Wicked Sin

by Ainsley Booth

  You wouldn’t like yourself very much if you’d done that.

  True. But I’d probably be so drunk or high it wouldn’t matter.

  I lift my chin and stare my interrogator in the face. I have nothing to hide. “What else do you want to get recorded for posterity, Detective Vasquez?”

  “We spoke briefly about your affair with a married man.”

  A married man. Ha. If only it were that simple. “Yes.”

  “You indicated you didn’t believe that was connected to this incident.”

  “Correct.”

  “Are there any other affairs that we should know about?”

  Shame slams into me, and I can feel my cheeks getting hot. “None recently.”

  “Infidelity is a prime motive for violent crimes, Ms. Reid.”

  “Once upon a time, a long time ago, I had fucked up relationships with a lot of people. That all ended years ago. Now the only fucked up relationship I have is with myself. Okay?”

  “Sure.” He grabs a blank pad of lined paper and a pen, and shoves them across the table at me. “Could you make a list of everyone who might hate you?”

  “That’s hardly a scientific measure.” My palms go slick. Can I list them all? I’m not even sure I know all of their names.

  “Let’s call it a seven out of ten scale. Anyone who might have a higher than that level of outrage when your name comes up might be a suspect.”

  “No.” I swallow hard. “I’m not doing that.”

  “Who are you protecting?”

  “Nobody.” I rub my hands on my pants. Jesus, this is hard. “It’s a long list, maybe. But none of them are local. I’ve kept my head down, Detective. All of my enemies are on the east coast.”

  And in the past.

  I’m not naive enough—or egotistical enough—to think I’m a totally different person, but I have changed. I’m happy now, as much as that is possible.

  In order to get to this point, I had to reassess so much of my life. My relationship with my mother, first and foremost. And that spilled out beyond that to the rest of my family, my role in Washington society, how much I’d embraced my role as a socialite.

  Everything.

  I gave up social media, the limelight, and all contact with my family.

  But this is a test on a whole other level.

  How much am I willing to give up? How many secrets will I spill in order to protect myself?

  Not as many as Detective Vasquez would like, probably.

  I know what I need to do, and it breaks my heart. “You know what? I need to go home.”

  “We’ve been over this. You can’t leave. It’s not safe.”

  “Not to my apartment.” I take a deep breath. “I need to go to D.C. I need to find out what my sister knows. I don’t have enough information to answer your questions, Detective.”

  “I can’t let you do that.”

  I don’t know anything about jurisdictions. Maybe he can’t let me. But I’m going anyway, one way or another. “Then get those other people back in here, and we can talk about how I’m free to do whatever I want to do, and you can get out of my way.”

  His jaw flexes.

  Is that a sore point? I don’t care. “Crossing state lines makes it a federal investigation, doesn’t it, Detective? And the purview of the FBI?”

  “Not necessarily.” He looks at the mirrored glass.

  I lean in. “I thought you said you were in charge? Are they going to tell you no? Who’s making the decisions here?”

  His head whips around.

  Oh, yeah. I see him. I know him. He’s just the same as every other man I’ve ever had to manage. I don’t back down. “This is your case. Right? I think the answer to the question of who wants to kill me is in Washington. You can come with me if you want. Or do you need the big boys to take over?”

  “Don’t play me, Taylor.” His eyes glitter. “If you want to put yourself on the line, you’ll have to do it by my rules. I’m in charge.”

  “Of course.” I swallow hard. “That’s just the way I like it.”

  9

  Luke

  Washington D.C.

  We get on the last flight out that night. Taylor sleeps the whole way.

  I mainline coffee and settle in for some serious reading. Apparently, I don’t know enough about the Dashford Reid family.

  By the time we land in Washington, dawn has broken, and I have more questions than answers—but the answers I do have disturb me.

  Taylor’s father is a long-time friend of Gerome Lively, a disgraced billionaire charged a few years ago with multiple sex trafficking charges by the FBI in Florida. After her sister Hailey was kidnapped by some of his associates, his other crimes came to light.

  But the guy got off with a slap on the wrist, thanks to a federal prosecutor who now has a high-ranking position in the administration of President Victor Best—another life-long friend of the family’s.

  President Best and Amelia Dashford Reid, Taylor’s mother, were once close.

  Who the fuck knows, maybe they still are.

  And I got all of that from a combination of police reports and Google searches.

  What the fuck does Taylor know?

  This is way beyond your pay grade.

  And I thought she was just being a rich bitch.

  When we land, I pick up a rental car and head to a discount hotel that doesn’t blink when I ask to rent a room for the day and pay cash.

  “What are we doing?” Taylor asks once we’re alone.

  “I need to check in with my team back in L.A., and it’s three in the morning there. I’m going to sleep for a couple of hours, and I suggest you do the same. This might be the last rest either of us gets for the next twenty-four hours.” I grab a pillow and blanket from the closet. “You can have the bed.”

  “Where are you—” Her mouth drops open when I shove the pillow against the door and wedge myself into place against it. “You’ve got to be kidding.”

  “Tell me you aren’t a flight risk.”

  “I’m not,” she protests hotly.

