by Shandi Boyes
Panicked Melody’s call is about to ring out, I hit the connect button. Well, that’s the excuse I plan to use when this backfires in my face. After licking my dry lips, I raise my phone in front of myself like this is something I do often. The novelty of this type of communication is showcased in the worst way when I peer past the person taking up a majority of the screen to seek Melody behind Agent Russell’s smiling face and dark locks.
When I fail to find any indication that Melody is anywhere in the vicinity, I stray my eyes back to the pair peering at me curiously. Agent Russell tries to play off my confusion with a playful taunt. “Sweats. Good choice. I was hoping you had changed into something comfortable before digging in. A stretchy waistband is very much a requirement for all the food I purchased.” When I remain staring at her like a fish out of water, she twists her lips. “Was it good?”
I do a weird head nod shake thingy. “It was okay. I didn’t touch the abalone, though.”
“Not a fan of shark?”
My nose screws up. “I don’t mind the occasional serve of flake. It was the snails I was disinterested in.”
With a laugh, Agent Russell sinks deeper into a padded material that resembles the headboard I couldn’t be fucked buying for my bed since I never invite anyone into my room to see it before hugging an empty glass of wine into her chest. “I’m not a fan either, but the cook from the Chinese restaurant one block from your apartment assured me it was your favorite.”
“You asked the cook at a Chinese restaurant that I’ve never dined at what my favorite dish was, and he told you the most expensive item on the menu. Hmm, makes sense.” Her laugh is cute, but regretfully, it does little to ease my confusion. “Is there a reason for your call, Agent Russell?”
She rolls her eyes. “Will you please call me Phillipa? Every time I’m called Agent Russell, fellow agents shit their pants, assuming my father is on the prowl.”
I can’t help but smile at her comment. She slurred on a handful of her words, proving she wasted no time in opening a bottle of wine when she left here, but that isn’t the reason I’m laughing. Her reply is the exact reason I legally changed my name to Brandon James.
When she fills her glass to the very brim with red wine, my brow quirks. “Long weekend?”
She blows a strand of dead straight hair out of her eyes before muttering, “You could say that.” She takes a generous sip of her drink, amplifying the plumpness of her lips. “I was suspended earlier today.”
“For?” The genuine shock in my tone can’t be missed. It would take someone with balls of steel to put the daughter of the Director of the Bureau on leave.
An understanding hum vibrates from my chest when Phillipa breathes out, “Crombie. He died on my watch. I failed to find out why, so until the investigation is over, I’m on paid leave.”
“Just because he died on your watch doesn’t mean it was your fault.” If that were the case, Melody’s affair would be my fault. I told Mr. Gregg I wouldn’t let her out of my sight for a minute. I didn’t keep my promise.
Phillipa leans in close to the screen. “That’s not what Melody said.”
“She was defending me. She doesn’t know any different.” And neither do I, but I’ll keep that snippet of information to myself.
The rustle of a deep sigh bellows down the line. “She had some good points, though. I was so gung-ho to place the burden onto someone else’s shoulders, I went on a witch hunt.” She drags her hand across her eyes that appear as tired as mine. “I didn’t plan for our interview to take the route it did, I just got worked up. Her wit stunned me.”
“If it makes you feel any better, her intelligence often catches people by surprise.”
Phillipa’s lips purse. “It doesn’t, but thanks for trying.” I discover the real reason for her reaching out when she says a few seconds later, “Talking about Melody, did you open the envelope I left with you?” She gags when I hold up the still-sealed document. “Have you never heard curiosity kills the cat?”
“It’s lucky I’m not a cat then, isn’t it?” She laughs again. I really wish she wouldn’t as it’s giving me the wrong idea. Not sexually. I’m just seeing her as more of a friend than a foe. “Do you want me to do the big reveal now or later?”
“Are we still talking about the envelope?” She slaps a hand over her eyes as her cheeks inflame with heat. “Oh my God. I’m so sorry. My college girlfriends always told me I got randy when I was drunk. I never believed them.” She peers at me through her cracked fingers. “I do now.”
