The Enigma: Unlawful Men Book 2

by Malpas, Jodi Ellen

  He looks shell-shocked. “Sure,” he replies, gathering himself. “Can I drop you anywhere?”

  “I have my car.” I point aimlessly to a wall. “Up the road, but thanks.” This is getting more awkward by the second, and in an effort to try and kill it, I step forward and kiss his cheek, a better attempt to convince him that I’m fine. I’m not fine. Not at all.

  I only intended to make it chaste, but James grabs me and holds me close, deepening our connection. I’m literally a prisoner in his arms. I try so hard to match his soft swirling tongue, but my mind is elsewhere, and I never would have thought it possible while James kissed me. It’s disheartening on so many levels, because isn’t it the whole fucking point of seeing him?

  “I have to go,” I whisper, wedging my palms into his chest and pushing him back.

  I turn. Walk away.

  And I don’t look back.

  42

  JAMES

  I’m left in the lobby of the building with a scowl bigger than Miami. What the fuck just happened? I don’t waste too much time wondering. I follow her, keeping a safe distance. She rounds a corner, her pace hurried, and I watch in fascination as she constantly zigzags from one side of the road to the other. She crosses the street three times by the time she’s made it to the end of the road. She’s avoiding the crowded pavement. Removing herself from the busy sides of the street as and when needed. And she wants to live here?

  She zips around the corner, and when I make it there, she’s halfway up the next street. I spot her clapped-out muscle car in the distance. “Shit,” I mutter, mentally locating my own car. Half a mile away. I pull out my mobile and call Goldie, spewing my exact location.

  “I’m two minutes away,” she says.

  “Make it one.” I glance up and down the street, assessing my situation. Beau will be gone in less than a minute, even in that old jalopy she calls a car. “Fuck.” I spot a grocery store across the road, the outside lined with carts of fresh fruit and veg.

  Stall her.

  I rush over, grab the side of a cart, and upend it, sending the endless piles of fruit spilling into the road. I hear the sound of brakes immediately, a cab screeching to a halt in the middle of the road, its horn blaring. The traffic is soon backed up, Beau’s car trapped in its parking space. I go back to my phone, dialing Goldie as I pace up the street. “Come in on the north end.” By the time I’ve made it to the end of the street, keeping close to the buildings, Goldie is stuck ten cars back in the jam.

  I hop in the passenger seat.

  “What’s going on?” she asks, crawling forward with the traffic, craning her neck to see down the street.

  “Not a fucking clue. She was fine, she took a call, and then she bolted.” I motion to her car up front, the nose butting out of the space.

  “And what was she doing here?”

  “Looking at an apartment she won’t be buying.” I pull on my seatbelt as Goldie starts to creep forward. I can feel her worried attention splitting between me and the road. “Don’t say a thing.”

  “Fuck you,” she says on a laugh. “What are you thinking?”

  Thinking? Am I thinking at all? My mind is as tangled as fuck. “Just follow her,” I mutter as the traffic breaks and we start to pick up speed. Someone up front give’s Beau the right of way, and she pulls out, startling everyone within half a mile radius when her car backfires.

  “Fuck me,” Goldie breathes, and I nod in agreement, my eyes laser beams on the death trap up ahead carrying Beau to . . . where?

  I don’t know, but I’m fucking raging.

  43

  BEAU

  I rumble down the cobbled street toward Nath’s place—a converted attic space above a row of garages—and turn off Dolly’s engine, getting out and putting all my weight behind me to shut the door. I look up at the Juliet balcony. No lights are on. It’s not dark, but there’s definitely not enough natural light to warrant that.

  I approach the door and knock, unable to shake off the lingering sense of caution since I took his call, every inch of me dreading what he has to tell me. I hear no movement beyond. No doors opening or feet coming down the stairs. I knock again and frame my eyes, squinting as I try to see past the opaque glass of his door. Nothing.

  I pull back, thoughtful, my mind racing. “Where are you?” I say to myself, knocking again, this time harder, more relentlessly. Shit, I need to rein myself in. What would the old Beau do? Once a cop . . .

