by Chris Mooney
“I’d like to see how you do things.”
“Help me find Paul, and you’re more than welcome to see for yourself.”
“Thank you. Although, I should say, I don’t think it’s you who has him. The two cops I told you about, the ones my mother heard talking? She told me they were both Armenians.”
“If your brother was taken by the Armenians,” Sebastian said, “then I’m sorry to say he’s as good as dead.”
The sinking despair Ellie felt in the pit of her stomach was genuine. She allowed it to reach her face. “But I’m sure you have . . . dealings with them. Connections.”
“If the Armenians knew who I was, they’d take me out of the picture.”
“And take over your business.”
Sebastian nodded.
“But if he wasn’t taken by the Armenians?” Ellie asked. “I’m sure you know other people in the blood world—local people.”
“You said twin. Are you a carrier?”
“I am,” Ellie lied. “That’s the second reason why I got into the business. So I could work my way up, get to a position where I could afford to live somewhere safe, protect myself. Know the players, know the landscape, stay a step ahead of it, so I would never be a victim again.”
Sebastian was looking at her in an entirely different way, like he had discovered something in her that he admired but that made him wary. Guarded.
Ellie didn’t speak. Sebastian didn’t, either, just stared at her, thinking. The hum of the refrigerator filled the silence.
“While we’re on the subject,” Ellie said, “I should tell you I have no intention of becoming a part of your blood farm or stable or whatever it is you choose to call it. I will take any and every measure to prevent that from happening.”
“You don’t have to worry about me.”
“I hope not. Because if that’s your intention, we should part ways now.”
Sebastian rubbed his bottom lip, thinking.
“Is there anything else you’d like to know about me?” Ellie asked.
She waited, relaxed, hands folded on her lap.
“I need you to reach out to someone this morning,” Sebastian said. “Her name is Candice Jackson. She’s slightly older than you—mid-thirties—and worked as a contracts lawyer for some prominent firm downtown. She had a short-term romantic relationship with Paul.”
“When was this?”
“Sometime last year. I don’t know the particulars—don’t know anything, quite frankly. What I need you to do is talk to her, find out if she knows anything about where Paul might be. Or Bradley Guidry.”
Sebastian handed her a photo of a twenty-something guy wearing a bathing suit and smiling at the camera. He had a blond crew cut and a tan, and while he was nowhere near as tall or as muscular as Paul, the guy had almost no body fat and looked, to use one of Cody’s terms, “absolutely shredded.”
“How does Paul know him?” Ellie asked.
“They worked together overseas. Contract work. Military. They were both Marines.”
Ellie leaned back in her chair and studied him.
“Something on your mind?” he asked.
“I know about you and Ava Lewis,” Ellie said. “I looked you up online. She was mentioned in the article about your sentencing years ago.”
Sebastian said nothing.
“And I know about what happened to her daughter, Grace,” Ellie said. “Paul has her, doesn’t he?”
“He does. Which is why I need you to make contact with Candice Jackson.”
Sebastian, Ellie felt, was grasping at straws. After all these months of being hunted, Paul still kept eluding him. “Why did it end? Their relationship.”
“It’s my understanding that something happened between them—something, I’m told, that scared her. She came back to LA last night, after a long time away.”
“Have your people spoken to her about Paul?”
“No. No one has. But I’m willing to bet she’ll talk to you.”
“Because I’m a woman.”
Sebastian nodded. “You’re going to approach her under the guise that you were, until recently, romantically involved with Paul—in a serious relationship, possibly talking about marriage. You’re reaching out to her because Paul has disappeared and won’t return your phone calls or texts, and you’re heartbroken.”
“And when Jackson asks how I got her name?”
“You’ll tell her Paul had talked about her—you and Paul had discussed past relationships—and you wanted to reach out to her because you’re desperate, wanting to know where he went, why he left you high and dry.”
“I’ll tell her I’m seeing a therapist—a female therapist. That she recommended I reach out to her to seek closure. I need to move on but can’t, not until I find and confront Paul.”
Sebastian pursed his lips, nodded. “I like that,” he said. “I’ll give you her home address. She’s there right now.”
So Sebastian had people watching her. Ellie said, “You don’t expect me to just show up on her doorstep unannounced, do you?”
“Under normal circumstances, I’d tell you to take your time—follow her for a bit, see what you can find out about her, approach her when the time feels right. But these aren’t normal circumstances, for reasons you now know. Why are you shaking your head?”
“She’s never met me. Showing up unannounced and asking questions—that’s too aggressive. And frightening, especially if she’s been the victim of domestic abuse.” That sounded too much like cop-speak. Ellie said, “Did he kick the shit out of her?”
“I wouldn’t put anything past Paul.”
“If he abused her or threatened her, if she was previously abused by another boyfriend or a family member, then her house is most likely the only place where she feels safe. If I go there and start asking questions, she’ll shut down. But if I talk to her first, establish a rapport with her and draw her out, suggest we meet for, say, lunch somewhere close to her, I think she’ll be more likely to open up and talk.”
“Tell me what you’ll say.”
