“Understood.” Glancing at Andi, he added, “Can you estimate how long you’ll be there?”
With her mouth full, she paused as she chewed. “A few hours, likely.”
“Okay. I’ll go to the park at two, assuming you’re still there. Plans for this evening?” Taking a bite, Gabe waited for direction from her on whether she was going to the gallery opening.
Do it. Come on. Just do it. Beat the goddamn fears that have you by the throat. Take that first step. If you falter, I'll be there to catch you.
Plate now empty, she drank the last of her juice. When she moved towards the sink, Tyre extended his hands. “I’ll take that, ma’am.”
“Thank you.” The slight smile she gave Tyre faded as she glanced at Gabe. Deadly serious forest green eyes held his. Thick dark hair in chunks surrounded her delicate face exactly how he liked it—a tossed, just-got-out-of-bed look. “As of now, I’ll go to the gallery opening. Exactly as we discussed. You guys in sports coats concealing your guns. We arrive late. Quarter to seven, at the earliest. We leave early. I’m thinking I’ll be there an hour. At most. All subject to change, though.”
He finished the last piece of bacon and pushed the now empty platter to Tyre. “Understood, Chief.”
She gave no indication that she noticed his interpretation of her ban on ‘ma’am’ usage from him provided free access to any other title he deemed appropriate. Instead of showing annoyance, she studied him with a slightly puzzled look, without a smile. But there wasn’t a frown, or her slight scowl, either. He took it as a sign of encouragement.
“We’ll adapt to whatever you decide, whenever you decide it,” Gabe said.
A half hour later, Tyre, Marks, and Andi were gone. Stevens was in the security room, and Gabe was supposed to get a few hours of sleep. Later. Pressing his watch, he climbed the stairs from the second to the third floor and hit speed dial for Ragno. His ear mic automatically picked up the call. He muted the other agents. His conversation with Ragno was private.
“Hello, Angel.” He heard her fingers racing across her keyboard, as she multi-tasked with agents positioned in jobs worldwide.
“Have a few minutes?”
“Yep. It’s been busy, but I’m in a lull. How’s the Hutchenson job?”
“Interesting.” Studio door was locked. Using the key that Andi had provided the evening before, after their workout, he unlocked the door.
“How so?”
“Would’ve helped me if you gave a clue how gorgeous she is. The pictures in the file were one thing. But damn. In real life? Stunning. I’d have braced myself.”
Ragno laughed. “That’s a surprise, coming from you.”
Stepping into the studio, he glanced around the expansive room, trying to get a feel for where the proportions were wrong. He’d studied the floor plans again during the night. There was no indication of a hidden room. There was also no mention of it in the file. The studio was windowless, save for the skylights.
“Meaning?”
“She’s not your type. Frankly, I didn’t think you’d even notice how pretty she is. She’s not all that curvy. Boobs aren’t more than a full B. No long blond hair.”
“And you think that’s my type?”
“Excuse me? Giselle. Heather. Kaity. Georgie. Stacey. Any of those names ring a bell? Because in the last calendar year, you told me about them. They were all the lingerie model, blond and curvy type, right? And Heather and Georgie are actual models, right? Or was it Kaity and Georgie who wore the wings on the runway? Whatever. Oh, damn. Hold for a minute.”
On hold, Gabe eyed the four walls. There was only one option for which wall had space behind it. He walked across the room, to the wall opposite the doorway and stairwell. Canvasses leaned against every inch of the wall space. One painting was larger than the rest—a six-foot tall, oversized, painting of the Saint Louis Cathedral, the historic center of the French Quarter. It was spectacular, with a side view of the grayish building and its crosses that reached up into a brilliant blue sky. Sliding the painting to the side, he found a small, frameless door.
Bingo.
He’d been clear with Andi that he needed access to the entire premises. He’d given her a chance to provide it, and she’d broken the rules. Sitting back on his heels, he studied the four by two foot wide, frameless door that blended almost seamlessly into the wall. The brass knob-style handle didn’t match the others in her house. Too new, too shiny. Too Home Depot.
