by J. Kenner
“You go ahead. A treat before you go back to work.” We’ve made our way back to the foundation, and I don’t want to let him go.
“I very much want to play hooky today,” he says, echoing my thoughts.
“You have work to do,” I say. “And so do I. Lamar finally got an address and phone number for Cyrus Mulroy. I left him a message, and I want to be ready whenever he calls me back.”
“If he calls you back.”
“If he doesn’t, I’ll drop by his house. I’m intrepid,” I tease, making Devlin laugh. “Bottom line, I’m doing a last minute push to find anything I may have missed about him or the connection between him and Peter so that I’m prepped.” I release a breath. “I’m hoping he’ll tell me that trafficking porn wasn’t one of Peter’s vices, but I’m steeling myself for the worst.”
“In that case, how about dinner? We’ll go someplace nice with a view of the ocean.”
“How about we go someplace that’s a dive with great burgers and fries. Also with a view?”
His arms slide around me as he laughs. “I think I can manage that. I’ll change after work and then come get you.”
“I like that plan,” I say, then tilt my head back for a kiss that is significantly less chaste than I’d expected considering we’re in full view of Paul and anyone else who happens to be standing inside the foundation’s lobby.
“You’re mine,” he whispers, once again reading my mind. “And as far as I’m concerned, the whole world should know it.”
Chapter Thirty-Six
I’ve just walked through the door to Brandy’s place when my phone rings, and I pull it out of the back pocket of my jeans expecting it to be Devlin.
Instead, it’s Corbin.
Normally, that would be a huge disappointment. Today, though, I’m eager to answer, and I hit the button to put the phone on speaker. “It’s ready?”
“Yup. You at your computer?”
“I will be in two minutes,” I assure him, kicking off my flats in the hallway and hurrying to my room. My laptop’s on the unmade bed, right where I’d left it this morning, still plugged in, the screensaver admonishing me to Sit Down & Work, Dammit!
I throw myself on the bed, unlock the screen, and tell him I’m ready to go.
“Check your email. I’m sending you a link to a file-sharing server. Download it, then open it, then install it, then wait for me to get back before you do anything else. I’m going to grab a coffee from the lobby.”
“Now?”
“It’ll take about five minutes to download and another two to install. And nothing personal, but I doubt you and I can manage seven minutes of civil conversation.”
I almost laugh. Despite myself, Corbin is starting to grow on me. “Good point,” I say, planning to get my own coffee once the file is downloading.
Seventeen minutes and fifteen seconds later, I’m impatiently tapping my finger as I wait for Corbin to return. The file is downloaded and installed, and I’m staring at a screen that says Welcome, Elsa. Patience is a virtue.
And beneath that, an animated wagging finger while the sound blurts out “Ah-ah-ah” in a scolding tone.
I swear if this software is a bust, I’m going to make it my mission to bring Corbin down a peg. Or five.
“So we’re good to go?” His voice slithers into my ear.
“Have been for over ten minutes,” I say. “Did you get lost on the way back from the lobby? I know it can be complicated. There are so many buttons in an elevator to choose from.”
“Not your best zinger,” he says, and despite myself, I have to silently agree. “Okay, it’s easy enough once you get the hang of it. You have the file you’re trying to clean up saved on your hard drive somewhere?”
“Yes. Are you going to be able to see what I see on your end?”
“No.”
I lick my lips. “How do I know for sure?”
“You don’t,” he says. “But in case you forgot, I’m a reporter, too. I won’t fuck with your information or your sources, Ellie. You, absolutely. But not the job.”
“Right. Sorry. I know you won’t.” I rest my fingers on the keys. “So what do I do?”
He walks me through uploading into the program, then takes me through the various controls that direct the process.
“Basically, the computer is looking for information in the pixels, and you’re guiding it. So this only works if you have some idea of what the image is supposed to be. This is that bank building with the two rappellers, right? So you’ll expect a building and human forms. Possibly cars in the parking lot depending on the angle. Maybe the building equipment on the roof. It was a drone shot, right?”
“Right.”
“All right. Let’s try this.” He guides me through some commands so that the program will focus on the building and the men and not the background. Then he tells me how to isolate the figures and give the computer instructions for clarifying their features.
“It’ll take a few hours at least. Might even take a few days. But give it time before you start making adjustments. If you think you know who one of the images is, then you can upload their photo and let the computer decide if there’s a match. But if you’re flying blind, you just tell the program it should be a person. Got it?”
“Got it.”
“Good. And call me if you need help.”
“Really?”
“It’s not like I’m inviting you to call and chat with me about your day. But if you get hung up, then, yeah. I want my software to work as much as you do. And it’s not like either one of us keeps regular hours, right?”
“Thanks,” I say, reluctantly admitting that while Corbin might be a prick, he may not actually be the biggest prick in the universe.
He wishes me luck, and as soon we’ve ended the call, I call Roger to tell him I’m set up and the program is working, and I’ll let him know as soon as I do.
Then I sit there, watching pixels rearrange themselves on my screen. At first it’s fascinating, but it soon becomes tedious. After ten minutes, I decide to clean the house. Not only will it keep my mind off the computer’s progress, but it’s a good way to say thanks to Brandy for letting me stay here, even though we’re bending her landlord’s rules.
