by Lizbeth Day
As if on cue, Aaron said, “I need a favor. Where are you?”
“I’m in the Internal Affairs office surrounded by cops!”
“I know where you are. Where are you in the building?”
She spotted a sign mounted on back of the door. “I’m in staircase A, on the ninth floor.”
“Good. Go back out onto the floor, go to the elevator near the B staircase.”
“Why? I’m not going to jail because you want me to do some crazy bull—”
He cut her off. “—Denver. Denver. Calm down. Just do what I say and everything will be fine. You have earbuds with a mic? Put it in.”
Denver growled but dug through her purse looking her earpiece. After clicking it in, she left the stairwell.
Aaron said, “When you get to the elevator, wait till I tell you to get on.”
She complied, the whole time looking for familiar faces, or worse, Clesson. Knowing her luck, he’d get on the elevator with her. After navigating the hall for a bit, she found the elevator doors next to staircase b. Several people waited. They all wore off-the-racks suits, including the women, and well worn shoes. Each one walked like, talked like, moved like a cop. It was a funk they couldn’t shake. Denver wondered if it had permeated her pores too, and now she’d be marked as five-oh forevermore.
But again, maybe all that was in her very paranoid mind. A set of elevator doors opened. Zero directions came from Aaron. Annoyed, she backed out of the way to allow the flow of traffic to move around her. Since Aaron remained painfully silent, she leaned against the wall pretending to study her cell’s screen.
A soft chime rang, announcing the coming arrival of another elevator car.
Aaron whispered, “Ok get on the next one. Get off on three.”
She did and avoided eye contact with the other passengers. As soon as her foot stepped onto the third floor Aaron gave the next order.
“Go to the ladies bathroom, last stall.”
This floor was busier, lots more people moved about. It housed a mix of various Blue River’s city government offices. Lunch time was ending, and people hustled back to their desks.
Denver strode down the hall as if she belonged there. It was the best way to avoid unwelcomed attention. But a muscle in the back of her neck twitched about every three seconds. She rubbed a hand along the base of her hairline.
Under her breath she murmured, “What the hell, do you have eyes on me?”
“No.” His reply was lacking, but she heard the derision in his voice. “Let me know when you’re there.”
She’d hoped the bathroom would be empty. Nope. Full house with a line three deep for eight stalls. Denver got on line, changed her mind and pivoted for the sinks. Once there, she riffled through her purse, touched up her lip gloss, and washed her hands until the most of the bathroom crowd cleared out.
Finally after about five minutes, she ducked into the handicap stall. “Now what?” she said into her earpiece. She hated when people held phone conversations in the bathroom. It was so tacky. But being socially decrepit was the last thing she needed to worry about right now.
“Hook your jacket around the edge of the stall’s door.”
“If someone takes my coat, you’re paying for it,” she said using someone else’s well-timed flush to mask the conversation. “Now what do I do?”
“Take a seat and wait.”
No way she was putting her ass, clothed on not, on a public toilet. She was a squatter not a sitter in general. Besides her booty still stung from last night. “Wait for what?”
The call was still open but Aaron didn’t reply. She heard his muffled voice speaking to someone else in the room, but didn’t hear the other person’s response. She got a hunch he was on another call, giving instructions to another idiot like herself.
The muscles along her arms twitched. She craved movement, but even in the concealed stall, somebody might notice her feet going back and forth.
The ladies room hit a lull. For a while, the traffic ceased. The distant sound of office doors opening and closing made her feel like a pervert waiting for a victim.
And as far as Denver knew that might be her purpose. Aaron Maddox could be lining her up for any assortment of deviant activities.
She was so stuck in her heard about what was about to happen, the sound of someone coming in almost didn’t register.
“Take the folder,” Aaron suddenly piped up in her ear.
“What fold—,” she started but someone shoved a manila folder under the wall between stalls. She took it and the hand disappeared.
Aaron said, “Once you have it, look inside, and memorize the first set of numbers. It’s important you don’t record or write down anything in case you get caught. So don’t.”
About getting caught, Denver almost said fuck this out loud. But she opened the folder instead. The contents seemed familiar. It held some resemblance to a requisition form used by the Blue River police department. Someone had scribbled notes all over the thing. Along the top left corner, three sets of eight digit numbers sat apart from the rest. She concentrated on the first line.
Three soft knocks issued from the other side of the stall.
“Hurry, she needs to go,” Aaron said.
Fuck it. If he wanted a rush job, he should’ve picked someone more prone to follow his instructions. That wasn’t her, no matter what Aaron would dish out as punishment. She ran through the numbers again then shoved the folder back under the metal wall.
The person greedily snatched it back. Denver listened as the stall’s latch clicked open and the rustling as the other woman rushed off.
The outer door shut with a very final sounding bang. Denver had had enough. But apparently so did Aaron. When she looked at the phone, the call had dropped. The bastard hung up!
Her own exit was uneventful. No one stopped Denver, nor spared an extra glance in her direction.
Outside, she swore the air smelled sweeter.
She crossed the street to the parking garage across from the I.A. building. Aaron called when just as Denver climbed into her five-year old Honda.
“The numbers.”
“Want to tell me what that was about Maddox?” she answered. “Why didn’t you get whoever that woman was to give you the numbers?”
On the other end Aaron sighed. “Layers of protection. No one can implicate anyone too far along the chain.”
“And I won’t talk because you’re blackmailing me,” Denver added feeling manipulated and defeated.
“The numbers.”
Denver chewed her bottom lip. “Is this going to get someone hurt? If so, I can’t do this. You can do whatever you want to me.”
Aaron said, “No one will be hurt. That’s not how I do business.”
His words did little to reassure her. Aaron Maddox may not do business that way, but his family? According to rumor, his clan flirted with all types of underhanded dealings. It would be naïve to believe they weren’t capable of doing harm.
Or Aaron could be a liar. And he would say anything to get what he needed. Denver weighed the consequences. Which was silly. Without context she had no clue what handing over this information meant.
“Denver,” he prodded, “the numbers. Now.”
She rattled them off. “Are we even?”
Aaron scoffed. “Not even close. I’ll be in touch.” He hung up.
Bastard…
Lovely Wicked Pleasures may be purchased on Amazon.com.
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Yours truly,
Lizbeth
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