  I can’t think straight. “Nath?” I call, stepping back and peeking up at the window. “Nath!”

  No Nath.

  Pulling out my cell, I dial him, checking the street for his car. No car. But it could be in his garage. His phone goes to voicemail, but I don’t leave a message. Instead, I try knocking again. And again and again and again. “God damn it,” I mutter, trying someone else instead, my worry multiplying with each minute that passes and no appearance or word from Nath.

  Ollie answers immediately. “Hey, it’s Beau.” I start pacing outside Nath’s front door, up and down, constantly looking at the window. “Have you spoken to Nath today?”

  “Yeah, only a while ago actually.”

  “Where?”

  “At the office.”

  “And he was okay?”

  “Yeah, I think so.”

  “You sure?”

  “Beau, what’s with the twenty questions?” Ollie asks, exasperated.

  I shake my head, exhaling heavily, trying to find reason and expel my worry. “I was supposed to meet him at his place. He’s not here.”

  “Hey, I’m sure it’s nothing to worry about,” he says gently. But Ollie doesn’t know what I know. I pause for thought. What exactly do I know?

  “I’ve called him repeatedly.”

  “He’s probably been called to a scene.”

  I realize everything Ollie is saying is reasonable and, I pray, true. There have been plenty of times Nath and I have had arrangements that have changed at the last minute because something came up at work. A dead body. An armed robbery. But he always called. Or texted. “Can you check?” I ask, aware I’m clutching at straws. There was a time Ollie would have told me anything I wanted to know, because I was one of them. Not anymore.

  “You know I can’t, Beau.”

  I laugh under my breath. “You can, and you would have if I was still a cop.”

  There’s silence for a few beats, silence except for me hammering on Nath’s front door again. “Let me see what I can find out,” he says, defeated.

  My hand stops just shy of the wood again. “Thank you.”

  “No problem. Now go home before one of Nath’s neighbors puts a call in to the police.”

  “He has no neighbors,” I point out, scanning the row of garages that Nath’s apartment is spread over. If he had neighbors, I would have hammered on their door as well to see if they’d seen or heard from him.

  “Go home, Beau,” Ollie says gently. “I’ll call you.”

  I relent, backing up to my car, my eyes taking one last glance up at the window. “I’m going.” Hanging up, I get in Dolly and start her up, worried out of my mind.

  What would have Nath so damn rattled?

  44

  JAMES

  I slowly move out of the recess, watching her chug up the road. Goldie pulls up beside me, her window down. “Stay with her,” I order, and she speeds off immediately, no questions asked. She senses something’s not right, and it’s not just my foul mood.

  I cast my eyes across to the mews apartment spanning the row of garages. Assess the roof. The windows. The front door. After a quick scope of the area for cameras and people, I walk casually over the road, pulling out my wallet and a credit card. I tug my shirt out of my trousers and push my hand into one of the tails, taking hold of the handle, slipping the card into the small gap by the lock and sliding it up a fraction. The door releases, and I hold it open only an inch, waiting for any chimes to indicate an alarm. Nothing. I peek through, searching for sensors. Nothing.


  Pushing my way in, I elbow the door closed again, listening carefully. Silence.

  I climb the stairs up to the apartment slowly, quietly, on high alert. It leads to an open plan space at the top, and the first thing that hits me is how immaculate the room is. I would have put my life on the fact a woman lives here. Until I see the art on walls. All women. All naked. All abstract.

  But no photographs. I wander through the kitchen space, the counters sparse, and into a bedroom. Definitely a bloke’s bedroom. A laptop sits on a chair in the corner, and I wander over, crouching before it. I hit a button with my knuckle, and the screen comes to life, just as my phone starts vibrating in my pocket. I dig it out. “Otto,” I say, staring at the empty box requesting a password.

  “The burner phone that received the message from The Snake’s cell ordering Jaz Hayley’s death.”

  “What about it?”

  “It was switched on briefly last night.”

  I stand slowly, my eyes darting. “Trace it.”

