by Kris Calvert
I leaned back, holding her gaze when what I really wanted was to hold her in my arms. It wasn’t all sexual attraction, it was deeper. Spiritual on some level, Reagan put off a vibe and I was attracted to it like a dog to a bone.
“I ordered room service and went over some notes on the clinical trials of the BioGen drug—in my room—all alone.”
“So you saw hotel personnel that night when they delivered your dinner?”
“Yes.”
“And do you think that person would remember you and that you were alone in your room?”
I shrugged my shoulders. “Of course.”
She cocked her head and began writing something on her notepad. “And why would you say that, King? Why are you so sure the hotel staff will remember you?”
“Because I’m a good tipper.”
She smiled but didn’t lift her head from her notes. “How good?”
“Trust me. You’ll be able to find the young man. I also told him to stay in school. Hopefully he’ll remember that more than the tip.”
She allowed a short laugh to escape her red lips and looked at me, unable to contain her smile.
Joy walked back in with whatshisface and I stood as Reagan met them. “I think we’re all finished here for now. Dr. Giles, we need you to remain in town for a few days while we sort out some of the details. Okay?” Reagan asked.
“Dr. Giles is a very busy man and if he should need to leave town on business I will contact you,” Joy proclaimed.
“Don’t leave town, Doctor,” Holloway said.
I could tell Holloway was going to be a dick to deal with, but I could handle it as long as Reagan was by his side.
“If I think of anything else, how will I find you?” I asked Reagan.
She pulled a business card from her jacket pocket and handed it to me.
“Winterbourne Holloway the fourth. Surely that isn’t you.”
“Turn it over,” Reagan said with an embarrassed smile. “My new business cards haven’t been printed yet.”
“But now you have my number too, Dr. Giles,” Holloway said with a nod.
“Great. Let me show you out.”
Together we walked the long hallway on the second floor to the expansive two story main entrance and grand staircase. Rose Hill was ancient, but was still as beautiful as it was when my great-great grandparents lived there. My family had made sure that the pre-war house stood the test of time. Some of the furnishings were beyond antique, but the house retained its regal stature.
“Your home is beautiful,” Reagan said.
“Thank you. It’s been in the family a long time.”
She nodded and I caught an eye-roll from Holloway in my peripheral vision.
She extended her hand with the finesse of a ballerina—a small and graceful gesture performed by a powerhouse of strength, all hidden inside an exquisite form. What I really wanted to do was to kiss the milky skin of her hand, but I knew that would be frowned upon under the current circumstances and decided to save it for another time.
“Thank you Dr. Giles. I mean, King.” Reagan did her best to hide a shrewd smile. “We’ll be in touch.”
“Yeah, thanks,” Holloway added, giving my hand a vise-like grip. With a smile, I returned the favor. There was more to me than Agent Holloway would ever know.
7
KING
It was dark when the last agent left Rose Hill. I was exhausted and I needed to speak with Nyx. We’d not been in contact for six months—which was par for the course, but there was a lot we needed to discuss, and not just the fact that the daughter of an Italian mob boss was now dead and had been delivered to my front door.
When Rose Hill sat silent, I pressed the opulent golden cherub on the side of the fireplace in my white bedroom revealing a false wall and locked door. Using my finger and thumbprint, I unlocked my real office, the pressurized room belching with cool air as the door opened. Closing myself inside the space, I triggered the false wall to close behind me.
The lights in my office stayed on, just like the secure and untraceable internet connection that was my lifeline to my other identity—or lack thereof.
Checking the phone I only used for this part of my life, I saw where I’d missed a call. I’d had no choice. Rose Hill was teeming with people all day. Poking and prodding throughout the house, I knew it was best to just let them look. There was nothing to find. Rose Hill was clean in every sense of the word.
Logging onto the system, my phone immediately buzzed. “Yes,” I said answering on the first ring.
“Give me an update.”
