The Enigma: Unlawful Men Book 2

by Malpas, Jodi Ellen

  “I’ll see you next week, Beau.” Dr. Fletcher unravels her long legs and stands, placing her journal on the glossy wooden table between the couches. “It would be lovely to hear if you’d tried something new.”

  “Like?” I ask as I swing my purse onto my shoulder.

  “Dinner in a restaurant. Drinks in a bar. Maybe even seeing your aunt perform in one of her shows.”

  “I thought you’d learned to manage your expectations.” I give her a wry smile, and she gives me a bright one. It’s dazzling. I can’t remember the last time I smiled so wide my face hurt. It makes me want to punch her more.

  It was with Mom. The last time I smiled that brightly, it was with Mom.

  “I won’t give up on you, Beau,” she says.

  Isn’t that what every therapist should say to their patient? “That’s sweet.” If wasted. “Goodbye.” I leave her office and make my way down the stairs, and the moment I burst out of the door, I take in air urgently, as if I could have been holding my breath for the past forty-five minutes.

  Sad truth is, I feel like I’ve been holding my breath every minute of every day for two years. I can’t remember what it feels like to breathe easy. To not have to think about each inhale and every exhale, just to make sure I’m actually alive.

  And then the inevitable sinking of my heart when I realize I am.

  It’s a vicious cycle. A continuous, torturous, dizzying merry-go-round I can’t get off.

  Misery.

  * * *

  Bang!

  I jump out of my skin, despite expecting the ear-piercing boom, as I pull up at the back of Hardy’s Hardware store. I have to take a few moments for my heart to settle down. Every damn time.

  I push back the impending flashback and open my eyes, finding an elderly lady with a hand on her chest. “Sorry.” I smile mildly as I shut off the engine of my dilapidated Mustang and get out. I don’t bother locking my car, never do, and wander into the store. The smell. I take a moment to breathe it in. Paint, metal, wood—a heady mixture that never fails to ease me.

  I spot Mr. Hardy behind the counter winding rope around his hand, his coveralls decorated with years’ worth of service to downtown Miami. His gray, wiry hair is in his eyes, his beard looking like it needs a good groom. When he looks up, his eyes shine, and I make my way over and lean on the counter, forcing myself to not look at the rope and instead helping myself to one of the mints he keeps in a jar by the ancient cash register.

  “Beau,” he says, his southern accent heavy. “How much oil is that old jalopy of yours going to spill on the road outside my store today?”

  I crunch into the mint, making him wince. “My car cries, Mr. Hardy. It cries because everyone is mean to it.”

  He chuckles and sets aside his wound rope before claiming a mint for himself, though he doesn’t crunch into it, his false teeth preventing him. “How’s business, Beau?”

  “Slow,” I admit, blasé. “I’m not worried. Something will come up soon.”

  “Then why are you here?”

  “Aunt Zinnea wants me to redecorate her bedroom.” I reach for one of the paint samples and start flicking through. It doesn’t need decorating. I only did it a few months ago, but, apparently, she’s bored of the canary-yellow and turquoise stripes. It has nothing to do with the fact that she’s trying to keep me busy. “My specification in sumptuous and sexy.”

  Mr. Hardy laughs and leans over to scan the colors with me. “I’d expect nothing less from your aunt Zinnea. What about that one?” He points to a deep pink that’s right up Zinnea’s street.

  I cock my head, considering what I could match it with. “Midnight blue,” I say, turning the samples in search of a suitable hue. I spot it in a heartbeat, the perfect shade. “I’ll have a gallon of each.”

  On an agreeable nod, Mr. Hardy makes his way to the paint mixing machine and starts to load it up, while I head to the first aisle to collect a new brush, the same type of brush I’ve always used. The brush Mom insisted on. The brush that helped make me a half decent decorator. But the space where it should be is bare. “Mr. Hardy.” I poke my head around the end of the aisle. “Where are the two-inch natural bristled brushes?”

  “Ah.” He looks up as he slips a tin of white base into the mixing machine. “Discontinued.”