Maybe the door led to an old attic, with trunks of old clothes and long forgotten memorabilia. Dusty suitcases. Mousetraps. If so, the narrowness, and the low lintel, would make taking bulky things in and out tricky. Not practical. Didn’t matter. He’d see for himself. It was going to be some feat to squeeze his six feet four body through the short and narrow opening, but he’d do it.
He tried the brass knob. Locked.
No surprise.
If Andi knew what he was doing, she’d fire his ass. No one in the company would blame him, however, because it was his job to cover every inch of space. Reaching into his back pocket for his wallet, Gabe opened it and pulled out a card-sized set of titanium tension wrenches and pick rakes. He inserted a wrench in the bottom part of the keyhole, moved it counterclockwise, then clockwise. When he felt the right amount of give, he slid a ridged pick rake into the upper part of the lock, getting a feel for the torque necessary to manipulate the pins.
Pulling the tools out, Gabe stretched his fingers, chose a different rake with more ridges, then started over as Ragno started talking again. “Okay. I’m back. My point is, all the women you’ve dated look so much alike, they’re a blur of forgettable. Or did I imagine that those cookie-cutter women have been your type over the last decade?”
“You mean the type of women I date.”
“Is there another type?”
“Sure there is. The kind of woman I’m going to marry doesn’t look like the kind of women I’ve dated for the last decade or so.” Inserting the pick rake and tension wrench, he shut his eyes, feeling the subtle movement of the lock’s pins.
“God. I love you,” Ragno said. “There is never a moment when you don’t have me smiling, you know that? What the hell are you talking about?”
“Didn’t want to date my marrying type until I was ready.”
“For?”
“Marrying.” Ah. The lock turned. Done.
“You’re ready now?”
“Yep. It’s part of my life plan.”
“But you’re not even dating anyone seriously.”
“Always figured I’d find her, once I started looking.”
“You’ve spent most of your time traveling far from the U.S. in recent years. Not exactly a lifestyle suited for settling down.”
“I’ll teach more, which is what I always wanted to do. I’ll take more domestic jobs.”
“You have it all planned, don’t you? This is funny, Angel. Borderline ridiculous—”
“I’m not joking.” He pushed the door open. “I’m building my house now. You know that. I’ve always known what she’d look like. I just have to find her.”
“Okay. I’ll bite. What are the features of the type of woman you plan to marry?”
Bending to fit through the small door, he said, “She looks just like Andi Hutchenson.”
“Stop joking.”
He flipped on the light and entered finished attic space. The narrow room ran the entire length of the third floor. Standing in the middle, he could flatten his palms along both sides. The ceiling sloped. At its highest part, the ceiling was eight feet high. There was no furniture in the room. To one side, the floor had a soft rug, on top of which were full, oversized pillows and a soft blanket, neatly folded.
“I’m not joking. Dark hair. Green eyes. You see, my dad had green eyes and dark hair. I want my children to have a fighting chance to look like him. She’ll have a heart-shaped face, ‘cause I think that’s pretty. A slight turn-up to her nose. Tall, but not too tall. Lean. Muscular. Gorgeous
feet. Artistic. Creative. Likes to be at home.”
“Are you kidding me?”
“Nope. Look. I’m not saying I’m marrying Andi Hutchenson. Far from it, considering we’re off to a somewhat rocky start. But I can’t deny that she damn well looks like the type I always thought I’d marry. Actually, she looks better than I imagined.”
“Whoa. Back up. A rocky start?”
“Yeah, though we seem to have moved past it. But if you really think I’m kidding about this, go to my latest personality profile interview. The part about personal goals and objectives. It was about a year ago.”
Andi’s secret room looked like a cozy reading nook. A low table held a lamp and a small pile of books beside a tray filled with black pens. One leather-bound book was separated from the others. Fresh lavender and roses in a crystal vase told him she came in here often.
“Then you’re due again. I’ll put a tickler in the file for when you’re done with this job.” He could hear her fingers pecking at her keyboard. “Give me a second. Okay. I have it open.”