“I’m scheduled to leave for Bangalore next week. But there’s been a complication.”
“I know.”
Nyx’s voice wasn’t deep, it wasn’t male—it wasn’t even female, it was computer generated, as was mine. We had no phone numbers, no traceable internet connection and no voice recognition. I was a shadow in the dark and Nyx—the Greek goddess of the night—was my one connection to reality in the dangerous game I’d been playing for ten years. I had no idea if Nyx was male or female and I liked it that way. Still, because of the codename, I referred to her in my head as a she.
“How do you want me to handle it?” I asked.
“Proceed as planned. We’ll take care of the rest.”
“What about my houseguests?” I asked referring to the Feds that roamed Rose Hill all day.
“It’s be taken care of.”
Silence. It was something I was used to after all these years. I was used to being alone, working alone and operating within the bounds of my contract—alone.
“Understood.” I said the word and waited for my human voice to translate into the unfeeling sounds of the scrambling software.
“We’ll be in touch after India.”
“Affirmative.”
The transmission ended and I sat back in my leather chair and took a deep breath. It was easy for Nyx to give orders from afar, but I was the one who would have to deal with my life as King Giles and the aftermath of a dead ex-girlfriend on my lawn no matter how quickly the case would disappear from sight.
I needed a drink and a hot shower to wash the day away. A bottle of Pappy Van Winkle’s Family Reserve, twenty-three year old straight bourbon sat on the table behind my desk accompanied by a single glass. I drank the twenty-five hundred dollar liquid gold when it was merited, and today was definitely one of those days.
Pushing myself from the desk like an old man with too many years on his conscience, I felt weary. Not in days, but missions. In missions, I was ancient. I was physically fit, yet mentally exhausted.
The bourbon was warm going down and I copped a buzz quickly, realizing I’d not eaten all day. Going strong on adrenaline since the wee hours of the morning, I’d lost my appetite. The alcohol soothed my mind and gave me a chance to rethink the day behind me and the days ahead.
I’d wait to see what tomorrow’s headlines would be before planning my next move. Honestly, the only move I wanted to make was to vet Ms. Reagan Weatherford. So I did.
Logging into the system, I searched her and waited patiently.
Reagan Lucya Weatherford. Twenty-five, born Buffalo, New York. Graduate of Washington and Lee in Lexington, Virginia. Graduated first in her class from the FBI Academy. Expert in Marshall Arts and firearms. “A girl with control and a gun,” I said aloud. “I like you already, Reagan Lucya Weatherford.”
I ran the name Lucya through my head a couple of times before realizing it was Russian. Could it be my adorable little FBI agent had a Russian past somewhere?
I dug deeper. Father, Arnold Harper, retired beat cop in Buffalo, Mother, Sasha Lucya Fetisov Harper. Why did Reagan use a different name? Was she married? I didn’t notice a ring—and I’d looked. I’d checked her out from head to beautiful toe.
Running the database again, there was no record of any current or prior marriages, but Reagan Weatherford no longer used her given surname.
Staring at the screen I could only thi
nk of one question. “What are you hiding?”
I committed everything to memory including her phone number and new address in New York City on the lower east side of Manhattan before putting the computer to sleep and taking the bourbon with me.
I scanned the walls, double-checking the firearms and making one final survey of the lab at the back of the safe room. The vials sat on the counter. I was mission ready—again.
My phone rang at six a.m. and I wondered if my Monday was going to start as awful as my Sunday. “Yes?” I asked, seeing that Lilah was on the other end.
“Dr. Giles? I’m sorry to wake you so early.”
“Lilah, we’ve been over this. I want you to call me King. If you can’t manage that then we will compromise and you can call me Dr. King, but not Dr. Giles. Got it?”
“Yes sir.”
“Now,” I said swinging my feet to the floor. “What is it?”
“When you hired me, you said you wanted me to be on the lookout for anything that might involve your name—even if it was obvious.”