  “What?” Is that panic rising in me? It’s my signature brush. The only brush I can use to cut in—to achieve a perfect straight line. Mom tried plenty of others. None compare. “They can’t discontinue our brush.”

  “I’ll let them know,” he replies sardonically, shutting the door of the mixing machine and settling in front of the computer, tapping in the codes for the shades I’ve ordered.

  My shoulders drop, and I go back to the shelf, frowning as I finger through a few other brushes. I pull down a lame alternative and make a mental note to search Google when I get home. A pang of guilt grabs me as I pick up some new paint trays and roller covers before making my way down the aisle. I shouldn’t be resorting to the Internet. It feels like a betrayal. Mr. Hardy’s store has been nestled in between two old factories downtown for over forty years. It’s the only place I use to buy my decorating supplies—support your locals, as Mom taught me. Plus, it’s calming in here. And it’s never crowded. “But he doesn’t have our brush, Mom,” I say quietly, browsing the shelves, as if I don’t know what’s on each and every one.

  I stop in front of the utility knives, my head tilting.

  Keep walking.

  A few paces more, I come to the rope section. Rope of various thicknesses. Various colors. Various strengths. I reach forward and pull at one of the thickest options. The strongest option.

  Keep walking.

  I make haste to the front of the store and place my replacement brush on the counter with a little pout as the paint mixing machine starts jolting around, and the store is filled with the whirling and banging sounds. “I suppose this one will have to do,” I shout over the noise.

  “Broaden your horizons, Beau,” Mr. Hardy replies, frowning at the machine as it jumps toward him. That machine has been on its last legs for as long as I can remember, but since I’m the only one who ever requires paint mixing, Mr. Hardy—understandably—is reluctant to replace it.

  “Mr. Hardy, when are you going to retire?” He must be in his mid-seventies by now, and I know for a fact his business limps along. I’m his best customer. I could be his only customer. I never see anyone else in here.

  “And do what?” he asks, shutting the machine off and swinging the door open.

  “Relax. Take up a hobby.”

  He lifts another tub of white base into the machine and taps a few more buttons on the computer before shutting the door and turning it on. “My hobby is working.” He lifts the lid of the first tub, and we’re blinded by the brightness of the pink.

  “Perfect,” we say in unison.

  While Mr. Hardy sees to the rest of my paint, I help myself to a bag and load my buys in, and then flick through a local newspaper that’s sitting with a pile of others on the counter. My scanning eyes stop flitting when an article catches my attention, and I zoom in on the mug shot of a man I recognize. “Jesus,” I whisper, laying out the paper so I can read the report.

  “Oh yes,” Mr. Hardy pipes in, and I look up to see he’s looking at the mug shot too. “They dragged his body out of the river.”

  “The Snake. Mom was tracking him for years,” I say quietly, swallowing hard. “He always managed to slip through her fingers.”

  Mr. Hardy smiles sympathetically. “Well, whoever sliced his throat before they tossed him in the river certainly didn’t let him slip through their fingers.”

  “Sliced throat?” I ask, going back to the report.

  “Yes. And the tongue that ordered all those deaths? Cut out. They reckon he’s been at the bottom of the river for a couple of years at least.”

  “Nice.”

  “Indeed.” Another sympathetic smile. I know what’s coming, but before I can stop him,
he asks. “What do you think Jaz would have made of it?” He flicks his head in the direction of the newspaper, and I look at the image again.

  “I think she would have been pissed off that someone killed him before she could put him before a judge and jury.” Actually, I don’t think. I know. Mom always said justice wasn’t served by death. It was served by being locked up until death. It was served by being in fear of your life on the inside, where there were endless blood-thirsty inmates just waiting to put you below them in the pecking order. Mark their territory. Wield their power. Justice was served with legal justice. Once upon a time, I would have agreed. Now? Now I don’t believe in justice at all.

  “What do you have in that bag?” Mr. Hardy asks as he makes his way back with my second color. I start to fold the newspaper, but something else catches my eye. Another report, one about a local businessman. My father. My lip naturally curls. There he is, all suited and booted, standing outside a brand-new building down on South Beach looking proud. A building he built. I read the article with a scowl, the journalist harping on about my dad’s charity donations and service to the community making my eyes roll. He’s just trying to crush his guilt. Redeem himself. Lessen the chances of him going to hell by doing all these good deeds.

