Concierge

by Stella Barcelona

  She chuckled. Clearing her throat, she removed the huskiness from her voice. “How’s this?”

  “Better. But stay over there. I need every inch of the thirty feet separating us right now.”

  Her heart smiled. “Feet firmly planted.”

  “Good. Stay that way, but show me that sketch.”

  She turned it to him.

  He studied it for a second. “Do you have any where his eyes are blue?”

  “No. I usually don’t use color. That’s why Sonja’s comments the other day were odd, when she was looking at the sketches. At first I was wondering what made her think of blue-eyed blondes and pregnant women when she was looking at the sketches of Monica and Honey—”

  “You didn’t say that then.”

  “I know. But it’s stuck with me, in the back of my mind, ever since. At the time, I was just plain annoyed with her and Jacques in general, so I didn’t focus on it.” Andi shrugged. “She explained it away by saying she was just giving her cynical view of the world. He said something about capitalism. Do you remember?”

  “No. Frankly, I was mostly focusing on what in the hell you saw in either of them.”

  She shuddered. “I can’t imagine being with people like that now.”

  “I’m sorry for the reason behind the change, but I’m sure glad that part of you has changed. Mind bringing that to me?”

  She walked across the studio to him, holding out the sketch. He took it from her, then growled, “Now back away.”

  All playfulness evaporated as he studied Pic’s face. He drew a deep breath, reached for his phone, and snapped a photo. “Pic’s file needs the right cover photo. I’m guessing he’s never let you take an actual photo of him?”

  “You’re guessing correctly.”

  “Then I’ll use the sketch. I want the agents to have the correct first impression.” He clicked his laptop a few more times, touched his watch, and said, “Hello, Lamonte. Glad to hear you’re available for Operation Lucas Tanner McShane. We’ll shorten it to Operation Pic, which is the name we know this kid by.” He paused, silent as he listened for a few seconds. Then he chuckled. “Not all men are egocentric assholes. I’m happy to serve as a save call. I’ll give you a minute to get rid of him. Tell him it’s urgent.”

  He shook his head while glancing in Andi’s direction. “Why do women have such a hard time saying, ‘Gotta go. Good night?’ Lamonte’s a bad ass. She’s shrewd and her field skills are on a par with any of our best agents.”

  And her body count is damn high. She’s got no qualms with inflicting Black Raven-style corrective action and expedient justice. That’s why I’m using her. Pic wouldn’t have murdered his mother. Not now, and not a couple years ago when he was Lucas. He ran from something evil. I have a strong feeling we’ll be headed in a direction that’s going to require a special brand of ingenuity. If I can’t get there to deliver it, Lamonte will do it. Without flinching.

  Keeping his full rationale to himself, he said to Andi, “Lamonte’s on a date that sucks and feels powerless to end it.”

  Andi shrugged. “Used to have the same problem myself. It’s one of the many benefits of not dating.”

  “Glad you feel that way,” he said, giving her a full beam smile. “Remember—dating’s hell. Not something you ever want to do again.” His smile drifted away. “Everything okay, Lamonte?” He listened. Chuckled. “I’m sending data now. Cyber division’s sending more. Ragno’s my alternate contact.” He paused. “Want your brainpower to help come up with leads as you get ready for your flight. Cover photo is a sketch of Lucas Tanner McShane. Calls himself Pic. Call me back once you settle in with the files. Want to talk with you about it and about who your partner will be.”

  He stared at Andi, a thoughtful expression on his face. “This will be okay.”

  “Are you talking to me?”

  He nodded. “Yeah. Lamonte’s offline. We will believe in innocence until proven guilty. Won’t assume the worst. Databases provide a fabric. Texture, though, requires real life, hands-on investigating. My agents will go to the trailer park where he and his mom lived. The school he attended. We’re looking for nuances. Like all the things I didn’t know about you, until I got here.”

  “Or I could just try to talk to him about it.”

  “Yeah?” Skepticism filed his eyes. “And what would happen?”

  “He’d run.”

  “Give me a day or two with agents in Mapleton. Lamonte will be there first thing in the morning, and I’ll send another agent to join her. She’ll pick up and follow any scent she can. Which gets me back to what my gut’s been telling me. You know him as well as anyone. Is there anything that you might have heard from him about his home that you haven’t already told me? Even something seemingly unimportant?”