My lips twitch, but I can’t fathom a reply. I’m such a novice of dating, I had no clue what she meant until she mentioned getting randy while drunk. “I have rules—”
“Don’t worry, so do I,” she interrupts. “No fucking on the first date, and he has to be at least four inches taller than me. You’re only three.”
I don’t know whether to laugh or cry, so I go with honesty instead. “I meant that I don’t ‘date’ other agents.”
“Oh…” The heat on her cheeks ignites. “There’s that, too.” She peers down at the envelope I’m clutching for dear life. “Will you please open that before I bury myself in a hole I’ll never get out of?”
Nodding, I prop my phone onto the docking charger on my bedside table, rip open the seal, then yank out four surveillance photographs from inside. Confusion spirals through me when I take in the dirty-blonde hair, brown eyes, and cock-thickening body I was anticipating to see when I connected our call. Even for someone who hasn’t been to New York in years, I recognize the landscape of the pictures. The bakery Melody is dining at was my mom’s favorite anytime we traveled to the city to see my father at his campaign office.
After taking in each picture individually, I fan them across my bedspread so I can assess them as a whole. “She’s beautiful.”
“She sure is,” Phillipa replies, making me realize I said my statement out loud.
I swivel my tongue around my mouth to loosen up my next set of words. “Is that her fiancé?” I’m reasonably sure the ginger-haired man in the third photograph is Julian McMahon, but I rarely paid him any attention when google alerts popped up for him. I was too busy scanning his images for Melody to pay him any attention.
Before Phillipa can confirm the man’s identity, I make an inquiry about another. “Who’s the guy in the suit?”
“Guy in a suit?” Even tipsy, Phillipa is a shit liar.
When she catches my glare, she rolls her eyes. “He’s the reason I’m batting my eyelashes and wearing a push-up bra under my negligee. I need your help to identify him. We got partial DNA from a glass he left in the bakery, and a good set of prints, but other than that, we’re walking around blind.”
“Did you run his DNA through CODIS?”
She nods. “More than once. We never got a hit.”
“Facial recognition?”
She glares at me like I’m stupid. “I’ve done everything. He has either never left New York or someone—”
“Is cleaning his steps?”
Air rustles down the line when she briskly nods. It comes to an immediate halt when I ask, “Do you think it could be the CIA?”
“Following Melody or covering his steps?”
I half-heartedly shrug. “Both.”
Phillipa takes her time deliberating a response before saying, “Possibly.”
She doesn’t sound convinced until I disclose, “Melody’s father worked for the CIA. The cover-up I cited in my reports to have his accident ruled a homicide was because the CIA didn’t want to admit they’d failed one of their own—”
“Allegedly,” Phillipa pushes out, breathlessly. “You need to choose your words wisely, BJ. You don’t know who could be listening.”
Although her reply was straight-up honest, it piques my interest more than it panics me. “Why do you call me BJ?”
When her eyes float up and to the right, I lift my phone off its charging dock in preparation to hit the end call button.
She une
arths my plan of attack in less than a nanosecond. “I heard Melody call you BJ in the home videos from when you were kids. It kind of stuck.”
“What home videos?” My mom shoved a camera in Melody’s and my face many times when we were young, but not once do I recall being video recorded.
“Liam recorded some of your drills. He used them to strategize new plans of attack.”
Although creepy, it does make sense. One thing doesn’t, though. “Why would home videos of the Greggs be stored in the FBI database?”
I grow an appreciation for video chats when Phillipa’s throat works hard to swallow. If we were communicating the old-fashioned way, I wouldn’t have known she’s rattled. “I didn’t technically find them in the Bureau’s records. I discovered them when I was working on another case.” I wait and wait and wait for her to elaborate. Mercifully, she doesn’t leave me hanging for long. “I was the agent assigned to Tobias’s case. When hunting for evidence to help convict Leesa, I stumbled upon a first edition copy of War and Peace by—”
“Leo Tolstoy,” I interrupt, smiling. I’m not surprised Tobias had more than one copy. No one can predict where they’ll die, not even a man as smart as Tobias. “You found Tobias’s anagram?”