She winged it, going with her gut. Sebastian discussed the flaws in her approach, and then they ran through all the possible conversations, Sebastian taking on the role of Candice Jackson and throwing up roadblocks. Half an hour later, they felt they had the conversation locked down. Sebastian gave her Candice Jackson’s number.
Ellie dialed it and then listened as the phone on the other end of the line rang and rang; she thought the call would go to voicemail.
“Hello?” The woman’s voice sounded groggy.
“Hi, Candice?”
“Who’s this?”
“My name is Faye Simpson. You don’t know me, but I’m really hoping we could talk about my fiancé. Well, the man I thought was going to be my fiancé. You know him.”
“What’s his name?”
“Paul,” Ellie said. “Paul Young.”
CHAPTER 41
SHE LET CANDICE Jackson pick the location, Ellie wanting the woman to feel safe and in control. Candice suggested the Rooftop restaurant, located—surprise, surprise—on the roof of the Hotel Wilshire in downtown LA.
Ellie knew the place. It was a tourist magnet—and not just for the breathtaking city views. According to various websites, during the summer, models and models in training could be found using the pool. The hotel hired them to draw in men who would hang around, rent out the expensive cabanas, and order VIP service, running up huge bar tabs.
It wasn’t summer anymore, but this December day sure felt like it was, with the temperature in the mid-eighties. The pool wasn’t in use, and the cabanas were empty, but there were gorgeous people everywhere, the two outside bars doing brisk business. Ellie spotted a couple of C-level celebrities from reality shows that had long since been forgotten.
Candice said she was five
six and had short dark brown hair, said she’d be wearing jeans and a plain ol’ white collared shirt. Ellie didn’t see anyone matching that description at or around the bars, or at the indoor banquette, so she wandered down to the opposite end of the pool, to a set of stairs that descended to an outdoor lounge consisting of benches, chairs, and, for more intimate conversations, outdoor couches with plush cushions and artfully staged throw pillows. That area, too, was packed, waiters zipping about delivering drinks and brunch. Ellie didn’t see anyone matching Candice’s description there, either.
Maybe Candice was stuck in traffic, a common occurrence in LA. Or maybe, God forbid, the woman had decided to bag at the last minute.
Ellie took out her phone, about to call when, from the corner of her eye, she spotted a woman wearing a pair of dark oval sunglasses and sitting on a maroon divan get to her feet and wave tentatively.
During the drive, Sebastian had shown her a picture, taken from the company website, of Candice Jackson, trim and healthy. In the photo, Candice wore a sharp charcoal gray power suit with heels, everything about her—her clothes and the way she stood and carried herself—screaming confidence.
The woman standing before Ellie looked shockingly different—and not only because her hair looked dry and brittle in the harsh sunlight. It was the amount of weight the woman had lost—not having had much weight to lose to begin with. This new Candice Jackson, with her sallow complexion and concave cheeks and bony wrists and air of defeat, reminded Ellie of her mother’s last weeks on earth at the hospital, the dementia and cancer having devoured every last ounce of fat and muscle, turning a once-vibrant woman into a balding, ghostlike waif.
Candice was sick, not with cancer but with a disease that was equally cunning and insidious and baffling. Ellie could smell the booze fumes as she offered her hand. Candice shook it, her hand as light and delicate as a bird’s wing.
“Thanks for meeting me,” Ellie said. “I really, really appreciate it.”
Candice offered a painful smile, and then she retreated to the corner of the divan, looking like she wanted to sink past the cushions and disappear. Ellie sat next to her so they could talk privately, and because Sebastian would be listening in on her conversation through her phone, which was tucked inside her clutch. Ellie removed a credit card and then subtly positioned the clutch on the divan.
“They make excellent mimosas here,” Candice said, picking up from the coffee table set up in front of them a champagne flute filled with orange juice. “You want one?”
Ellie didn’t want a drink. What she did want was to project a feeling of solidarity, make Candice Jackson feel as comfortable as possible. She smiled and said, “I think I need something a bit more high-octane for this conversation. Like bourbon.”
Ellie picked up the food menu. “What do you recommend?”
“Everything’s good. But you don’t need to buy me lunch.”
“You’re not hungry?”
“I think it’s best for me to stick with my liquid diet.”
The waiter was a good-looking guy, all smiles. Candice seemed to wither under his polite gaze, stared down at the table as she ordered two mimosas for herself. Ellie ordered a double Knob Creek, neat, then asked him to pick out a couple of appetizers in case Candice changed her mind, the woman looking like she could use a good meal.
Candice sighed as the waiter left. “I was doing so good,” she said, and shook her head. “Hadn’t had a drop in almost a month.”
Ellie didn’t know what to say, so she said nothing, just listened and watched the woman’s eyes darting behind her sunglasses.
“Then I came back here and—I dunno. I just couldn’t handle it.”
“Because of Paul?”
“And this.” Candice made a sweeping gesture to the crystal blue sky.
“You don’t like LA?”
Candice snorted. “This city is an open-air insane asylum. That’s why it attracts psychopaths and predators.” She drained the last of her mimosa. “It’s all going to burn to the ground, I’m sure.”