  She glanced at the easel, and drew a deep breath. “I think he had a counselor. Or some kind of help. After his suicide attempt. And they were poor, so it was probably through a service provided by the hospital he went to.”

  “Beautiful,” Gabe nodded, clicked a few times, and focused on his screen. “That’s exactly what I’m looking for. An avenue we probably would’ve stumbled upon once Lamonte gets to Mapleton, but it’s better to get going on it and do cyber groundwork in advance.” He typed a fast burst, then glanced up at her. “Give me more. Anything he said. Context, if you don’t have details.”

  A paintbrush that she didn’t remember picking up was in her hand. She squeezed hard on the lacquered handle. She bit the inside of her lip, and remained silent.

  Here’s your context—when I tried to kill myself, he told me I needed to talk to someone. He was pretty damn insistent about it. And he used this believe-in-tomorrow phrase, which sounded like psycho-babble to me. So I assumed that he’d talked to someone. But I can’t tell you that, because my suicide attempt is something you'll never know about.

  In the face of her silence, Gabe stopped typing. “He talked with you about his counseling?”

  Is this how I want to start a relationship with this man? Withholding a vital piece of myself before this show even gets on the road? And is that sad bit of my history a vital piece? And are we starting a relationship, when I know I’ll have to push him away. He can’t handle my darkness.

  Damn damn damn.

  She gave Gabe what she hoped look like an it-was-nothing shrug. “Not exactly. It just seems logical.”

  He nodded. Started typing again, as though her answer satisfied him. He stared at his computer, reading for a while. Every now and then, he typed a few fast bursts.

  “What are you doing now?”

  “Scrolling through manpower. Looking for an agent to partner with Lamonte. Normally, corporate does this kind of stuff, but I pull my own teams together when I have the time.”

  “While you’re doing that, I’ll sketch the scene I saw last Friday.”

  He narrowed his eyes and rested his hands on the laptop. “Not sure you should force your mind to go back there. Think you can handle it?”

  I have no idea. “I’ll make myself. If I try,” she said, lifting the Crescent Park canvas off the easel that stood closest to her work table, “more details than I was able to tell you on Saturday might come to me.”

  “That how it works?”

  She clipped a clean piece of sketch paper to a blank canvas. Turning to the table where her oil paints were laid out, she moved them to the side to transition the work place for sketching. “Sometimes. Normally, after spending hours outdoors, focusing on a scene, my mind’s eye can recreate details that didn’t make it to the canvas while I was outside. That’s why I paint my scenes in a series, with some paintings created in my studio. It’s the reason my outdoor time’s so precious to me.”

  He typed, then the clacking of the keyboard stopped as his gaze returned to her. “Keep going. I’m multitasking. Lamonte’s in the file. Asking questions. I can answer her while you and I talk.”

  Pretending that their conversation wasn’t of monumental importance, she
made sure the lead points of her different sketch pencils were in a precise line. “It’s my…therapy, I guess. Visuals that become imprinted on my brain while I’m outdoors enable me to get through my nights. Recreating the sights on canvas, drawing and painting from normal images of a regular day, the images that exist in my mind, requires focus. That kind of focus, on something other than my memories, enables me to calm the anxiety that’s plagued me ever since my kidnapping. Sounds crazy, right?”

  Please say no. Because I just explained my life to you. I’m better, but this —this fighting to hang on—will forever be my normal. And it suddenly matters whether or not you think I’m batshit crazy.

  Holding his cell phone and laptop in the crook of his arm, he rose, then advanced on her with the stealth of a jungle beast. He lifted her chin in the crook of his finger, as warmth and contentment filled her. “Sounds like the most logical thing I’ve ever heard. Smart. Brave. Amazing.”

  His understanding filled her with an intense longing to open herself to him, both physically and mentally. She couldn’t imagine what it would be like to have one person on the planet who knew every dark corner of her soul. And accepted her anyway. Damaged. Screwed up. Afraid. It would be a relief to share what she’d held inside her like a cancer since her kidnapping.