“See the question about personal life plan?”
“Got it.” She fell silent, presumably reading through his answers to the battery of questions that Black Raven’s teams of psychiatrists asked, which were designed to make sure agents weren’t going to go crazy mid-job. The questions elicited life goals and objectives. Gabe loved to give details of his life plan, because he’d always had one. At the beginning of each year, he tweaked the one, five, and ten-year goals.
As Ragno read, he looked at small linen-covered boxes that were neatly stacked against the wall opposite the door. Opening a box, he saw photographs of Andi, with friends. Looking at the date, he realized it was two years before her kidnapping. The smile on her face—positively captivating and full—looked nothing like the serious look on the face of the woman she now was.
Another box held newspaper clippings. Rifling through, he realized she had saved reports of her kidnapping. The local press had provided endless details of what Victor Morrissey had done to the three daughters of the three prominent New Orleans families. The reporting style of the local press bordered on voyeuristic gossip. He wasn’t surprised, just pissed off that the press had made the details of what the ‘former debutante,’ prior ‘queen of carnival,’ and ‘talented student of the New Orleans Art Academy’ had suffered so public. Right down to the goddamn cigarette burns and the message Morrissey had left on her back.
“Gabe, this is amazing.” Ragno’s voice broke his concentration. “Who gives this much detail? You said when you were thirty-six you were going to marry the girl of your dreams and when you were thirty-four, you were going to start looking for her. By forty, you hope to have your first and second child. Going to have three.”
“How old am I now?”
“As of this past December, thirty-four. So, you’re now looking for the woman you’re going to marry?”
“Of course. Was glad to hit thirty-four, actually. I’m getting tired of blondes. Though quitting cold-turkey means I haven’t had sex since my birthday.”
“TMI, and by the way, a whole two months? Careful. It might fall off.”
He chuckled, then continued his mini-rant. “Been working non-stop and I haven’t had time to transition to the different dating realm. Hell, Ragno. Every female I know is blond.”
“Poor baby,” she said, sarcasm flag flying high.
“Yeah. It’s wearing thin. Go back to the file. How did I describe the woman I’m going to marry?”
“Dark hair. Green eyes. Heart shaped face. Tall. Not too tall. Lean. Muscular. Artistic. Creative. Likes to be at home.” Ragno drew a deep breath. “Oh holy hell, Gabe. Wait a second. I’m not falling for this. Did you plant this in the file just to jerk my chain?”
He chuckled, then walked to the far stack of boxes, looking for something happier than media reports of her kidnapping. “Now why would I do that? Besides, personnel files are encrypted and off limits, remember?”
“Like that’s ever stopped you. Hey,” she chuckled, then her voice turned serious. “Wait. This bit about liking to be at home. Yeah—I get it. I know you love to be at home when you’re not working, know your favorite dates are long weekends at home. But you do understand that someone who has post-traumatic stress induced agoraphobia is way different than someone who likes to be at home, don’t you?”
“Of course, but I’m an optimist.” Crouching on the floor, he opened a box and realized she might have been the cutest baby in the world. A few old photos in the farthest box were of her in diapers. She had fat cheeks, wavy dark hair, a light in her eyes, and a smile that made her seem like she was laughing.
“Of course you are, Angel. You live and breathe optimism like no other. Oh, and by the way, there’s nothing about gorgeous feet in your personality assessment.”
He chuckled as he thought about the pale lavender paint on the nails that graced each of Andi’s delicious-looking toes. Gently curved and obviously well cared for, her toes looked ready to nibble. And that thought produced yet another blood-pumping reminder of why abstinence from sex wasn’t good for him.
Hell.
“Yeah, I just decided that I have a thing for feet over breakfast.” Gabe closed the box, went to the reading nook, sat at the pillow, and opened the black leather-bound journal that was on the table.
Not a reading nook. A writing nook.
If the locked door didn’t dissuade him, if the oversized painting that blocked the secret doorway wasn’t a strong signal of what he should do, the words ‘dear journal’ should’ve been a red clanging light that brought him to a smoking stop and made him do a screaming U-turn.