“The wildfires.”
Candice nodded. “Can you smell the smoke in the air?”
Ellie could, actually, and wondered if Candice was right about the city burning to the ground. From everything she’d read and heard, the wildfires were closing in from all sides, the already-overworked firefighters unable to hold them back.
“So,” Candice said, “how do you know about me?”
Ellie had anticipated the question. “Paul mentioned your name a couple of times—you know, when you talk about exes and stuff.”
“Oh? And what did he say?” Candice kept her voice light.
“Nothing but good things,” Ellie assured her.
“I find that hard to believe.”
“Everything was going fine between us—at least I thought everything was gone fine—and then he suddenly stopped calling me.”
“He probably ghosted you.”
“I definitely thought that at first. Then I came to find out, a few weeks back, that no one’s seen or heard from him in months.”
“He moved?”
Ellie caught the palpable relief buried in Candice’s question. “That’s the thing,” Ellie said. “No one knows.”
“I didn’t meet many of Paul’s friends.”
“I’m sure you met his BFF, Bradley Guidry.”
“Never heard of him,” Candice said quickly.
Ellie knew the woman was lying; Candice’s response was too fast. Ellie let it go for the moment.
“You talk to his mother?” Candice asked.
Ellie reminded herself to keep her answers as vague as possible; she didn’t want to get caught in a lie. She was about to speak when Candice’s face contorted, and then the woman said, “Shit, I forgot she died. Cancer, I think.”
“I never met her.”
“She was nice. I liked her. Her and his stepfather, Sebastian. You talk to him?”
“I never met him, either. All that time I was together with Paul, I never met his parents—he rarely talked about them with me. I just assumed they weren’t, you know, close.”
“Well,” Candice said, picking up her glass, “trust me when I say you’re better off without him.”
“That’s pretty much what my therapist told me. Called him a malignant narcissist.”
“Your therapist sounds like a smart woman. You should definitely listen to her.”
“I am. Well, I should say I’m trying to.” Ellie chuckled, a part of her feeling guilty for manipulating this woman who was so clearly emotionally damaged. “She keeps telling me I need to move on—and I want to. Honestly, I do. But like I said on the phone, there’s this part of me that keeps demanding to know why.”
“It wasn’t anything you did.”
“You’re probably right.”
“No,” Candice said, getting some steel in her voice, “I am right.”
“I’m not, like, looking to get back together with him or anything. What I do need to do, though, is to confront him.”
“Why? Paul’s incapable of telling the truth.”
“Which, again, is what my therapist said. But for me to get closure—for me to move on, get back to my life—she said I’ve got to confront him. Not over text or on the phone but in person. She said I need to tell him exactly how what he did affected me. Example she used was a victim of a violent crime. Victims are allowed to read what’s called a victim impact statement to the court. It’s gives them their power back, offers them closure.”
“Good luck.”
“Do you have any ideas about where I might be able to find him?”
Candice shook her head. “I haven’t seen or spoken to him in . . . Christ, it’s been almost a year.” She grew very still, just for a moment. Then she took in a deep breath. “Confronting him is a waste of time.”
“But I’ve got to at least try.”
“No, you don’t.”
“Why?”
“Because Paul,” Candice said, “is evil.”
CHAPTER 42
SEBASTIAN SAT ALONE in his car, parked near the front of the hotel, listening to Faye Simpson’s conversation with Candice Jackson over his earpiece. He had tipped the valet guy a few hundred to let him park there for an hour or so.
Faye’s voice filled his earpiece: “What do you mean, evil?”
Candice Jackson didn’t answer. The silence stretched on longer than he cared for, wishing Faye would say something so Candice wouldn’t leave. That being said, he wasn’t there, couldn’t see Candice—and Frank had been right about Faye being smart. She knew how to steer a conversation, knew when to push and when to hold back.
“I can’t keep this bottled up inside,” Candice said—more to herself, Sebastian thought, than to Faye. “I have to come clean. Own up to what I did.”
Sebastian relaxed a bit against his seat.
Candice said, “Okay, so, like you, I’m in therapy. Been going twice a week for a month now. I’ve got what my therapist calls an Electra complex, which is a really fancy way of saying I suffer from major daddy issues. And she’s right. Unfortunately.” Candice paused, took a breath. “I’m a people pleaser. Always have been.”
“How long were you guys together?” Faye asked.
“We didn’t . . . Can I ask you a personal question?”
“Absolutely. Anything.”
“It’s about carrier blood,” Candice said. “You ever try it?”
Faye chuckled. “I wish. I can’t afford it—I’m talking about the real stuff, not the crap people get in blood dens.”
“Stay away from all of it. It will seriously screw you up.”
“You’ve tried it?”
“Tried it?” Candice snorted. “I was addicted to it.”
“What happened, if you don’t mind me asking?”
Candice paused.
“I’m not trying to pry, honest to God,” Faye said. “I’m just—well, I’d be lying if I said carrier blood wasn’t something I’m considering down the road. Women—especially women in this town—we need—”
