring a response before he replies, “Have I stopped you yet?”
This time, Cartier sighs. “Can you get me the information I need, Henry? Or shall I contact someone from the Pop—”
"I'll get you the information you need," Henry snarls down the line, cutting Cartier off midsentence. "Give me everything you have, and one of my guys will call you in five minutes."
Henry kept his word. Within five minutes of Cartier relaying the dimension, cut, and size of the stone in the Lauren Schwartz ring, one of Henry's crew, Cooper, emailed Cartier the name, age, and address of the vanishing lady: Marissa Schulte, a forty-five-year-old native from the Upper West Side.
“That’s only half a block from here,” Cartier explains when I pull out my iPhone to look up her address.
Remaining quiet, Cartier continues scrolling through the email as Brodie and I peer over her shoulder. Cooper's dossier is so detailed, page after page of text on Marissa's day-to-day life flies by in an instant. If any of it's relevant, I wouldn't know, as Cartier’s eagerness to get to the numerous image attachments in the bottom of the cryptic email is stronger than my ability to speed read.
“Words are deciphered solely on how the reader chooses to translate them. Photos capture unsaid words. A look, a feeling, a moment in time no words could ever express. If you ever want to see someone’s true feelings, don’t ask them to articulate them, ask them to express them,” Cartier responds to my private grumbling.
I stop trying to unjumble her statement when an image of Marissa pops up on the screen. The first few photos were from years ago when Marissa was married. They are seemingly uninteresting. . .
until Cartier continues clicking. Not only does Marissa and Mr. Carson's relationship become exposed in the timeline of photos, so does my knowledge of why Marissa's face registered as familiar.
“I could be wrong, but I swear Marissa is the lady I met when Mr. Carson propositioned me to investigate the Chains story. She was the unnamed blonde who convinced them to have a set of eyes in the room.” I lock my eyes with Cartier. “Did Cooper’s dossier list an occupation?”
Brodie shakes his head, answering on behalf of Cartier. “From what I read while Cartier was scrolling, Marissa has been a stay-at-home mother since the birth of her daughter twenty-five years ago. She is on the board of numerous charities, but husband number three’s significant earnings ensure she doesn’t have to lift a finger if she doesn’t want to.”
“Have you met her, Cartier?” I ask, knowing she is a benefactor for hundreds of charities founded around the New York region.
“No. She must be new to the area. With her bank account that large, highfalutin’ snobs around here would have paraded her around for society to see if she’s been here longer than six months,” Cartier answers, nudging her head to a printout exposing Marissa’s net worth.
I choke on my spit, stunned by the number of zeros attached to the first three digits. "There is a decimal point there somewhere, right? My vision is just too poor to see it?"
Cartier remains quiet, but Brodie's response is less reserved. His chuckle rumbles out of his cracked lips before it bounces off the luxurious wallpapered walls to shrill into my ears.
My attempts at nipping his laughter in the bud with a quick kick are thwarted when my toe jabs into the thick wooden chair Cartier's silky derriere is sitting on.
“Ah… crapola,” I scream, wishing I could articulate the string of curse words running through my mind without fear of prosecution. “That. . . friggin hurt.”
“You really want to swear right now, don’t you?”
Gritting my teeth, I nod.
“Then, why don’t you?” Brodie is shocked.
Because Marcus has rules in place to discourage my love of profanity. Rules I don’t want to break since they all include some form of sexual deprivation.
Instead of expressing what I really want to say, I shrug my shoulders. Brodie peers at me as if I said my private thoughts out loud. Before a single accusation can be fired off his tongue, our attention reverts to Cartier when she says, “Here is the link you’ve been searching for, darling.”
“No way. That can’t be true,” I murmur as I peer at a photo of Marissa, Mr. Carson and Keira taken at the end of last year. “Mr. Carson only turned thirty last year. This can’t be right. There must be a mistake. There is no way Keira is Mr. Carson’s niece.”
I aim for my tone to come out firm and to the point, but the nerves jittering my stomach are uncontainable, coating every word I spoke with the quiver of panic. I'm fiercely protective of Lexi because she is my blood, so I have no doubt Mr. Carson's protectiveness of Keira is just as intense. Now his response last week makes sense. He saw the medical report on Keira's injuries. That's why he agreed to the Chains investigation. He's protecting his niece from what he assumes are monsters.
My eyes swing to Brodie when he says, “According to Cooper’s report, Marissa and Jack Carson have the same mother but different fathers. Marissa’s father passed away in a workplace incident when she was eight. Her mother remarried five years later; two years after that, she gave birth to a baby boy: Jack Carson.”
“So there is a fifteen-year gap between siblings?” I query, my brain too spent absorbing all the information I’m being handed to do simple math.
Brodie nods. “Marissa gave birth to Keira a few months shy of her twenty-first birthday. Jack was only five at the time. Keira is his niece.”
“Then why is that not common knowledge? None of the articles we have read the past five years mention that Mr. Carson has a niece.”
