Pic nodded.
“Leave notes for each pin. Likely times he’ll be there, what he’ll be doing.”
“Geez!” Pic tore his eyes from the screen. “Maybe paper would be easier.”
“Nah. Not when you see the end result. You’re a quick learner, so keep fiddling with it. We need to do it this way to auto-integrate our search results into the maps. I’ll communicate with an analyst in Denver as I go to the places you flag—”
“As we go—”
“You’re not leaving this house for two more days—”
“No way—”
“Guys, don’t start that again,” Andi said. “Pic. You’re not leaving—”
“But Andi—”
“Come on.” She frowned. “Don’t make us the bad guys when we’re just trying to help you.”
“But I don’t freaking want to sit around here for days on end. As nice as it is,” he added.
Gabe looked at his laptop screen. Pic had dropped about eight pins in a three-block stretch. He snapped his fingers for the kid’s attention. “Hey. Focus. So Frenchmen Street’s a prime hangout for Richie, or are you making mistakes and dropping pins where you don’t intend to?”
“No mistakes. He hangs there at night, trolling for work. Prime time is between ten thirty and three in the morning. From Snug Harbor, up and down the street. Anywhere music’s playing. He’s a stoner, which means he’s got commitment issues. Everybody knows he’s unreliable, so they don’t hire him in advance. So he goes to the bars when he feels like, and sees if any bands want to pick him up for a set.”
“How likely is he to be on Frenchmen tonight?”
“Pretty likely,” Pic said, touching his laptop screen and dropping a few more green pins for places Richie might be. “Tourists come here for Mardi Gras, so even a stoner like Richie knows this is the time to make money.”
Gabe eyed the short stretch of Frenchmen Street that was now littered with green pins. “I’ll go there around nine and let you guys know what I find.”
He saw it in their faces before they said a word—Andi was debating whether she should or could go, and Pic was about to insist, again, on joining him. “I’m going alone. Pic—you haven’t eaten much of anything but crackers and apple juice. I get twenty four hours of inside rest after you hold down your first full meal. With protein.”
He softened his tone with Andi. “And there’s no need for you to go. I’m not going to subject you to crowded bars and drunks, especially when this guy might be nowhere in sight. You said it yourself—you didn’t want to be outside from today until Mardi Gras is over.”
“But you don’t even know what he looks like,” Pic said.
“I’m an investigator. I can find anyone. I found you, right?”
“But you knew what I looked like.”
“True,” Gabe said, “but how many guys walk around with banjos?”
Pic laughed. “More than you think. This is New Orleans. At Mardi Gras. People walk around with all kinds of things. And he doesn’t always carry it. Just like me. Where’s my guitar right now?”
Gabe frowned, because the guitar was in a case, in the corner of the room. Okay, so maybe Pic had a point. “Yeah, but you’re not trying to get a few hours work with your guitar right now, are you? Besides, Andi’s got about five sketches of the guy in her studio. I’ve got a pretty good idea what he looks like.
“That’s good, because no one’s going to point him out to you. People like the guy. He looks out for others, and you look like an oversized cop. A mean one.”
“I’ll smile.”
Pic rolled his eyes. “Then they’ll think you’re stupid and rob you.”
“You’re underestimating the value of the almighty dollar.”
“Doesn’t matter what you pay.”
“I seriously doubt that.”
“He won’t talk to you if I’m not with you,” Pic said, digging in for an argument as he stared at the iPad screen and dropped green pins along Claiborne Avenue and beyond.
“We’ll see about that,” Gabe said. “Quick, think of a reason why he should tell me about what happened to Jake and where Monica might be, if he knows.”
Pic stared at Gabe for a second, his eyes thoughtful. “Okay. Why?”
Gabe lifted his phone, and turned on the video. “Now tell him your reason.”
Pic turned his head. “No photos, dude.”
“I’ll delete it after I talk to Richie.”
With a frown, and a firm headshake, Pic turned his back to Gabe.
“I promise I’ll delete it.”
Pic shrugged and turned to face Gabe. “Okay. But I want to see you delete it.”