  But if she did, he’d realize how broken she really was. And he might never look at her the same. She managed a small smile. “Really? All that?”

  “Yeah. All that,” he whispered, touching his lips to her forehead. He stepped back, placed his hands on her shoulders. “But maybe your tried and true method won’t work for what you saw last Friday. You weren’t painting then. So you weren’t as focused. And whatever you saw was upsetting to you. So if you try to recreate it now, it will have the opposite effect of what painting in your studio normally does for you, right?”

  Of course he was right, but that didn’t matter. “I need to try. And I’ll be fine. If it becomes too much, I’ll stop.”

  “Promise?”

  “Yes.”

  He nodded, though his eyes held more than a bit of uncertainty. “I’ll be downstairs. If I stay up here, I’ll stop working. And what I have in mind for the best way to spend the next few hours certainly won’t be helping Pic. When you stop painting, come downstairs. I’d love if you curled up next to me while I work.” He bent his lips to hers, gave her a lingering kiss that sent her into a world of warmth, light, and promise, and then stepped back at the exact moment when desire started overtaking her senses. “And I’ll just have to find the willpower to keep my hands off you until I’m at a breaking point on Operation Pic.”

  Chapter Thirty Four

  Pic

  Friday, February 19, 4:45 a.m.

  “Hey, kid. Get up.”

  As the bedroom lights snapped on, Pic opened his eyes to see Gabe in the doorway. He wore jeans and a tucked-in, long sleeve t-shirt with the Black Raven logo on it, and his hair was standing up, as if he’d just rolled out of bed. His Glock was holstered at his hip. Without a smile, and with stubble darkening his cheeks and chin, Gabe looked more serious than normal. And tired.

  Spaces between slatted shutters, closed on the outside of the guesthouse, revealed no light. “Richie’s here?”

  “Yeah. A little earlier than he said he’d be. I let him in. Told him to help himself in the kitchen. I’ll go back to the main house while you guys catch up. How are you feeling?”

  “Better.” With the covers firmly pulled up to his shoulders, Pic inhaled, then waited for a cough that didn’t come. “Progress. Finally.”

  Lifting one hand from under the covers, he gestured to Gabe with a swirl of his index finger. Gabe rolled his eyes, then turned around. “You’re more modest than a girl. It’s weird. Any particular reason?”

  Letting the sheets fall back, Pic got out of bed, reaching for his jeans, which he’d tossed over a nearby chair. “Yeah? So?” He pulled on the jeans, and zipped them. “And it’s none of your fucking business.”

  He immediately felt bad for treating Gabe, who really seemed like a good guy, like a shit. Yet it was his fallback when he felt pressured and uncomfortable, and he’d certainly never held back before. Modulating his tone and getting a grip on his pissy attitude, Pic added, “Finally feel like I can breathe again. Knowing Monica hasn’t disappeared is a huge relief, I gotta tell you. Richie can give her the message that I’m outta my mind with worry about her. She’ll find me. Or want to see me. I’m sure. Well, pretty sure.”

  Gabe’s late-night news that Monica was not missing and that Richie would get a message to her for him made Pic feel better. He worried about his friends, and Monica, being pregnant, and out on the streets, worried him the most. As his stomach grumbled, Pic was damn glad to feel that his body was cooperating with his good mood. “And you’ll be happy to hear that I’m starving.”

  “Ecstatic over that newsflash. I’d be doing cartwheels, if I’d slept at all. There’s lots of stuff for you to eat downstairs. Fruit. Muffins. Bread. Peanut butter.” Gabe, his back to Pic, leaned against the doorframe, lifted his left arm and straightened his hair.

  “What kept you up all night?”

  “Not for you to worry about. Or as you’d say, none of your fucking business. See how much nicer my way of answering was? You dressed yet?”

  “Not yet.” Pic slipped on a t-shirt. “You can turn around now.”

  Gabe turned, and leaned against the doorframe again, this time facing Pic. “I cook a hot breakfast in the main house at our morning meeting time. Walk over at nine-thirty if you’re hungry. Pancakes, eggs, and bacon.”

  “Damn,” Pic said, reaching for a sweatshirt. “It’s freezing.”