I spend a few mindless hours cleaning the bathrooms and folding laundry, followed by vacuuming and mopping the tiled areas. I check in with my computer between tasks, and though the image isn’t yet discernable, the progress bar indicates that it’s moving toward something. I can only hope that something will be a recognizable image.
I tackle the kitchen next, and since I can see the television over the island, I turn on a classic movie channel as I work. I smile when I realize the current program is All About Eve, one of my favorite Bette Davis movies, and I’ve only missed the first ten minutes or so of the film.
My attention is split between the movie and putting away the dishes. I’d been thinking about Bette Davis the other day, realizing that’s who Reggie reminds me of. But there was someone else, too, who’d reminded me of the actress. Someone else with deep set eyes.
I shake my head, frowning as I try to grasp the thread of a memory. That frustrating feeling when you’re trying to hold onto a thought that keeps slipping through your fingers like smoke. It’s right there, but it’s completely impossible to—
The prostitute.
That was it. The prostitute in Vegas. The one whose picture I’d seen in the paper. She’d had deep set, Bette Davis eyes, too. And she’s the one who’d been hidden in the back of my mind when I first met Reggie.
The prostitute who’d been with Lorenzo Bell when he’d been assassinated. The known kingpin of an established human trafficking ring who someone had taken out with a close range bullet when I’d been in Vegas with Devlin.
How could I have not seen it before?
For that matter, was I really sure now?
I leave the dishwasher open and the glasses on the counter as I race back to the bedroom. My computer’s maki
ng progress, the Percentage Complete icon showing that it’s already eighty-percent through the initial rebuild. And since that might be enough, I don’t want to pause the program. I use my tablet instead, pulling up the browser and searching for the newspaper article that had reported Bell’s assassination.
I find the image soon enough. It was picked up by multiple wire services. The picture is black and white, but it’s obvious enough that she’s blond with curly hair. Reggie has dark, straight hair. But both women have the same deep-set eyes. And while the photo is grainy, the prostitute’s skin tone seems to match Reggie’s. It’s darker than I’d expect for a natural blond, although in black and white it’s hard to really tell. But the cheekbones. The wide mouth. The thick eyelashes. And the tiny cleft in her chin.
Reggie.
I’m certain of it.
I toss my tablet on the bed and start to pace, trying to figure out what this means. Bell was assassinated, and she was right there. Had she gotten in close and pulled the trigger? Or was she a distraction, letting someone else get close? Someone like Ronan, who was friendly with Reggie. And who’d also been in Vegas, I’m sure, even though he had a cover story of being in Victorville.
Reggie supposedly runs a hotel, but that’s an excellent cover for any sort of criminal operation, especially if money needs to be laundered.
And Ronan? Well, what exactly does an independent security consultant do, anyway? Hired gun, perhaps?
That’s my best guess. And my second best guess is that he and Reggie were not only working together, but they were running their operation right under Devlin’s nose, using the foundation’s resources to get in close.
I drag my fingers though my hair, my thoughts spinning so fast I almost can’t catch up with myself. Lorenzo was a shit of a human being. And while I can’t abide the idea of those two deciding themselves to take him out, I also can’t deny that the world is better without him. But that doesn’t justify what they did and how they circumvented the law. More than that, who’s to say that they’re only going after bad guys? If Ronan and Reggie are guns for hire, then anyone could be in their sights.
I hug myself, hating the ramifications of what I’ve figured out. Because the bottom line is that it means that Devlin is wrong. For years, he’s believed in Ronan, but that fucker has been using Devlin’s friendship and foundation so he and Reggie can run their own criminal enterprise.
And, dammit, I have to let him know.
My fingers fumble as I dial his cell phone, and he answers on the first ring. “I was just thinking about you,” he says. “Of course, I’m always thinking about you.”
I open my mouth, but no sound comes out. How can I tell him this about his best friend over the phone? I should have waited. I should have—
“El? Are you okay?”
“It’s Ronan,” I say, my voice like sandpaper. “He and Reggie. They’re dirty. They’re using you.”
There’s a long silence, so long that I pull the phone back and look at the screen to make sure the call hadn’t dropped. Then Devlin says, very slowly, “What are you talking about?”
I swallow, then take him through everything step by step. Everything from the prostitute with Bell to Ronan and Reggie being so comfortable together at the festival. “I’m right,” I say when I’m finished. “I can feel it in my gut.”
“No.” Just one word, but it holds a world of certainty.
“Devlin, you can’t just look away. Think about it. You know I’m right.”
“You’re not,” he says. “Ellie, you have to trust me on this. I know Ronan. I know Reggie. I trust both of them, and they are not fucking me over.”
I close my eyes, hating that I’m forcing him to look at his friends differently. And hating even more the fact that his friends betrayed him. “I know you don’t want to see it,” I say slowly. “I know how much the people in your life betrayed you. Do you think I enjoy telling you this? Do you think it’s fun for me? But you have to open your eyes, Devlin. I’m staring at a mountain of facts. The least you can do is examine them, too.”