“Yes,” Phillipa confesses. “It didn’t think much of it at the time, but once Leesa was convicted, it played on my mind for weeks on end.”
“Did you decipher it?”
Even through a video lens, I can see her ego sparking in her eyes. “It took me almost a year since I didn’t have a key to work with, but I got there in the end.” I almost ask if she fully deciphered it, but she continues talking, saving me from spilling information that isn’t mine to share. “There was a six-sequence code I couldn’t work out. I thought it might have corresponded with one of the files in Tobias’s home office, but when I looked for it, the file wasn’t there.”
My throat grows scratchy, but I hold back a relieving swallow. I’d hate for Phillipa to know I hid Isabelle’s file in a place no one would expect to look.
My Adam’s apple bobs up and down without thinking when she adds, “That’s where I stumbled onto the Greggs’ home videos.”
“Tobias had a file on Melody?” I swear I sound like I haven’t hit puberty yet. My voice is loud and cringeworthy.
“I’m assuming at one stage, but he doesn’t anymore. Excluding the old reels I found buried beneath a pile of junk, none of the files dated the year of Melody’s birth gave any indication they were associated with her.”
“Did you check dates after their home invasion?”
Phillipa’s brows pull together as she shakes her head. Her confusion is understandable. I only recognized Tobias’s method of filing when I returned to remove Isabelle’s file from its slot. The number didn’t correspond with Isabelle’s date of birth. It was the date Tobias purchased her.
“Where are you going?” Phillipa asks when I scoot across the bed.
“I’m feeling a little unwell. Perhaps some Tiburon sun will make me feel better.”
“You can’t go to Tiburon, Brandon. You just can’t.”
“Why not?” Forgetting that she can see everything I’m doing, I tug off my shirt before lowering my free hand to the waistband of my sweatpants.
My brain clicks back on when Phillipa chokes out, “You do realize your walk-in closet has a mirror, don’t you?”
I inwardly curse when I spot the cause of the nervous tickle in her throat. Although my head is swamping most of the frame, the mirror behind me is in the far back corner, meaning she can see every inch of my naked backside, and we won’t mention the bits dangling between my legs, or I may face a new set of charges.
After dumping my phone onto a shelf that’s mercifully minus any mirrors, I pull on a pair of briefs then slide my feet into dark trousers. Once I’m dressed in my standard work gear, I discover the reason for Phillipa’s silence. I accidentally muted her while endeavoring to save her from seeing my bits.
“Sorry, I muted you.” I cringe down the line when her panicked rant about how I can’t go to Tiburon roars through my speakers, startling the shit out of me. “What were you saying?”
“You can’t go to Tiburon.”
I exit my walk-in closet and take a left into the bathroom so I can scrub the fur off my teeth from eating too much satay. “We established that part of your debate. We’ve just yet to mosey over the reason why I can’t go.”
“Because your team is about to have a major breakthrough.” The high pitch of her tone reveals she doesn’t like giving me this information, but she understands she has to if she wants me to hear her side of the objective. “The arrest warrant has been approved. Isaac Holt is going to be arrested sometime tomorrow. Alex just has to finalize some stuff first.”
“Like what?” I have a mammoth load of questions I’m dying to ask, but I went for the simpler one since my mouth is full of minty gunk.
Phillipa’s reply is just as simple, “Stuff.”
“Like?” When my question is met with silence, I try another approach. “Does it have anything to do with your visit to HQ today?” Since I’ve spat out my toothpaste, my question is crisp and precise.
She does a weird shrug. “A little.”
Over the annoyance of two highly intelligent people incapable of having an intellectual conversation, I say, “Unless you can give me a good reason as to why I shouldn’t go to Tiburon tonight, I’m catching the next available flight—”
“You’re the union rep for the Ravenshoe chapter of the Bureau. You’ll most likely be needed if Isaac’s arrest has a carry-on effect to any members of your team.”
