Before my fears ran away with me, I reminded myself what the police officer had said. Even if Zac knew I’d taken his car, the fact that I came back with it and acted normal would prove to him that I hadn’t had any reason to open the trunk and find what was inside.
Yet if I’d known how to change the odometer, I would have done that as well.
I got out and locked the car behind me. Now I just had to act normal. I took some deep breaths, arranged a smile on my face, and straightened my shoulders before going inside.
Here too, nothing had changed.
The lights and coffee machine were still off. My note was where I’d left it on the kitchen counter. Zac was still asleep in the bedroom.
But I had changed. I had changed very much. I no longer knew whether my client was a cold-blooded killer. I wasn’t certain whether he’d woken up, found my note and his missing car, and was now pretending to sleep while he figured out how to dispatch me.
There wasn’t enough room for two in the trunk.
I returned the keys to their place on the shelf, taking care not to rattle them. Then I pondered how to get rid of the note.
The trash can or my purse didn’t seem adequate given the stakes. Should I scribble all over it until it was illegible then throw it away? Flush it down the toilet? Except I could just imagine the darn thing floating on top instead of disappearing down the pipes…
It was then I heard footsteps. On instinct, I shoved the note into my mouth.
Don’t ask me where that instinct came from. It was a stupid idea. I chewed hurriedly and only succeeded in sucking all the saliva out of my already dry mouth and putting teeth marks in the sturdy paper.
The bedroom door opened.
I ducked behind the kitchen counter and spat the wet mess into my hand. It was still disappointingly legible.
“Izzy?” Zac croaked. “Are you here?”
I shoved the stupid thing into the very bottom of my pants pocket and stood up. “Yep, here I am.”
As was my tendency, I overcompensated for my nervousness and spoke extra brightly.
Zac flinched.
Oops, too loud.
“Sorry,” I whispered. “Do you still have that migraine?” Or a second migraine you got after killing a woman and throwing her in your car? At least that would mean the act of murder made him stressed. That was good, right?
“It’s a lot better, but I didn’t sleep well.”
He looked atrocious. As atrocious as an A-grade actor voted one of the top five sexiest men in America three years in a row could look anyway. His black hair was rumpled in a way that made you think of beds and tangled sheets, but his skin and lips were a few shades lighter, and his vivid ocean-blue eyes were unfocused instead of having the powerful, trademark intensity they usually possessed. An intensity that reached through screens around the world to enable the watching women to fantasize that his heart-stopping gaze of devotion was for them.
Would all those swooning women find him less sexy knowing he might have murdered someone? Or might it increase his appeal?
“Coffee?” I asked, wanting one for myself. Thirty seconds had passed without him showing any murderous intentions, and if I was going to get through the rest of the seconds of today, I was going to need to keep my wits about me.
“Maybe in a little while. But please, you go ahead.”
He eased himself onto a couch and stared out the window down at the infinity pool. I switched the coffee machine on and dithered in the kitchen. Filling up the grinder with fresh beans, setting out espresso cups to warm on top of the machine, and doing everything else I could think of to avoid sitting next to Zac. I had to get my act together or he was going to figure out I was anything but normal as soon as he’d recovered from his own rough morning.
Holding that threat before me, I forced myself to sit down near him on the couch and pulled out a book. I always carried one around to entertain myself while my client was otherwise occupied and not eating. This one was a funny action adventure novel. I read the same page four times and then, realizing he might notice my lack of progress, turned it anyway.
Fifteen nonsensical pages later, the coffee machine was ready.
I ground some beans into the portafilter and pressed them down evenly using the custom-fitted, sharp-edged tamper. Then I stuck it under the group head, eased on the water, and watched the magic happen. The familiar routine from my years as a barista soothed my frazzled nerves.
The crema pooled at the base of the basket before dripping into the cup like thick syrup, and I inhaled gratefully before taking my first sip. I swished it around my mouth to taste it. Poison-free. As was Zac it turned out. That made me wonder if I hadn’t stopped him from ingesting the ethylene glycol I’d found in his stormy fig cocktail last night whether that poor woman in the trunk would be alive this morning. The dose had only been enough to make him seem drunk, to embarrass himself on that red-carpet appearance. It wouldn’t have killed him. And embarrassment was surely better than death.
There went the comfort I’d gained from making my coffee.
Knowing my acting skills weren’t up to the task of maintaining this train of thought and a casual facade, I returned to my book, hunting for distraction. By the time the tart, caramel liquid had been transferred from the cup to my stomach, I finally managed to take a page in. The problem was I’d flipped so far forward while pretending to read that I had no idea what was going on anymore. Would he notice if I jumped thirty pages back? He wouldn’t have if I’d been reading an e-book copy. That was one benefit of digital readers over paperbacks you didn’t hear touted often.
Zac shifted in his chair, and I managed not to jump.
“How’s the novel?” he asked.
Hoping he hadn’t noticed my erratic page turning, I sent him a megawatt smile. “Fun. Thanks.”
“Glad to hear it. Have you had a good morning then?”
Did he know I’d taken his car? Was he prodding me on purpose to test whether I’d react?