  Too hotly.

  I shrug. “Then I’m just being paranoid, and you’ll have to deal. Night, Princess. Get some rest.”

  She’s watching CNN when I wake up. Her father is on the screen, and her expression doesn’t change at all as the newscaster drones on and on about the list of charges, the speculation that more will be coming, and perhaps some may even be leveled at her mother.

  When the next story comes on, her only reaction is to sigh and toss the controller aside—at which point she realizes I’m awake and watching her.

  “Feel better, Detective?”

  She sounds bitter.

  So not completely unaffected by the criminal disintegration of her family’s financial security, then.

  “Yeah. And you can call me Luke while we’re here. Keep the whole cop thing on the quiet.” I stand up and roll my shoulders, working out the kinks from sleeping on the floor. A quick glance at my watch tells me I got three hours of sleep. It’s almost time to wake up McBride and Singh—if they got any sleep at all. “Are you hungry?”

  “No.” She grabs her bag and disappears without another word into the bathroom.

  I send a text to McBride, who calls me instead of texting back. “What’s up, you maverick?”

  “I’m holed up in a shitty motel room with someone who has never seen this much polyester in her life. How do you think it’s going? What do you have for me?”

  “We pulled the surveillance cameras at her office building, and in the general vicinity. Put a couple of young guys on scrolling through that detail, but so far, nothing. Not sure if the guy got lucky or if he knew where the cameras were pointed—and where they weren’t. Either way, no visual on anyone planting the bomb.”

  I frown. It would have been a lucky break if we’d found something that way, but a shame that we didn’t. “Okay.”

  “We did find you on the footage, though, loitering outside the buildin
g for a while.”

  “I didn’t want to go in and risk her heading out the back. Thought it would be better to wait for her to come out to her car.”

  “She knew you were there, according to the volunteer who manned the front desk. They give each other a heads up when they see anyone out there.”

  “Interesting.” So she wasn’t too worried about a strange man waiting for her. “Any reports of other strangers in recent days?”

  “Uh…” There’s a shuffle of papers in the background. “That’s not in the interview notes. I can follow up on that.” Then she swears under her breath. “Sorry, Vasquez. I gotta go. We’ve just heard of another body dumped in the reservoir.”

  “Shit.” I scrub my hand over my face. “Good luck. Thanks for taking those reports while I was in the air.”

  Taylor re-emerges from the bathroom when I hang up the call. She’s put on fresh makeup, and her hair doesn’t look like it was jammed into an economy aircraft window well for five hours. Not that it really had before she went into the bathroom, either.

  One thing my witness is unquestionably good at is making herself look like a socialite on the red carpet, even when she’s wearing leggings and a couple of layered tank tops.

  “What’s the plan?” she asks crisply.

  I stand up. “That’s up to you. You wanted to talk to your sister.”

  “That’s easier said than done.” She flicks her hair over her shoulder. “My sister hates my guts.”

  “You left that bit of information out of your persuasive case to the FBI.”

  “It didn’t seem relevant.”

  “To them, maybe. To me? Do I need to remind you of our agreement?”

  “I know. You’re in charge. And you are, but I know how to handle my family. I need to bring my sister something that proves I’m not going to double-cross her.”

  “And where are we going to get that?”

  “Tabard Inn. Where all of Washington’s worst snakes go to make deals and be seen.”

  “I have a problem with both making deals and being seen.”

  “Why am I not surprised?” She points to the door.

  “I’m going to need more than an imperious demand.”

  That gets me a roll of her eyes. “Fine. My name is good there. I’ll be able to find out the last time my mother was there, for example. If we’re in luck, she might even be there today. And if she isn’t, then our next stop will be the St. Regis.”

  “The thing you’re going to bring your sister is your mother’s social calendar?”

  “My mother doesn’t have a social calendar. She has a sociopath’s calendar, and yes, it’s worth quite a lot.”

  That is not entirely surprising after my reading on the red-eye flight here, but I’m still struck by the cool way she says it. Like mommy dearest being dirty is a foregone conclusion.

  Outside, I plug the inn she mentioned into the rental’s GPS. None of the routes it suggests are good. Forty minutes to go the six miles into downtown Washington. Traffic here makes L.A. look like heaven. So does the weather. It’s only mid-morning and already it’s hot and sticky.

  I keep my thoughts on the east coast to myself, and head into the non-stop traffic snarl.

  When we arrive at the inn, an unassuming grey brick row house on a street of similar buildings, she sweeps in like she owns the place. “Taylor Dashford Reid,” she says to the clerk who greets her. “We’re here for lunch. Is there a private room available?”

  “Of course, Ms. Reid.” The staff person disappears, returning in moments with a manager in tow.

  “Ms. Reid,” this man says. “Sorry to hear about all the fuss.”

  “Mmm, I know,” she murmurs. “But, you know.”

  “Of course. Follow me, please.”

  I don’t know what the hell they are talking about. That was an exchange about literally nothing. But we follow him, and we’re shown to a private room as requested, so apparently, the fact that her family is imploding doesn’t make a whiff of difference for her pull in this city she left years ago.

  Fascinating.