Cartier stands from her chair, her movements effortless and harmonious. After running her hand down my frazzled hair, she locks her glistening eyes with mine. "There is no rhyme or reason for the way people live their lives, which also means there is no motive for judgment either. They could have a very good reason why they kept their relationship out of the public eye."
When I attempt to interrupt, Cartier continues speaking, foiling my chance. "Look at you, darling; you're exhausted because you're working so hard to protect Marcus." She runs her index finger over the heavy bags under my eyes the best she can without gouging my eyes out with her chunky rings. "When you love someone, your sanity fluctuates between manic and frenzied, and sometimes the only way to calm the agitation is by concealing it. That logic doesn't just extend to partnerships; it's for everyone you love. Mothers, fathers, siblings. . ."
“Nieces,” we say at the same time.
“Yes,” Cartier agrees with a faint smile. “Now you just have to decide what you’re going to do with the information you’ve unearthed.”
I wait a beat, hoping a solution to my predicament will smack into me. It never comes.
“I don’t know what to do, Cartier. What would you do?” I ask, loathing that I’m leaving an important decision to a woman who was a stranger mere days ago, but adoring that we’ve created such a strong bond in a short period, I feel comfortable asking her this.
“Only you can make that decision, darling.” Cartier’s eyes dance between mine. “But let me say one thing: love is when another person’s happiness is more important than your own. When you truly love somebody, sometimes it takes big mistakes to figure that out. Then it often takes an even bigger mistake to fix the first mistake.”
My brow furrows as confusion stirs in my gut. “Why do I get the feeling our conversation just shifted away from Keira and Mr. Carson and reverted to Marcus and me?”
Cartier smiles sweetly, but it's the anxiety in her eyes causing my biggest worry. “Because no matter which path you choose to walk, controversy will follow you.”
“Why?” I query, genuine confusion echoed in my tone.
Warmth blooms across my chest when Cartier skims the back of her nearly translucent fingers over my cheek in the exact area Marcus always does. If I didn’t know any better, I’d swear she knew about my attack weeks ago.
"The most crucial mistake I made was when I was your age. I fell in love with a man whose heart belonged to another." She intertwines her fingers in front of her body before locking her glistening eyes with me. "My second was believing I could force him to love me even if his heart didn't belong to me. He married me to prove his devotion. He left me to verify mine."
"I'm so sorry, Cartier," I express, hating the absolute agony in her eyes. Although I don't know what I am sympathizing with, the pain radiating from her beautiful eyes warrants acknowledgment. "You're a beautiful person who deserves the world." I wave my hand around her opulent home. "You deserve even more than this."
“Thank you, darling.” She accepts my praise in a manner I’d hoped.
I do not mean to suck up; I just hate that my visit has caused a ripple in her previously calm waters. She was airy and carefree in the minutes leading up to my disclosure of her true identity. Now her eyes are so dull, it feels like I've sucked the life straight out of them.
Reading the guilt in my eyes for what it is, Cartier says, “Don’t feel bad, Cleo. My conversation with Henry was short but long overdue. Just knowing it helped Marcus immensely outweighs any negativity associated with it. It means more to me than any gift I’ve been given.” She takes my hands in hers and squeezes them. “Now I’ll award you with the same respect you bestowed upon me by trusting me to help you.”
Horrid unease twists from my stomach to my throat when she says, "Tread carefully, darling. Your heart is in the right place wanting to protect your Master, but that also means you're placing it in the line of fire. Have you ever heard of the saying, ‘To keep a secret is wisdom, but expecting others to keep it's madness?'"
I peer at her, blinking and
confused when she hands me the printout of Keira’s injuries from months ago. She stares at me, unmoving and unspeaking. Her eyes are soul-baring, but the worry in them doesn’t weaken their usual forthrightness. It feels like her silent warning is more based on Marcus and me than my fight against a man equally as powerful as the one I’m striving to vindicate.
“Look closely, darling. All the evidence you need is in your hands.”
After tapping the printout in my hand, she spins on her heels and exits the living room as quickly as she entered, leaving Brodie and me to devise our own way out.
11
“You alright, Cleo?”
After dragging my seatbelt over my erratically panting chest and clicking it in place, I raise my eyes to Brodie. He is watching me with the same set of worried eyes he's been directing at me the past hour. Although I could see a broad range of questions filtering through his eyes as we packed my belongings sprawled throughout Cartier's living room, these are the first words he has spoken to me since we unearthed the connection between Keira and Mr. Carson. He didn't even utter a syllable when our mad dash through a sprinkling of rain to his car drenched us head to toe. I expected a curse word—or the very least a grumble—he said nothing. His silence worries me more than the glint of anxiety in his eyes.
"Yeah, I was just thinking," I answer when the worry in Brodie’s narrowed gaze grows from my delay in responding.
A gathering of wrinkles pleat the corners of his eyes when he screws up his nose. “That’s your thinking face?”
His playfulness has the effect he was aiming for when I lean across the middle console to pop my fist into his thick bicep. I regret my decision when the thick ridges of his arm cause more damage to my hand than to him.
Grimacing, I cradle my injured hand with my uninjured one. "My god, did you pack rocks under your shirt this morning?" Unexpected laughter hinders my question.