“Gotta go. I’ll check in later.”
“Roger.”
While Gabe had never respected a boundary in his life, he almost did this time. But like the eyes of the young people she’d sketched, her handwriting drew his eye, enticing him with a glimpse into her soul from which he was powerless to turn.
The journal in his hand was the most recent in time. The others, piled neatly to the side, were dated earlier. There were ten. All black-bound leather, all about two inches thick. The first page had the dates covered on the interior pages. The earliest one, at the bottom of the stack, was dated one month after the kidnapping.
Sinking to the floor, he settled himself on the carpeted area next to her writing table. Leaning against a wall, legs stretched out in front of him, Gabe heard the ring of the front doorbell. Touching his watch, he opened the channel to the agents. “Marks?”
“Yes, sir. Fed Ex. Amazon packages.”
“Still not used to Sunday deliveries. Feels weird. Anything happening downstairs I need to know about?”
“No, sir.”
“Tyre?”
“We’ve arrived at the Piety Street entrance to Crescent Park. Quiet out here today.”
“Okay. Unless anything crops up, I’m taking a few hours to rest. Alert me if you head back, though. Give me a heads up call at one-thirty. I’ll be there at two, if she’s still painting. Stevens will come in when I arrive. Tyre, you’ll stay out with me. Marks.”
“Yes?”
“Alert me if there’s anything I need to know about.” He needed sleep, but with her journal in his hand, he was wide-awake.
Chapter Fifteen
Gabe
Cursive writing, in black ink, on thick, unlined paper, delivered her points in an understandable, precise manner. Not too flourished. Barely loopy.
Her first entry was dated in the month after her kidnapping, which made it two and a half years earlier. Her words drew him in, becoming a deep hook in his flesh that yanked him into the nightmare from which she hadn’t fully awakened.
Once he started reading, he couldn’t stop, because he had a close-up, exclusive seat to a horror show. It only took a few page turns to realize that the dread that had emanated from her while in the midst of her night terrors had been relived, time and time again, in her mind.
Dear Journal (Aug
. 4) –
I brush my teeth so much my gums bleed. I gargle five times a day. But it’s 31 days post-kidnapping, and the sour taste of him lingers every time I swallow.
Will I ever get the foul and disgusting taste of VM’s cock out of my mouth?
The police asked me if I was sexually assaulted. I told them, no. They even asked about the teeth marks they’d found on VM’s cock when they recovered his body. I told them they weren’t mine. I lied.
Can’t tell anyone about this.
Did the devil’s version of a blow job really last for an hour, or is the length of time my imagination?
Dad’s carrying enough guilt. Dammit. I know I need help. Help, though, can only do so much if I don’t tell them everything. And I can’t do that, because this is already killing Dad. He’s aged a decade in a month.
If I told anyone, it would be leaked to the press. Eventually. Former Mardi Gras Queen sexually assaulted, too! Besides, telling others would make it more real, and the burns on my back are real enough.
So many regrets here, but keeping silent isn’t one. What I regret more than anything is that I lacked the courage to bite down harder. When VM’s hands were holding the back of my head, with my hands and ankles tied together, my mouth wide open on him as I choked and gagged, I should have bitten down so hard, he became angry enough to kill me.
His endless stream of burning cigarettes punished me. I wish he had killed me that night. Dead would be better than this.
Icy dread raced through Gabe’s veins.
Could it be she hadn’t yet told anyone that the kidnapping had included a sexual assault?
He read again, and again, her words.
Yeah—he’d never respected a boundary in his life. Didn’t mean he was stupid. He should stop reading. Now. Instead, he held onto the journal. With the push of one finger on his watch, he redialed Ragno. “Hey. Need your help with something. I just uncovered a fact about the client that didn’t make it into the file that you gave me. And this needs to be kept between us. As in, I’m deadly serious, Ragno. Don’t stick this in her file.”
Concierge (Black Raven Book 3) Page 15