And this is why the pile of shit Ragno’s searches are screeching towards can’t be true. He’s trusting me. And he cares about these people. He’s not evil. He’s good. I know it.
“That’s fair.” Gabe lifted his phone again, and pressed the video switch.
“Hey, Richie,” Pic said into the phone. “This guy’s helping me. I’m sick as a dog. Been staying at Andi’s house. Tell Gabe about what you said happened to Jake. Maybe it’s related to what happened to me. And Monica missed her clinic appointment on Monday. It’s driving me crazy. So if you’ve seen her, can you let this big guy know? Later, dude.”
Shutting the phone, Gabe eyed the plethora of green dots on the map. “More bars where musicians play?”
As Pic nodded, Gabe typed a text for Marvin. ‘You free for a couple of hours of work? At eleven-ish? Need to go to some local haunts. Find someone.’
“Yeah,” Pic said. “These pins along Claiborne and Orleans Avenue are in Treme. This one—I’ll put a double pin on it—has really good food. The old lady who owns it, Clothilde, serves gumbo and roast beef po’ boys all night. Food’s pricey, but—” Pic smiled. “—she likes me and Richie. She’ll feed us for free if we play for an hour or so.” His expression turned serious. “This neighborhood’s rough. You shouldn’t go there at night alone.”
Gabe laughed, as Agent Tyre’s voice crackled through his earpiece. “Sir?”
“Yes?”
“Doctor Cavanaugh’s here.”
The doctor and Pic went upstairs while Gabe and Andi remained in the living room. After the exam, the doctor and patient returned downstairs. Pic resumed his position on the couch and refocused on the iPad. Gabe had briefed the doctor on how hard it was to get Pic to stay off the streets. Playing the part of stern but friendly physician well, Cavanaugh reported that Pic’s lungs had started to improve. He emphasized the need for Pic to rest and remain inside. It was too damp outside. Humidity wouldn’t help his lungs.
“Okay,” Gabe said. “You heard the doctor. I’ve got enough pins on the map for one night. What about a bowl of soup?”
At eight-thirty, after soup and a fresh dose of cough medicine, Andi left the guesthouse. Gabe stuck around until Pic was in bed, fighting off sleep, and clutching Gabe’s iPad. Gabe assured him he’d wake him if he got any news on the street, then went looking for Andi in the main house. He found her in her studio, painting, with all the lights on and the heat turned up.
Leaning against the doorjamb, inhaling the pungent smell of oil paints, he took in the sight of her, paintbrush in hand as she focused on the mostly blank canvas on her easel. She wore fluffy white socks, black yoga pants, and a baby blue, oversized sweatshirt. He’d love to slowly unpeel those layers and—yeah. That.
Over the last few days, the Sandy/Brad thing had settled into long kisses. Petting, like he hadn’t done since his teenage years. And the night before, they’d even gotten on the couch and watched television for hours, as they nestled into each other and got cozy. It had always been his favorite kind of date, and he’d found his perfect woman for it. Finally.
As she glanced towards him, some of the deep concentration that she was directing at the canvas left her face. As she lay her paintbrush on a table, her smile melted his heart. “Is he asleep?”
Gabe nodded. “Almost. Trying hard to
watch X-Men Origins, Wolverine.”
She chuckled. “I’ll check on him around eleven. It’ll be time for his meds then.” She stretched her arms above her head, shifting her head from left to right in a neck stretch. He fought the urge to go to her. Take her in his arms. Help her work any kinks out of her shoulders. Her neck. Her back.
No. No. And, no. Give her space.
To his disappointment, she remained near her easel, twelve feet away instead of crossing the room to him. “I don’t think you’re getting your iPad back,” she said, lifting a tube of oil paint from the table near her easel, and opening it.
“Doesn’t matter. I ordered one for him. Should be here tomorrow.”
“I texted photos of the sketches I did of Richie to you.”
“Got ‘em.”
She gave him an eyebrow arch. “They’re not for distribution.”
“Understood.” He thought about the email reply Andi had sent after looking at the artist’s rendering of Pic’s tattoo, which Cavanaugh had said was spot on. “So you think the name in Pic’s tattoo could be Aubrey Rose?”