  “Done,” Otto mutters, always one step ahead. “I’m texting you the address.” My phone dings, and I pull it away from my ear, opening the message. “I’m running a search to find out who lives there,” he goes on.

  “The fuck?” I breathe, looking up and glancing around.

  “You recognize it?”

  “Motherfucker.”

  “I’ll take that as a yes.”

  “I’m at that address now.”

  “What?”

  “I’m there. Standing in the bedroom.”

  “Are you fucking joking?”

  “No, who the fuck lives here, Otto?” I ask, going to the window and checking the street below.

  “Give me a sec, it’s just coming thro . . .” He fades off, and my heart pumps faster as a result. “Fuck.”

  “What?”

  “You’re in FBI Agent Nathan Butler’s apartment.”

  Ice glides through my veins. “Butler is their inside man.” I hang up and call Goldie, going to the nightstand and pulling open the drawer, rifling through. Nothing.

  I slam it as Goldie answers. “She’s heading east,” she tells me. “Home?”

  “Nathan Butler’s their inside man,” I spit urgently, stalking out of the bedroom. “Do not let Beau out of your sight.” Fuck me, all this time, her friend?

  I hang up and leave, my mind in chaos, constantly circling around the fact that Butler called Beau and she came straight here.

  To kill her?

  45

  BEAU

  On my drive home, I battled with the pull of the steering wheel, fighting the urge to head to James’s and find my escape. A swift recap of my earlier conclusions soon pulled me into line. It also brought the unreasonable feeling of resentment crashing back. He’s a dad. A father. He’s responsible for a person and, God save my soul, I’m injured that that person isn’t me. That all his attention and dedication can’t be just for me—to free me, to take me away, to distract me from life. Anger rises. It’s unreasonable, but I can’t stop it.

  I park Dolly, pull my purse onto my shoulder, checking my cell for the thousandth time, and trudge up the path as I try Nath once again. No answer.

  I still at the front door when a message flashes up from James.

  Hope your friend is okay. Come over when you’re done.

  I reply before I can talk myself out of it.

  I’m home now. Tired. Speak soon.

  I hit send and cringe all over my cell. Speak soon? There are a thousand meanings in those two words, and none of them mean I want to speak soon. No child needs my brokenness in their life.

  The moment I open the front door, I see Lawrence coming out of the lounge, and he stops, taking me in, his persona no less hostile than this morning. The atmosphere is spikey, the air tense. “Hi,” I say, closing the door, trying to break the ice.

  He nods and continues to the kitchen, looking back over his shoulder. He smiles. It’s small. Nervous. I cock my head in question, and he inhales. “What’s up?” I ask. Perhaps it’s a silly question, given the words we’ve had recently, but that smile? It was apologetic. I pick up my pace and the moment I’m on the threshold of the kitchen, the lingering, crappy atmosphere explodes.

  “Dad,” I mumble, seeing my father at the table with Dexter.

  “Hello, Beau,” he says, not getting up to greet me. To hug me. To kiss me. He hasn’t seen me in over a year, and all I get is a hello. Not that I want anything more. Not that I expect it. But still, every single time we’re in this place of awkwardness, I wonder why he finds it so fucking hard to embrace me.

  “I’ll make tea,” Lawrence sings, starting to clang and clatter around the kitchen, his nerves shot. It only serves to piss me off more. He shouldn’t have invited this man into his home. Not only because of what my father’s done, but because of how he treats Lawrence. It’s nighttime. He should be Zinnea right now, vivacious, bright, and loud. But he’s not. He’s Lawrence, and not even the true version.

  All because this man is here.

  My teeth grate, and every transgression my father is guilty of steamrolls through my mind. His affair, his abandonment of me and Mom. His absence when she was taken from me. His absence when I hit rock bottom.

  “No tea,” I say to Lawrence, my burning eyes on my dad. No. He’s not my dad. He’s a man I’m sorry I used to love. A man I’m sorry I wasted any time on at all, wondering what was wrong with me. Wondering why I wasn’t good enough. Why he struggles so terribly to give me any affection or praise. The more his success and power built over the years, the less loving he became. His gain. My loss. “What do you want?”