  Before the manager leaves us alone, Taylor wraps her hand around his forearm and leans in. I catch her words, even as she clearly means for him to think they are for his ear only. “Is Mikhail working today? Or any of my mother’s favorites?”

  “Ah.” The manager looks visibly uncomfortable. “I am afraid your mother has not been here in some time. And all of her favorites have left our employ.”

  “My goodness. Well, all right then. What else has changed? Do you still have that delicious caper salad?”

  Who the fuck is this person? The performance Taylor is putting on is worthy of a fucking Oscar, but it makes me uncomfortable for reasons I can’t put my finger on.

  The manager soaks it up, though. “We would make it for you even if we didn’t.”

  And with that, he takes his leave.

  “What was that all about?” I ask as she gestures to the table.

  She dodges the question, or maybe she doesn’t understand I’m talking about her personality transplant. “I’m not sure. My mother used to come here to scheme with shady characters. If she doesn’t do that anymore, that’s probably a good thing.” She picks up her napkin, and then sets it down again. “Actually, I need to pee first.”

  “Be my guest.”

  She rolls her eyes. “Let me guess, you want to come with me?”

  I give her a you-guessed-it-in-one smile and point to the door. “After you.”

  She leads the way back downstairs and into a back hallway where men’s and women’s washrooms are next to each other. I lean back against the wall. “I’ll wait here.”

  “How very reasonable,” she says, giving me a bright smile. “Won’t be long.”

  I check my messages while she’s in there. Nothing from Singh and McBride, but I don’t expect to hear from them today, not if they’ve caught another murder.

  Murder trumps car bombs.

  There is an update from the captain. Forensics has handed over the bomb components to the FBI. Good.

  I turn my phone off and look up. No sign of Taylor.

  Checking my watch, I wonder just how long I should give her before I can justify knocking on the door.

  I hear water running then it stops.

  How long does it take to dry your hands?

  I give her another thirty seconds then I push the door open.

  There’s a woman at the sink applying lipstick, but it’s not Taylor. The stranger gasps as I stride in. Flashing my badge at her gets her to shut up.

  “Taylor?” I call out.

  “There’s nobody else in here,” the woman says. “Another woman left a minute ago, though.” She points to the far end of the bank of sinks.

  There’s another exit.

  Motherfucker.

  A minute ago. I take off at top speed, pushing through the door. I’m in another hallway running down the length of the building.

  And there are exits at both ends. I roll the dice and bet on the back door, but when I step into the bright heat of the rear courtyard, it’s empty.

  The little witch ditched me.

  10

  Taylor

  I probably don’t have a lot of time. It won’t take long for Detective Vasquez to realize I’m gone and lean on the resources of the D.C. police to find me.

  I wasn’t lying to Luke, exactly. My mother does—did—frequent Tabard Inn, and I wanted to find out when she’d been there last.

  But that’s not the real reason I picked this corner of D.C.

  The Horus Group offices aren’t far from here, and I need to confront Cole and his team. Let them know I won’t be scared into covering up for my parents.

  And if need be, I will threaten him with outing this despicable attack to his precious wife.

  My sister.

  Ms. Goody Two-Shoes herself.

  Hailey won’t like it if I use her name like that, but her husband may have tried to kill me by blowing up
my car, so she can deal.

  The St. Regis would have been even closer to their offices, but going there is a last resort. And there was less of a chance that I could find an employee who would recognize me enough to put on that little performance for the good detective.

  One day, I will forget how to be a manipulative bitch.

  Today is thankfully not that day.

  I run full-tilt past the church behind Tabard Inn, dash across the street, and then cut down an alleyway between two buildings. But the lot across the way is blocked, fenced in for construction, so I’m forced to turn and walk down the sidewalk on M Street.

  Sucking in a calming breath, I slow down and turn right—and slam right into a hard, unyielding chest, attached to a body that was definitely not there a second ago.

  I gasp and look up.

  Detective Vasquez.

  Fuck.

  “Hey, Luke,” I say glibly. “That was fast.”

  “What the fuck?” He gets right in my face and shoves me back, into the shadows of the laneway and up against the wall. “Are you insane?”

  The jury is really out on that point still. “I need to do something by myself. I wasn’t going to ditch you forever.”

  “And how were you going to find me again?”

  “You would find me. Like…you just did.” Too fast. Damn it. “What did you do, completely violate my privacy and listen to me pee? Chase after me the second I was done?”

  “No, you little brat. I gave you an inch of space, and you fled like a double-crosser.”

  “That doesn’t explain how you found me.”

  “No,” he ground out. “It doesn’t. If you’re keeping secrets, so am I. And no more of that hey, Luke bullshit. You can go back to calling me Detective like the mutant criminal you really are.”

  “That’s rude.”

  “Yeah. I’m rude. Get the fuck used to it.”

  His grip on my shoulder is hard. Unyielding. I push against it, but he doesn’t move. I’m pinned against the wall. Against my will, my body starts to react.

  No.

  But I can’t help it. There’s a twisted part of me that likes this. I’ve already noticed how good-looking he is. How nice he smells. And my asshole meter is strong.