Groaning in frustration, I flop down onto the bed. I swear I’m not usually this senseless. There’s just something about Isaac that makes me throw my levelheadedness out the window, and it’s more than just my sexual attraction to him. I’ve known plenty of eye-catching men, but none of them have made my body react the way it does when he’s near, which is scary considering he hasn’t even touched me sexually yet.Imagine how explosive it will be once he does?
Oh god, I need to get out of here before I make any more stupid decisions. Quickly diving out of bed, I scamper toward the hidden door. My mouth drops open when I walk into the massive room. There are several dozen dry cleaning bags housing expensive suits lining one whole wall. At least two dozen dress shoes line the floor underneath them, and an extensive collection of ties are hanging on a display rack.
I run my hand across the dry cleaning bags as I head to the far corner of the room which houses a selection of women's clothing. A smile breaks across my face when I notice a pair of white running shoes sitting next to my black pumps I was wearing last night. I've never seen the sense in wearing high heels during the day. I've always preferred comfort over appearance. I grab the sneakers and yank down a pair of jeans and a short-sleeve shirt before walking back into the room.
My eyes dart to the bedside table that contains the women’s underwear.Did Isaac place my underwear I was wearing last night in there?Although the temptation is healthy, I can't stomach the idea of having my panties collected like some sort of trophy, so I put the jeans on without any undergarments. I'd rather go without panties than open that drawer again.
After pulling the short-sleeve shirt over my head, I pull my unruly hair out of the neckline and run my fingers through it to get the frazzled pieces under control.
Once the laces on the white Converse sneakers are tied, I exit the room. The living area is just as sparse as the bedroom. There are two white leather sofas and a coffee table in the middle of the room. The white marble kitchen sparkles with cleanliness and the appliances look like they have never been used.
Pulling open the stainless steel fridge, I help myself to a bottle of cold water. I need something in my stomach to absorb the alcohol sloshing around in there.
As I mosey to the front door, I spot my cell phone and purse sitting on the entranceway table. My phone is sitting on top of several open envelopes. From this distance, they look like personal correspondence as the addresses have been handwritten. My pulse increases as my eyes scan the envelopes that could hold something invaluable in them for our investigation. Even something that seems so minute in detail can be important in an investigation like ours on Isaac, but I can’t break his trust, can I?
Isaac hasn't done anything that would justify me snooping into his private life. I'm here at my own choice. I didn't go home with him last night because of my job; I left with him because I wanted to. Looking past the details in his criminal file, Isaac has me intrigued, intrigued enough I risked my job by leaving with him last night. So no matter how hard I try to justify that I should snoop in his personal life, I can't bring myself to do it.
Snatching my purse and phone off the table, I exit the apartment. The first thing I spot when leaving the foyer of the apartment building is Isaac’s Mercedez town car parked across the street. The back window is rolled down, and his stern gray eyes are staring at me. I hesitantly wave. He doesn’t wave back.
Rejection overwhelms me when the black tinted window glides back into place before his car pulls into the Sunday morning traffic.
12
Isabelle
“Ithought I gave you the day off,” Alex remarks from the corner of the room.
He is lurking near the window looking down on The Dungeon nightclub. From the padded box seat, there is an uninterrupted view of the entire nightclub and the parking lot below. Alex sluggishly turns to face me. His unshaven face appears guarded, and dark circles are plaguing his eyes.Does he ever leave this office?
“You did, but I have a lead I can follow so I thought I should get a head start on that.”
I shuffle to my desk.After dropping my satchel into my bottom desk drawer, I fire up my computer. My mood is dreary and clouded with confusion.
To be honest, my ego is scarred by Isaac's dismissal this morning. Half of me is here to pursue answers as to why he is so mysterious. He is an enigma. He only allows people to know what he wants them to know. I don't believe anyone truly knows the real Isaac Holt. Not even those privileged to be included on his close-knit team.
“What is your lead?” Alex listlessly strolls to my spotless, well-organized desk.
I'm tempted to tell him I've unearthed Hugo's first name, but my intuition strongly advises me to keep that snippet of information to myself, at least until I get more concrete evidence on who Hugo is. For all I know, he could be using an alias. Furthermore, how could I justify stumbling upon his name without disclosing I went home with Isaac last night?
"The tattoo parlor owner emailed me back this morning. He said he might have a squadron member willing to talk to me," I reply, half-deceitful. I do have a contact, but they haven’t agreed to talk to me yet.
Alex’s reticent eyes gaze into mine for several awkward seconds before he nods.
"Did you have any luck with the defense department?" I question, prying him for any information that may contribute to my investigation of Isaac.
He groans in frustration before vigorously shaking his head. “I’m filing them under a dead end.”
My lips curve higher. This is the first time Alex and I have had a normal conversation the past two months.
“I’m impressed with your dedication, Isabelle,” he commends me. “Keep this up and you may get off coffee duty sometime within the next year.”
His boisterous chuckle echoes in the desolate space as he strides to his private office. I clutch my wireless mouse, trying my hardest to keep it planted on my desk and not pegged at the back of his arrogant head.
After squandering the last four hours at my desk, I’m no closer to finding out if Hugo is indeed his real name. Although Hugo was part of the American Hornets squadron, there are no pictures of him in any of the squad photos, and no records of him exist in the Air Force database. The only information I’ve located on any Hugo in the county is a death certificate for a Hugo Marshall who died two years ago.
Frustrated with my lack of progress, I scan Hugo’s surveillance photo into the facial recognition database and expand my search to include every possible angle, including social media sites. If his face is on something, I’ll ultimately find it. Well, I will in a few hours as the expanded searches take hours to run through the FBI database.
When my stomach grumbles declaring its hunger, I decide to go and grab something to eat, instead of glaring at my computer monitor, yearning for it to come up with some resourceful information.