“I know the facts. And I know you’re wrong.”
I sigh. This is not the way I wanted this to go, and more and more I’m wishing I’d waited to see him. “Come over,” I say. “We can talk in person. And, honestly, I may have more proof by the time you get here.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Corbin’s software. It’s doing its thing. I figure there’s a good chance that Ronan’s one of the figures on the bank building. And if that’s the case, odds are good he’s with Reggie.”
“Christ, Ellie. What have you—” He cuts himself off, and I hear him take a deep breath. “You’re telling me that software almost has a clear image of those people?”
“I can’t tell how clear yet, but it’s almost finished with the first rendering. The bank building is already cleaned up.” It’s true. The lines are crisp and clear now. Not that I care about the building, but it gives me hope for the software’s progress with the people. “If the program’s right, I might see their faces in the next twenty or so minutes.”
I wait for him to respond, but there’s nothing. And this time when I look at the phone, I see that the call has dropped.
I dial him back, but it goes straight to voicemail. I frown and check my signal, but it’s strong. So I watch the software do its thing as I wait for Devlin to call me back.
Except he doesn’t call.
Ten minutes later I hear the beep of the front door keypad.
“Brandy?”
“It’s me.” A heartbeat later, Devlin steps into the bedroom. “Turn it off,” he says. “End the program.”
He couldn’t have surprised me more if he’d slapped me. I’m cross-legged on the bed, and I just stare at him, my mouth hanging open, because I don’t have a clue what to say.
“Shut it down,” he says, coming to my side.
“Are you insane? No. Maybe you’re right or maybe I am. Or maybe we’re both wrong. But at the end of the day, I’m writing a story about the Myers assassination, and I am going to reveal who did it. And I’m sorry if the killer is your friend, but that doesn’t change—”
“Ronan didn’t do it.” Each word is slow. Measured.
I let my head fall back in frustration. “For fuck’s sake, Devlin. Can we stop this game? We’ll know soon enough.”
“I already know,” he says, reaching past me to press the space bar and pause the program.
I slap his hand away, then freeze as he continues speaking.
“I know, because I’m the one who killed Myers.”
Chapter Thirty-Seven
“No.” I shake my head, wishing I had the power to make his words disappear. “No. It isn’t true.”
I feel nauseous, and when he reaches for me—his fingers barely brushing my shoulder—I scramble away, almost falling off the other side of the bed in my attempt to get clear. “Don’t,” I say, my throat thickening with tears when I see the pain in his eyes. Pain I’ve inflicted with that one small word.
I shake my head, willing myself not to take it back. “I can’t. Not now. I need to think. And if you’re touching me—” My voice breaks on the words, and I try again. “If you’re touching me, we both know that I won’t be able to think clearly at all.”
“Let me explain.”
“Explain?” I snap the word at him, wanting him to snap right back at me. I want a fight. A battle. And yet every one of his movements is as gentle as his words, leaving me nothing to spar against.
I draw in a breath. “Explain?” I repeat, letting myself get lost in the mire of hurt and confusion. “Do you think I don’t understand already?”
Even as I speak, it’s becoming clearer and clearer. “Rappelling equipment. A trial run. That wasn’t a spur of the moment decision because you thought the appellate court had screwed up. This is something you do.” I hug myself. “This is part of who you are.”
My throat is parched, and I hug myself as I pace t
he room. I stop at the window, then turn and look back at him.
“Yes.” That’s it. That’s all he says.
“Was it a government hit? Did some agency hire you to take Myers out?”
He hesitates, and I see a flicker of something I think is hope cross his face. I feel it bloom inside me. If he still has that connection to the military … if he was on a government mission…
But my tentative hope shatters like glass when he says, “No.”
The fist around my heart tightens as a fresh wave of puzzle pieces rearrange themselves in my mind, coalescing into answers. I feel as if I’m in school, and I’d been stymied during a test. Then I’d looked at the question a different way and all the answers rushed into my head.
“You killed Myers,” I say slowly. “But I was still right about the video. It’s you, sure, in that video. But it’s also Ronan.”
His silence is all the acknowledgement that I need. “And Vegas. I was right all along. Ronan took Bell out.”
“No. That was me, too. I told you. Ronan was in Victorville.”
“But he’s part of your team. He’s the second figure on the building. You two did a trial run to see who was faster. You won.”
He nods.
The air between us is deathly still. “In Vegas. The Glock I found in your drawer. That wasn’t just for personal protection. It was a backup weapon. You killed Bell at close range, with a single-shot twenty-two, then tossed that pistol. Unregistered, no prints. But in case you got stuck getting out of there, you had the Glock on you.”
“Do I even need to answer?” he asks. “You’re doing fine on your own.”
“Do not joke about this.”
“No,” he says. “I’m sorry.”
I drag my hands through my hair and pace the room, part of my mind screaming that this conversation can’t really be happening, the other part yelling that I should have known all along. That maybe I was ignoring it because I didn’t want to face the truth that’s now slapped me in the face.
I draw another breath. “And Reggie?”
“She’s been part of the team for years.”