“Yes,” I said, agreeing with her and rose naked from my warm sheets. My mind was asleep, but my manhood was wide-awake. I could only surmise I still had Reagan Weatherford deep in my subconscious.
“Sir,” she began. “I mean, King—turn on the news. It’s all over the news.”
“What is? I asked before muting my phone to relieve myself.
“The woman who was killed by the hit and run in front of your house. They’re asking if anyone might’ve seen it happen. The poor girl worked for BioGen.”
Flushing the toilet, I went to the adjoining closet and found my workout clothes. “I’ll turn it on, Lilah and thank you. Also, will you call the house staff? It’s business as usual today—even though yesterday was a nightmare.”
“Yes sir. So you’ll be coming into the office today?”
“That’s what business as usual means, Lilah.”
She paused and I wondered if I’d made a bad choice in bringing her into my life. Slightly older than me, the perky red head who always wore a knee length skirt and a sweater set was completely capable on paper. In the flesh she was often confused, chronically lost and needed more help from me than I required of her. I didn’t know how long our relationship was going to last. Slipping my feet into my running shoes I decided to give Lilah until I returned from India the chance to get up to speed. If she couldn’t, I’d be letting her go.
“Yes, sir.”
“I’ll see you in a few hours.”
“Yes, Dr. King.”
I hung up and reached for my headphones. I needed a quick run through the farm to clear my head and get on board with the story that was fed to the media.
Turning on the television hidden in the floor of my bedroom, it rose from its quiet grave as the power switched on. On the news was the story. A saleswoman and former sex club employee from Atlanta had been found dead on Rural Route 27 after running out of gas and walking in the dark, late at night in Shadeland. Authorities believed it was a hit and run and were asking for anyone with information to come forward.
I turned off the television. If someone did see something, I prayed they would keep it to themselves and not come forward. Those were the people who disappeared on vacations and fishing trips. Or without warning, became suicidal.
One thing was for sure—Agent Beckett wouldn’t be bothering me any longer, but sadly, neither would Agent Weatherford.
Shoving the buds into my ears, Judas Priest sang out, You’ve Got Another Thing Comin’ and I rushed down the stairs and out the back door through the kitchen.
I was thirty seconds into my warm up when Georgia stepped in front of me. Silent, with her hands on her hips and her old-fashioned pocketbook swinging from her arm, she scowled at me.
Pinching the off button on the lanyard of my headphones, I turned off the music.
“I know you’ve got a story to tell me about yesterday,” she began. “So before you head on out of here, why don’t you just spill the beans? It saves me time asking, and you tellin’. Know what I mean?”
I didn’t have my headphones out, but I could hear her loud and clear and I did know what she meant.”
“There’s nothing to tell Georgia. A woman was walking down the road, I guess. She ran out of gas somewhere backaways and took off to the main road to find a gas station.”
Taking the buds from my ears one by one, she glared at me. “MmmHmm…now, why don’t you tell me the truth, son?” Georgia pursed her lips and crossed her arms, bobbling her head like a toy.
“What?” I shrugged my shoulders and smiled—a smile she’d known since I was ten. “That is the truth.”
“You know you can’t get anything by me, so don’t even try,” she said pushing past me.
“It’s in all the papers and on the news this morning, Georgia. Why would I lie to you?” I asked calling after her.
“MmmHmm.” she repeated. “I don’t know who you think you’re talking to.”
I laughed and shoved my ear buds back in and began to stretch my calves while leaning against the side of the house. Georgia shook her head at me. I could tell she wasn’t having it—not even one little bit.
Jerking only the right bud from my ear she leaned into me. “You might be a grown man, and you might be sellin’ a tale, but I’m not buying it, King. I’m not buying it.”
Kissing her on the cheek, I couldn’t hold back my smile. “I love you Georgia, you know that, right?”