“It’s been fine. Well, better than yours, I’m afraid.”
He grimaced. “Yeah. I think I might try a few laps in the pool to see if it can get rid of the last of the migraine. Would you mind going down to Nourish and getting me one of their fresh-pressed Balance juices? I wouldn’t normally ask, but—”
“No, I mean, of course I will.” It was a block and a half away, and since the closest I was likely to secure a park was also a block and a half away, it was natural to walk. Besides, any excuse to get out of the house right now was a blessing. As long as he didn’t use my absence to find his gun.
Zac headed to the pool in his backyard while I headed for the street. The caffeine was starting to bring me out of my shocked fugue, which had the undesirable side effect of heightening my anxiety. But there was no real logic behind the emotion. Zac had no reason to suspect me.
Because what I was doing was completely irrational.
Ugh.
I was so wrapped up in my thoughts that I didn’t notice the black Mercedes rolling along beside me at walking pace. Until the front window rolled down, revealing two large men inside, and one of those men asked, “Ms. Avery?”
I jumped like a startled cat.
“We’re from Homeland Security.” He flashed his ID.
The problem was, as an Australian citizen who’d never had reason to encounter a Homeland agent before, I had no idea what his ID card was supposed to look like. How would I know if it was fake?
“We’re here to talk to you about your… situation. Would you please step inside the vehicle?”
My pulse quickening despite being mostly sure they were the good guys, I opened the back door, checked there were no more large men waiting there (as if the two in the front weren’t enough to hold me against my will), and slid inside.
“You can call me Agent Joe and that’s Agent Jeff,” said the driver. He pulled into the first parking space he found.
I wasn’t sure if it was because they were dressed th
e same, but the men looked like they could be brothers.
“Thank you for agreeing to aid us in this investigation, Ms. Avery. We’re here to complete your briefing.”
My briefing? That sounded like more than I’d signed up for. I’d only agreed to return the car. I was about to point that out when Jeff or Joe, I’d already forgotten which was which, continued.
“Homeland Security has had Zachariah and Alyssa Hill in its sights for the past week.”
“Wait,” I interrupted. Curiosity ate at me, but anxiety burned stronger. “Is this going to take long? I’m supposed to be buying Zachariah a Balance juice from Nourish, and I don’t want to give him any reason to get suspicious.”
“Jeff, go get her the juice.”
“What? That’s not part of my—”
“Just do it, Jeff.”
“You know you only outrank me on a technicality, right?”
“The sooner you get the juice, the sooner you can rejoin the conversation.”
Jeff left, slamming the door on his way out, and Joe turned back to me. “As I was saying, we suspect Zachariah and Alyssa Hill are involved in the disappearance of fifteen girls from the various orphanages they run in Africa.”
Shock and disbelief hit me. Everyone knew about the Hill Foundation. Alyssa and Zac donated millions every year to care for hundreds of orphans and provide aid to thousands of families living in desperate conditions. I wasn’t sure I wanted to know the answer to my question, but I asked anyway. “What could they possibly want the girls for?”
“Human trafficking of some kind we’re assuming. Unless it’s something even more perverted, but there’s no need to get into that and upset you. The orphanages offer an excellent opportunity to acquire vulnerable at-risk girls with no one to report them missing.”
I choked down my horror, and he handed me a file. I ran nervous hands over its cardboard edges but made no move to open it. “What’s this?”
“Pictures of the missing girls.”
“Are you trying to play on my sympathies to get me to agree to whatever you’re proposing?”
“The truth is we could use your help, Ms. Avery.”
Well, that was a novel attitude compared to my previous run-ins with law enforcement. But I was sure Connor would want me to say “thanks but no thanks” and walk away.
Even knowing this and recognizing the ploy for what it was, I couldn’t resist looking. I flipped the folder open. A dark-skinned girl about eight years old stared at me, clothed in a dress that wouldn’t have been fit for a rag in the States and a gap-toothed smile that outshone the most beautiful party dress money could buy. Her head was shorn, her feet were bare, and she was clutching a crappy doll like it was a priceless treasure.
“Are they all so young?” I whispered.
“No, she’d be sixteen now,” he told me. “They don’t take photos of each kid that frequently, and that was the last one they found of her. Pictures of younger children make for better publicity, I’d guess. She went missing a little less than a year ago.”
The next girl was about fourteen. She was sitting on a crude concrete floor, hugging her knees like she was scared but smiling shyly all the same, no doubt at the behest of the strange photographer.
I kept flipping. Their brave hope, beautiful smiles, and the shy trust they showed in these strangers pointing the camera at them broke my heart. Knowing how that trust had been betrayed.
My throat was tight as I handed the file back.
Agent Joe nodded understandingly. “You can see why we want to rescue them. If we can.”
I heard his unspoken words. If they were still alive.
“The girls went missing in batches of four to six, starting around three years ago. Another group has gone missing at roughly the same time each following year, and that time is coming up again, which is why we need to get to the bottom of this. It’s like they’re taken systematically, with no more than one girl a year disappearing from each orphanage. Not that unusual for homeless, troubled kids. Probably why it took so long for anyone to catch on. They might have been coaxed to leave peaceably, perhaps for the lure of a new life in the great United States, or they might have just been kidnapped. Hard to say. But given they were all girls between the ages of fourteen and seventeen, we suspect they’ve been sold into the sex industry.”