  “Got colder overnight. Rain’s predicted. I adjusted the thermostat when I walked in. Don’t know why it was so low.”

  “Andi did that. I was hot when she came into say goodnight. Bet I can make better pancakes than you.”

  Gabe arched an eyebrow. “Really?”

  “Yeah. Sure. Used to cook all the time.”

  “You didn’t have a parent around to cook for you?”

  Aw. Fuck. I stepped into that one.

  “Well?” Gabe prodded.

  “Nah. Loser who should’ve been my dad wasn’t around. Mom worked a lot.” Pic smiled, covering the instant, deep pain at the thought of mornings with his mom. Most mornings had been more bad than good. He’d learned at a young age never to knock on Aubrey Rose’s bedroom door to wake her up for breakfast, because he never knew who was in there with her. But there had been mornings when it had just been the two of them, and those had been the best mornings of his life. “She said my banana pancakes were the best she’d ever had.”

  Gabe’s eyes were serious as he gazed at Pic. “Remember that promise I made to you on the levee the other night?”

  Pic pursed his lips. Stayed silent for a second, as he pretended to think. “That I’d never have to lay eyes on your cock? Aw man. Please tell me ya aren’t taking that one back. ‘Cause I’ll still slice it off and shove it—”

  “Nah. That promise still stands—”

  “Good, ‘cause this is creepy with you looking all serious and shit.”

  “Cut the crap. I’m not joking. I’m talking about the promise that I wouldn’t send you back to wherever you came from. Andi wants to help you. And so do I. So anytime you want to talk to either of us, just do it.”

  Hope flared. Starting from his feet, traveling up his legs, and sizzling up his spine, lighting the way to his brain. But the path to his mouth was nonexistent, because Pic had obliterated it.

  In the face of Pic’s silence, Gabe’s thoughtful stare became more intense. “For us to help you, you’ll need to talk about what the hell it is you’re running from. It would be a damn shame if the only side of your story that no one ever tells is your side.”

  “What the hell is that s’posed to mean?”

  “You’re smart, Pic. Think about it. Whenever you’re ready, start talking. If not today, maybe in a week. O
r in a month. A year. I don’t care when, but don’t wait too long. Because the streets are going to kill you. Find me before that happens. I’m your safety zone. Understood?”

  As he stared at Gabe, he knew he was looking at his best, and maybe his last, chance out of the life he’d fallen into.

  Please help me. I’m so tired of running.

  Pic didn’t have the voice for the first word. Plus, he heard Richie rustling around downstairs. Now wasn’t the time or place, and the moment came and went without him saying a goddamn thing.

  “Pancakes. Nine-thirty. Get rid of Richie well before then. Whatever you do, don’t bring him to breakfast. Andi’s had a long night.” Gabe’s intense gaze let those words sink in. “Richie looks like the kind who’d stay as long as we let him. I think he’d be too much reality for our girl.”

  They went downstairs together to find Richie in the small kitchen. He’d taken off his leather bomber jacket. His bandana was firmly in place on his forehead. He had a plate on the counter, and was slathering peanut butter on a slice of bread. His face lit with a broad grin when he saw Pic. “Dude. You got a sweet gig here. Please tell me you’re not so stupid that you’re thinking of leaving.” He peeled a banana. Using his fingers, he mashed it on top the peanut butter. “Ever.”

  “Yeah. It’s great.” Pic grabbed a banana from the fruit bowl on the counter.

  “Richie,” Gabe said. “You know how to find me. Keep me informed.”

  With a squeeze bottle of honey in his hand, Richie nodded at Gabe. “Likewise. And if you need me tonight, I should be back at Fat Cat Alley. If I’m not there, I’ll be at Clothilde’s. Thanks for the food.”

  “Thank Andi next time you see her. Pic, Agent Tyre’s in the courtyard if you need anything.” To Richie, Gabe said, “Courtyard’s the only way out.” He gestured with his head to the door of the guesthouse that led to the sidewalk. “It’s locked. Five different ways and there’s no key around here. It stays that way.”

  “Fuck,” Richie said, his eyes on the door as it clicked shut behind Gabe. “These guys are serious, aren’t they? Two of them greeted me at the gate, then he showed up. How many are there?”