She shook her head back and forth in the kind of disapproving manner you might expect from a sixty-year-old woman who hadn’t completely trusted anyone since JFK was in office.
I hit the back road that wound around Rose Hill and started my morning off as best I could.
Two miles in, my phone rang. It was a two-one-two number, and I’d been waiting for the call.
“King Giles,” I answered breathing into the phone.
“King, it’s Joe Joseph.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I know you know about…” his voice cracked. Joe Joe might’ve been a cold-blooded mobster, but he loved his daughter. “Tina.”
“Yes, sir,” I said trying to catch my breath.
“Do you know what the fuck happened? Was she coming to see you? Why King? Why?”
“I don’t know sir. We had a drink Friday night. That was the last time I saw her.”
“You better not be dicking me around King. You know what I’m capable of.”
“Yes sir, I do. I’m not dicking you around. I don’t know anything.”
“They said she was hit by a car, but they’ve cremated her body already King. Said it was a mix up at the morgue. You and I both know that’s fucking bullshit,” he shouted.
I paced, the sweat pouring from my face and body. “I’m so sorry, Joe.”
“I didn’t get to say goodbye.”
“I want to help Joe. I do.”
“I’ve got my feelers out. And you know when I find out who did this, there’s gonna be hell to pay. Do you hear me? All I wanted was to leave all of this behind and retire in Italy. Tina purposely put distance between herself and the family. I was so…” Emotion caught in Joe’s voice and I dropped my head. “I was so proud of her. She wanted me to get out of here—go home—to Sicily. But now…now I’ve got business to take care of—again.”
His voice had hit a fevered pitch. All I could do was speak to him in quiet tones and try to calm him. “I hear you. Please keep me up to speed on anything you find out. And if anything comes up here, if a cop so much as farts in the wrong direction, I’ll let you know.”
“King there’s a service for her in three days. I hope you can make it.
“I’ll try Joe. I’ll try.”
The line went dead. This was going to be a very long week.
8
REAGAN
I woke early to work out in the hotel gym. I wanted to run, lift and shower before Win came knocking at my door. Stepping out of the steam in the bathroom, I wrapped o
ne towel around my body and another around my long wet mane as I brushed my teeth and watched the morning news.
The breaking news at the top of the hour began and I spit and hurried to sit on the unmade bed.
“A woman was killed in a hit and run accident yesterday in Shadeland, Alabama. Thirty-three year old Tina Joseph of Atlanta was discovered on Rural Route 27 after a motorist saw a body lying on the road. It is believed she had run out of gas and was walking to the main highway searching for help.”
My mouth was agape at the newscaster’s words and my toothbrush hit the carpet at my feet.
“The authorities have asked anyone with information to call this hotline.”
“What the hell?” I said as toothpaste and spittle drooled from my lips.
I rinsed my mouth and rushed back to the bed, flopping on my stomach and belly crawling to the nightstand. Unplugging my phone, I called Win.
“Holloway,” he said after one ring.
“Win are you watching this on TV?”
“No.”
“It’s crazy. They’re calling Tina Joseph’s death a hit and run. This is unbelievable,” I said as I did my best to put my suit pants on. The moisture still on my skin from my hot shower made it nearly impossible to dress without my clothes sticking to my body. Win was silent on the other end. “Are you listening to me?”
“Yes, I hear you—loud and clear, Weatherford. Pack up, we’re heading back to the city.”
“New York?” My voice bordered on a shriek. I was astonished he wasn’t as surprised as I was with the turn of events.
“Yes. I’ll be by your room in an hour. Don’t make me wait on you. I want to catch the nooner out of Birmingham.”
With that, he hung up and was gone. I turned in a circle, unable to believe what was happening. In less than twenty-four hours, Dr. King Giles sat in his study and told me where the lace panties came from. This was a man who knew the dead woman in his front yard—a woman with ties to the Italian mafia—a woman who was probably taken out by a rival organized crime group. What in the hell was going on around here?