One to three years was an awfully long time to be missing. I knew the chances of finding them alive must be almost nonexistent. But if we could save any at all, or at least stop it from happening again…
“What do you want me to do?”
Jeff chose that moment to return with Zac’s juice. He’d grabbed one for himself too, I noticed, and not one for his partner. He slurped it noisily, the normalcy of the sound surreal in the context of the conversation he’d interrupted. The spell his buddy was weaving.
“These cases have to be handled sensitively,” Joe continued, ignoring Jeff. “We can’t risk spooking the suspects or they might destroy… evidence.”
Evidence? He was talking about the girls, I realized. But I refused to throw up twice in one morning.
“That’s why we need Mr. Hill to think he got away with the murder. For now. And why we need an inside man, or woman as the case may be, to be our informant. We were hoping you might be that person.”
Connor believed you always had a choice. Even if you had a gun to your head. But I viewed the world with less confidence, less certainty of control. And I couldn’t say no.
Heck, I hadn’t even been able to say no to Etta when she wanted me to help clear the name of the bruiser who’d been hired to “motivate” me to repay my loan.
“I’ll do it,” I squeaked. Which meant I had better return quick smart to the loft or Zac would find my absence suspicious. The weight of my decision sat heavily on me when I thought about that. This was dangerous. But I still couldn’t say no. “I need to get back straight away. Thanks for getting the juice, Agent Jeff.”
He handed it to me, not entirely appeased.
I scooted my butt across the seat to get out and felt the incriminating lump in my pocket. “Oh, can you dispose of something for me?” I dug the note out of my jeans and held it out. It was damp.
“Take the paper, Jeff,” Joe ordered.
“But—”
“Don’t make me ask you again.”
Jeff defeatedly took the note, and I decided not to tell him the wetness was from my saliva. I didn’t want to make his day any worse.
He didn’t have the same courtesy. Before I could shut the door behind me, he called out, “Did you know you’re only wearing one earring?”
My fingers darted to my earlobe. The simple drop pendant earring I usually wore wasn’t there. I didn’t wear them to bed, so I’d put them in this morning. In a hurry because I’d been worried for Zac. How much difference a few hours could make.
As I hotfooted it back to the loft, I removed the remaining earring and thought over where I might have lost its partner. That was when it hit me. What if it had fallen into the trunk?
Raw fear made me miss a step, and the juice sloshed, the cup cold and slick in my jittery hand. Surely not. I could have lost it anywhere. The chances were so slim I’d have to be horrifically unlucky. But what if it was in the trunk? Waiting for Zac to find it. Zac who would’ve noticed these were my favorite earrings by now. Who might’ve noticed I was wearing just one of them this morning. If he found the other one lying with his victim in the car, he would know I’d seen her. That I knew his secret.
I would have to search the trunk before he got the chance.
I resumed my hurried pace along the sidewalk, going as fast as I could without spilling the juice everywhere. I’d already taken far too long. Would he be suspicious? Maybe I’d say there was a huge line. Or that they’d run out of kale and had to get more.
Why anyone would put kale in their juice was a question for another time. I mean, I didn’t mind kale, but only when it was sautéed with bacon.
My phone buzze
d with a message from Connor.
Harper let me know what was going on. Would like to hear that you’re okay. I’ve sent Abraham Black around to drop your car off so you can pretend you took your own car if you need to.
Another message.
And so you can escape if you need to.
I swallowed and sent a quick, one-handed thank you and confirmation that I was okay. I hoped I was telling the truth.
Perhaps thinking it meant I was free, Connor phoned me. But as much as I wanted to hear his voice—even his disapproving voice—I couldn’t take it. I’d already been delayed too long.
Sorry, can’t talk now.
Twenty seconds passed.
Gee, what happened to the new-and-improved open lines of communication in this relationship?
Despite my anxiety, the joke made me snort. I texted back.
They’re a work in progress.
Then I hurried up the stairs and let myself inside. Perhaps Zac would still be swimming and I could check for my earring before he finished. But no, Zac entered via the back door seconds after I did, dripping wet, almost naked. At least it would be hard to hide a gun in that outfit.
I shoved the juice at him, thinking frantically. How could I go and search for the earring without raising suspicion? “Sorry. There was a long line.”
“No problem. It’s great timing.” He took a sip of the juice, and I realized in all the craziness I’d forgotten to taste it. Crud.
Should I admit it and risk him wondering why I was so on edge as to overlook it? Or just let him drink it? The chances of someone poisoning the juice of a Homeland Security agent would be slim. Plus if he’d murdered that woman, was it right to protect him?
With the Taste Society’s advanced antidotes, even if it did happen to be drugged, the odds were good I’d be able to save him. Besides, something that put him to sleep or decreased his ability to reason for a while would be rather convenient.
Poison and Prejudice (An Eat, Pray, Die Humorous Mystery Book 4) Page 4