  “Is that your dad, Beau?”

  “Yeah, that’s my father,” I breathe, shutting the paper on his face. “Or Saint Thomas, if you prefer.” I place it back on the pile as Mr. Hardy chuckles and pulls his pocketknife from his coveralls, levering off the lid of my second color.

  “Very nice.”

  I crane my neck to see. “She’ll love it.” I pull my credit card from my bag. “I have two large trays, two roller covers, and two non-Beau/Jaz brushes.” I smile sweetly as he rings it through the till.

  “Seventy-four bucks on the dot, but we’ll call it seventy for the inconvenience.” He reaches for his beard and starts his customary stroking as I pay and claim my buys. “Good to see you, Beau.”

  “And you, Mr. Hardy. Don’t work too hard.”

  He laughs as I leave, the bell on the door dinging loudly. I load my things into the back seat of my car, yanking the driver’s seat into place with a loud huff.

  It bangs. I wince.

  It clicks into place. I sigh.

  Jumping in, I turn the key in the ignition and start my usual chanting mantra. “Come on, Dolly, you can do it. Come on. Come on. Come on.”

  Bang!

  She roars to life, and I chug off down the road, calling Nath to let him know I’m on my way.

  I pull up behind Nath’s car at the backstreet diner, and the moment Dolly declares her arrival with another bang, he gets out of his BMW and starts shaking his head. “It makes no sense that you have that car,” he says as I wander over, pulling my sleeve farther down my arm until I’m able to grip it with my fingers pressed into my palm. My move doesn’t escape Nath’s notice. “I know it’s sentimental and all, but the damn thing scares the shit out of you every time you start the engine.

  “I’m used to it,” I lie. I’ll never get used to the bangs, but I’ll also never get rid of Dolly. “How are you?” I reach up and kiss his cheek, and his arm comes around my back, rubbing me in that friendly way he does.

  “Chasing my tail with numerous cases.” He pulls his phone out and checks it before sliding it back into his inside pocket. “It looks busy today,” he says, tilting his head toward the diner. “You want to sit outside?”

  I look through the window and see the space crowded with people around most tables. “Yeah,” I reply, taking a seat in the less busy space on the sidewalk.

  “Usual?” he asks, heading inside. Because he knows I won’t.

  I nod, pulling up the parking app on my phone and paying for thirty minutes on my car.

  Nath is back with our drinks by the time I’m done. “So come on,” he prompts, stirring three sugars into his coffee. “I know you weren’t aching to see my face.”

  I purse my lips. I would ask myself if I’m that transparent, but with Nath I know I am. “Any news on the appeal?” I ask. My stomach flips in anticipation of his answer. Always does.

  “No news, Beau. I could have told you that over the phone.”

  My shoulders drop. “I was aching to see your face,” I say, and he laughs a little. “How long could it possibly take to give a straight yes or no? Yes, your appeal has been accepted. No, it hasn’t.”

  “You know it’s all political in the force. The red tape is never ending. One person says yes, the next overrules them.” He leans forward, and I see that dreaded sympathy veil his features.

  “Don’t look at me like that,” I warn.

  “Like what?”

  “Like you’re about to tell me not to hold out hope.”

  He sighs. “It was cut and dry.”

  My teeth clench. “It was a fucking cover-up, Nath. That’s what it was. Cars just spontaneously combust on their own, do they?”

  “The tank was leaking, Beau. Forensics proved it.”

  “On a one-year-old government issued Audi? Come on, Nath.”

  “And she was smoking in the vehicle.”

  “So it’s Mom’s fault?” I grate, my fingers aching. I look down and find my knuckles white from my grip on the cup, and I loosen it, circulating some blood. I honestly can’t recall seeing her smoking in the car that night. All I remember is the terror emblazoned across her face. She knew something was about to happen.

  “I didn’t say that.” Nath sighs again. “Beau, you’ve got to let this lie or you’ll drive yourself crazy.”