She nodded, squeezed a blob of reddish oil paint onto her palette, then stared at it while she talked. “It’s a guess. Based upon the rules of monograms.”
“You lost me.”
“That’s because you’re not a Southern woman, with monograms on everything since your first onesie.” She squeezed out another blob, then glanced at him with a big smile. “Have you noticed my AH monograms?”
“Yeah. Impossible to miss.” The letters AH were embroidered on towels in the bathrooms, scrolling across pillowcases, embossed on the stationary at her writing desk, and even stamped in lavender ink on the notepad on her kitchen counter.
Best thing is you won’t have to change any of it. See? My last name starts with an H, too. Keep yours or take mine. Choice will be yours.
Oblivious to where his thoughts had gone, she continued in a matter-of-fact tone as she replaced the tube on the table. “It’s a matter of proportionality. Pic didn’t put the woman’s full name, but the size of the rose is the size of the A in Aubrey. Sort of like when there are only two initials in a monogram, like mine. My A is the same size as my H. Just a guess, though. Plus, Aubrey Rose is such a beautiful name.” Her gaze settling on him, she asked, “Why? You know something?”
“Not yet.” Because I’m not liking what the searches are telling me. “There’s something else. Cavanaugh called me tonight, after he left. When he was examining Pic, he noticed something he didn’t see before. Vertical scars. Two. One on each wrist. Faded, but visible. Cavanaugh says they’re consistent with a suicide attempt, a few years ago. You know anything about that?”
All color drained from Andi’s face, which he took as a solid confirmation of Cavanaugh’s hunch. Aw. Hell. Hell. Hell. That’s why the bond between them is so strong—a fact I’m not supposed to know anything about. It isn’t simply that Pic saved Andi that day when she tried to drown herself. It’s because he’d tried it too. And that’s bad, in light of what Ragno’s figuring out.
Suddenly, she felt more remote than simply the twelve feet separating them. It was as though the distance between them was a deep, frigid body of water. The strength of the water’s current was the importance of the lie he was telling her by not admitting that he knew details that she’d never revealed to anyone. To him. Importance was growing by the second. And there was only one anecdote for lying, and that was the truth.
The whole truth.
As Andi stood there, silent, struggling with her private memories and her equally private knowledge about Pic, his gut screamed, ‘Now’s the time, dumbass! Tell her now that you know everything, that you read her journals. Own your mistake. Ask for forgiveness. Embrace the suck.’
He cleared his throat, and started, “Look, Andi—”
“I know, Gabe.”
Maybe he’d have kept going, but the softness of her whisper snuffed the rest of his words. Her own memories were enough of a struggle. He didn’t need to add to it. She cleared her throat and when she spoke again, her tone was firm and unwavering. “To help Pic, we need to know who he is. But how could that fact—whether he’d attempted suicide—help you identify him? Apart from Cavanaugh giving you information, aren’t most medical records protected?”
He shifted gears, grateful for the reprieve. “Not from Black Raven. As a matter of fact, in this day and age, no cyber data, even medical records, is protected from anyone with a bit of know-how. If Ragno goes with an assumption that Pic is closely connected to an Aubrey Rose, and birth records indicate that an Aubrey Rose gave birth to a male in the time frame we’re guesstimating for Pic’s birth, and she takes that and combs through databases for a minor affiliated with an Aubrey Rose who was hospitalized for a wrist slashing—”
Shaking her head with a look somewhere between annoyance and confusion, she interrupted him. “Isn’t hacking like that criminal?”
That isn’t the half of it. That’s only the official, Black Raven-sanctioned hacking. Goddammit, but I’m in trouble.
“Black Raven only does this sort of work on a need-to-know basis.” His gut twisted with an inward cringe. The company line sounded as lame as it ever did.
Her features shifted to disgust. “I hate to think you do that kind of stuff.”
If only you knew.