Hearing what she doesn’t say the loudest, I push, “Isabelle?”
Phillipa breathes in deeply before nodding.
“Could she face repercussions from Isaac’s arrest?” I had wondered the same thing myself the instant Philippa disclosed Isaac’s arrest warrant had been granted.
Nothing but remorse rings in Phillipa’s tone when she says, “I can’t tell you that, Brandon. The information is confidential—”
“You’re on a suspension.”
Her mouth falls open. “That doesn’t mean I can flap my gums about another agent’s case.” She slaps her hand over her mouth instead of her eyes this time around. “Stupid, stupid wine.” When I fail to hold in my chuckle about her childish rant, she lowers her hand from her face so it doesn’t conceal her glare. “This is your fault. I’ve never had a dinner invitation rejected before. My ego was hit so bad it needed an immediate recovery mission.”
“I didn’t reject your invite because I don’t find you attractive. It’s because—”
“You prefer informants over agents, I get it,” she interrupts, evening the playing field between us. It’s a low blow but also effective.
“Ouch. You don’t hold back, do you?”
Wetness fills Phillipa’s eyes as a remorseful mask slips over her face. “I’m sorry. Trying to get out of a father’s shadow can make some people really bitchy. By some people, I mean me. I’m some people.” To show she didn’t mean any harm by her comment, she explains how much trouble Isabelle could be in if anything Alex presented to her is true. “She won’t just be suspended, Brandon. She could face charges.”
“For what? Doing the job Alex recruited her for?”
“This goes way beyond that, and if you’re honest with yourself, you’d agree with me.”
I do, but it doesn’t make it any easier to swallow.
“I need to go to Tiburon.” Nothing against Isabelle. I assured Tobias I’d take care of her, but I made promises to the Greggs long before I knew the meaning of the word. “I could have a greater chance of identifying the man in the photos with Melody if I go to Tiburon. Then I can keep her safe as promised.”
“I don’t believe he wants to hurt Melody, Brandon. More times than not, he’s protected her.”
That piques my interest. “What do you mean he’s protected her?”
Phillipa takes a huge gulp of her
glass of wine before confessing, “Melody took a shortcut home down a side alley one day. She wasn’t alone. The… gent…” she looks as uncomfortable calling him a gentleman as I feel knowing there’s another man stepping up to the plate to protect Melody, “… stopped her from being followed.”
I wash off my toothbrush, dump it in its holder, then make my way out of the attached bathroom. “Do you think he could have been hired by Melody’s fiancé? He’s not short of a penny. He could afford a security detail not afraid of a little rough-handling.”
She apprehensibly squirms. “Possibly. I did look into the angle when I noticed the same guy in the background of the photos my surveillance team took, but I didn’t get any solid leads.”
“Did you ask Melody?”
“No.” Guilt lines her face. “We’re not really on speaking terms.”
I lick my lips before putting out an offer that could benefit me as much as it could Phillipa. “Do you want me to reach out to her?”
She waits a beat before shaking her head. “Unless you want another IAs’ agent looking at you with the same murky glasses I was wearing only weeks ago, I would suggest you hold out for a bit. There’s a lot of shit going on right now.” Although she doesn’t exactly admit she was wrong accusing me of murder, her roundabout way of saying she was loosened the weight on my chest.
Phillipa eyes me with apprehension slashed across her features when I ask, “Do you have any plans this weekend?”
“Is this whole push-up bra, unbrushed hair, and no makeup thing working for you?”
I laugh when she swivels her index finger around her scrubbed-clean face. “I wouldn’t necessarily say it’ll have you slotted into my dreams, but it does have me looking at you differently.” She nods in agreement when I add, “It’s amazing how much you can see someone when they’re not hiding behind a title.”
She returns my compliment by issuing one of her own. “Spell out your terms, Agent James. I’m listening.”