  He laughs, and it’s nervous. My dad isn’t the nervous kind. He’s bold and unapologetic. He’s thoughtless and insensitive. Then I realize something is missing, and I scan the kitchen, looking for her. For what point, I don’t know. You’d spot Dad’s girlfriend in a crowd of a million, with her masses of fake blonde hair and rubber lips. “Where’s Amber?”

  “She’s shopping with friends.”

  “I’ll make tea,” Lawrence says again, making more noise. I peek at Dexter. He looks about as comfortable as a cow outside a steak house.

  “You didn’t call about dinner,” Dad says, standing from his chair and fastening the jacket of his expensive suit. “I thought you might be free now.”

  “I’m not,” I say automatically, cringing the moment the words fall out of my mouth.

  “But you just got home.”

  “I’m going back out.” I smile awkwardly, thumbing over my shoulder. “I have plans with a friend.”

  “Oh.” He looks truly disappointed, and for the first time when dealing with my father, I feel guilty. And I hate myself for that because he feels no guilt at all. “You can’t rearrange?”

  Not for you.

  His eyes drop to my wrists, and I instinctively pull the sleeves of my shirt down, glancing across to Lawrence, who’s eyes are nailed on my wrists too. He looks up at me, and I know immediately he’s been telling tales on me. My jaw rolls, the anger I was feeling doubling. How could he? My father does not need more ammunition to persecute me. He doesn’t need reasons to label me unstable and have me committed. Not for my own good, but for his. His image. His ego. To get me out of the way.

  “I’m afraid not,” I say quietly.

  “Who’s your friend?” he asks, his tone accusing.

  I can’t believe Lawrence has thrown me under the bus. My father has no right to information on my private life. He surrendered that when he walked out on Mom and abandoned me in my darkest hour. “No one you know.” Good God, someone get me away before my head explodes.

  “I heard you missed your session with Dr. Ferguson.”

  “How did you hear that?” I ask, knowing Lawrence couldn’t have betrayed me to that extent because I didn’t tell him. “You called her, didn’t you? She’s breaching patient confidentiality telling you that.”

  “She didn’t tell me.”

  The devious fuck
er. “I need to go, I’ll be late.”

  “I’m here in peace, Beau,” Dad calls. “Why can’t you accept that? I just want my little girl back.”

  “I’m not a little girl, Dad.”

  “You’ll always be my little girl.”

  “So where were you when Mom died? And when I was in the psychiatric hospital?” He was busy making millions and rubbing shoulders with the best of them. His unstable daughter would have tarnished his sparkly reputation. “You had me sent there and just left me. No support. No love. And worse still, you told anyone who asked that I was on vacation.” I had never felt so desperately alone, terrified . . . abandoned.

  He has the decency to look ashamed. “I can make up for my wrongs. I should have been there for you.” He takes another step forward, and before I know it, I’m wrapped in his arms, his lips on the back of my head. And I soften. For the first time in years, I soften against my father. “I will make it up to you.”

  Tears. Wretched tears pool in my eyes, and I lift my arms, clinging to him. “Okay,” I agree easily. And at the same time, I wonder . . . is this all I needed to help fix me? My dad’s apologies? His comfort?

  He breaks away and takes my cheeks in his palms, smiling down at me. His dark eyes, an unmistakable match to mine, shine at me. “Come to dinner with me.”

  “Where?”

  “A little Italian downtown. Lovely place. I’m meeting a friend, and I’d love you to meet him.”

  “Who is he?”

  He smiles, but it’s unsure. “Frazer Cartwright.”

  I recoil, backing out of his arms. “The journalist?”

  Dad shifts a little, uncomfortable. “He’s a friend.”

  Is he for fucking real? Journalists aren’t friends. They’re a means to an end for men like my father. My God, what was I thinking? This man is incapable of changing. “Mom might have agreed to put on a show for you so your reputation wasn’t tainted when you left her, but you won’t get the same cooperation from me.” I turn, begging my feet to keep moving. The alternative would be to go back and trash the kitchen, and it’s not the kitchen’s fault.