“We protect, Andi. And the only way to do that effectively is to know the enemy. Inside and out, and especially their secrets.” By the way Andi was reacting to this mild, watered-down taste of the darker side of Black Raven, he couldn’t find the words he needed to tell her about his much more intimate invasion of her privacy. His brother Zeus’s prophecy—that one day Gabe wouldn’t be able to fix the damage he created by ignoring boundaries—was coming to pass.
The truth—‘Hey Andi, I picked the lock to your secret room and read your journals’—seemed like fighting words in light of the bonfire she’d orchestrated the night before. Her scowl now made it perfectly clear that he was going to be on the losing end of that fight.
As I should be. Okay. Decision’s made. I can’t tell her. Not now. Maybe never.
“I’m done with giving you information about Pic,” Andi continued, gripping another tube of paint, and squeezing out a small blob of dark greenish paint next to the reddish color. “I know I said to keep going with Ragno’s searches for information leading to Pic. And I know I analyzed the tattoo. But nothing more. Sorry.” As she looked up and directed her gaze at him, the hard look in her eyes and solid set to her jaw indicated she was anything but sorry. “I won’t betray a confidence. And just to be clear here, I’m not confirming or denying whether Pic ever mentioned anything about a suicide attempt to me. I’ll figure out a different way to help him.”
He nodded. “Understood.”
“And I think you should also find a different way.” She lifted her palette knife and started working the two blobs together. She glanced at him. “Stop digging. Accept him for who he is now.”
At least he could be honest about this. “I’m not going to do that. I’m going to find out what went wrong in his life—”
“For what reason? Help him now, the way he is now—”
“I don’t believe that I can, without knowing what went wrong. I’m going to figure it out, and I’m going to fix it.”
She studied him for a few seconds. “You can’t fix everything, Gabe. Some things break, and can’t be put back together. You do understand that, don’t you?”
As he locked glances with her, the storm cloud of worry in her eyes made him pretty damn certain she wasn’t simply referring to Pic. She was talking about herself. “I absolutely understand that some things are better left alone. But I know when I should exercise my power to try to make things better. And with Pic, I need to figure out if that’s a possibility.”
His words did little to alleviate the worry in her eyes. But she lifted her paintbrush, and he took the action as a dismissal. One that he was damn grateful for, because he fel
t that he either had to tell her what he knew about her, or end the conversation. “I’ll be back in a few hours.”
Once in his bedroom, he typed a text to Ragno. ‘Andi won’t confirm or deny whether Pic tried suicide.’ He paused, thinking about Andi’s initial reaction. Then he added, ‘Assume it happened, though.’
Her reply came fast, as he grabbed his jacket. ‘Already did. Massaging data now. Not liking results. I’ll run programs with alternate scenarios. Maybe drop Rose from Aubrey (?). Let’s talk after I assimilate data. Budapest team needs my attention. You have eyes on Pic?’
‘Yes.’
‘For now, you have to assume Pic’s a danger to Andi.’
‘Instinct says he’s not.”
When she received that text, Ragno called. “I know you don’t want to believe it,” she said. “But I know what my research is telling me. Due diligence requires us to keep Andi secure, which means we look at him even closer now. If this pans out, he’s the sort of person we keep from our clients. Not allow in their guesthouses.”
Heart heavy, Gabe knew exactly what Ragno was saying. He also knew the likelihood of Ragno’s research leading to an incorrect result was damn slim. “Keep looking. Modify the other variables. There’s got to be another plausible scenario for his mother’s death out there. Or maybe we’ve misidentified him, and we’re looking at the wrong Aubrey. We need to find more facts. This can’t be right.”
“I’m on it,” she answered.
Tyre and Stevens were in the security vestibule. Gabe paused in the doorway to pull on his jacket. “I’m heading out. I have you both on audio. Keep me informed as to both Pic and Andi. If she goes to the back house, go with her. Do not leave her alone with Pic.”
Chapter Thirty
Concierge
Thursday, February 18, 10:00 p.m.
Drawing out the anticipation, I walk around the bedroom, lighting long, elegant, cream-colored tapers. I’m ready for another night with the woman splayed out on my bed, face down, arms and legs tied to bedposts.
Concierge Page 32