  “Been there,” I mumble despondently, and he reaches over, taking my hand.

  “Don’t go there again.” The empathy on his face serves only to anger me. And that’s not fair on Nath. He was a great friend of Mom’s. The best partner. “Jaz would have wanted you to live. She’d want you back on the force.”

  “Nath,” I lean over the table. “Something isn’t right.”

  “Fucking hell, since when did you become a conspiracy theorist? Choose your battles, Beau.”

  I retreat and finger my cup of coffee, admitting defeat. Just for now. “I heard you finally tracked down The Snake.”

  “Yeah, at the bottom of the river. Someone obviously didn’t get the memo that he was wanted alive or alive.”

  “Someone obviously wanted him dead more than the police wanted him alive.” I raise an eyebrow, and Nath laughs under his breath. “He didn’t slither away from whoever murdered him, eh?” I go on. “So who do you think killed him before Mom caught him?”

  “You know I can’t discuss that.”

  “Pretend I’m Mom.” I lean in. “Was it The Bear? Did he turn on him? Or did The Enigm—”

  “Your mom is dead, Beau,” Nath breathes, and I wince. “Shit, I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t worry about it.” I smile, and it takes every bit of effort. “I guess it never leaves you, huh?”

  “Once a cop, always a cop.” He smiles and tests his coffee before downing it and pulling out his cell. “Break time’s up.” He groans, standing and making his way to my side. He dips and kisses my cheek before resting a light palm over my wrist. He always does that. Like he can rub away the aftermath. “Ollie says hi.”

  I roll my eyes. “Anything else to add that might cheer me up?”

  “He’s still not over you.”

  “That was a rhetorical question.”

  “I know.” Nath answers his phone and strides off, jumping in his car and pulling away fast. I don’t hang around to let my thoughts wander to my ex-fiancé. I leave my coffee practically untouched and head for Dolly, sliding in and starting her up. “Come on,” I say quietly as she coughs and splutters. “Come on, come on, come on.”

  I stop forcing her to life when smoke starts to billow from beneath the hood. Smoke. So much smoke. An ear-piercing bang, and then . . . smoke. I inhale. Swallow. Push my fist into the side of my head.

  I can’t breathe.

  Can’t see.

  Can�
��t get to Mom.

  Beau!

  My body slams back into the seat, my breathing quick, and I physically shake myself away from the flashback, glancing around, checking my surroundings. Checking the sleeve of my shirt isn’t melting or my flesh isn’t burning. “Jesus,” I breathe, taking a moment to gather myself. When will these flashbacks stop haunting me?

  I get out, wiping away the sheen of sweat from my brow, forcing myself back to the present. As I’ve been told, I take deep breaths with my eyes closed, trying to find my center. Breathe. Just, breathe. I wait until the shaking stops and I can inhale without shuddering.

  I open my eyes and frown. “Well, that doesn’t look good.” I know this car inside out. I know when it’s going to shout, splutter, cough, jerk. But this smoke? That’s new.

  On a sigh, I pull out my cell and go to my contacts. Then Favorites. He’s at the top. Reg the Rescue Truck.

  He answers in two rings. “Where are you?”

  “Downtown.”

  “Fred’s Diner?”

  “Yep.” I’m not embarrassed. That stopped the fourth time Reg rescued me. Now Reg and I are firm friends.

  “I’m at the Starbucks drive-thru. A few minutes away. Vanilla latte?”

  I drop into the driver’s seat. He doesn’t even tell me I need to get rid of Dolly anymore. “Love one.” I hang up and turn on the radio, sighing when David Bowie’s Heroes joins me. Granted, he’s a bit fuzzy and the crackly reception would be annoying for many, but crackly and fuzzy is my life these days. I relax back, glancing at my phone when it starts vibrating in my hand. I frown at the unfamiliar number and quieten Bowie. “Hello?”

  “Hi, it’s me,” a man says.

  I cock my head. “Who’s me?”

  “Me.”

  I pull my phone away from my ear and look down at the number again. Definitely not familiar. And as for the British accent? Never heard it. “Again, who’s me?” I ask.