Page 107 of Oddly Fine

“Collects—what? Artifacts related to the supernatural?” Hayes asked with a perplexed expression.

“The myths all come from somewhere, Agent Monroe. Imagine living in the 1300s and reaching your 70th birthday when everyone else perishes before 30. Most “vampire” coffins and claims are based on stories about those exceptionally healthy individuals who outlived most of the population because they didn’t drink or smoke and exercised regularly,” Matthew said, proving he’d researched the topic. “Still—you saw my uncle. Botox can only delay aging for so long—he’s been obsessed with eternal life for longer than I’ve been alive.”

Admittedly, Beckett had noticed the unnaturally tight skin around his cheekbones and smooth forehead. There was no denying that Mario had undergone multiple cosmetic surgeries.

“Odds are, he’s spiralling into yet another obsession—this one focused on vampires, I suppose.”

“But why all the security?” Beckett asked, unwilling to dismiss this particular aspect of the case quite so easily.

“Because he’s not convinced the dead won’t rise?” Matthew said, like it ought to be obvious.

His supercilious attitude drove Beckett mad. He swallowed his anger down like the consummate professional he was.

“So that’s it then? It was all a big fat nothing?” Beckett replied, incredulous.

Matthew shrugged and yawned.

He’d changed back into his robe prior to holding them at gunpoint in the parking lot—his choice of attire not the least bit appropriate for a showdown, but he didn’t seem to care—and now looked oddly vulnerable. For the first time, Beckett could see why Franklin would have wanted to wrap his arms around Matthew, offering protection unlike any anyone else could, or would.

“Maybe—” Matthew hesitated, like he wasn’t fully prepared to admit to an error in judgment. “Maybe I misread things. Maybe he isn’t doing anything—worrisome.”

And what the fuck could Beckett do then? He could still bring down the Rosarios, he supposed. Expose them for what they were—but he was pretty sure they were remarkably adept at defending themselves against accusations of drug dealing and links to the Mafia. The family empire had been around for several decades. He wouldn’t be able to do a whole lot of damage—at least not before he ended up with cinder blocks tied to his feet and then got his ass dumped into the St. Lawrence River as the ultimate reward for all his efforts.

“But what about—” Beckett started to toss out some new ideas just as Matthew’s phone rang. The ringtone was loud and shrill—clearly meant to wake him if necessary. He snatched it up and looked at the display.

“My uncle’s security—probably about your breach,” he informed them with a bleak smile, walking off before they could ask any further questions.

“This is Matthew,” he said into the phone, cold and all business, as he disappeared into his bedroom.

“There’s something he’s not telling us,” Beckett remarked with a frown, because he wasn’t buying the sudden change in Matthew’s story. Whatever had convinced him to go to the FBI in the first place had been enough to open an investigation. Beckett wanted to smack himself for not questioning everything about Matthew’s story before now. He needed to go back to the beginning and re-examine everything the slimy bastard had said and done since that first night he’d walked up to their car.

“Come on, we need sleep,” Hayes said, pulling Beckett towards the bedroom.

“Why do I feel like he’s pissing all over my boots and calling it rain?”

“Because—to borrow from your standard repertoire—he’s full of shit.”

Beckett resisted Hayes’ tugging on his arm for a second, planning to chase after Matthew to get the full story.

“Sleep,” Hayes barked at him, holding onto him more firmly than usual. “I’m begging you. Sleep first, then I’ll tie him to a chair and pull his nails off one-by-one until he coughs up the whole story if you need me to. But please let me sleep for a few hours first.”

Beckett studied Hayes, suddenly noticing the dark circles under his eyes, and feeling guilty for his part in putting them there. Beckett had been running on fumes and anger for a solid week, but Hayes—poor Hayes—had been dragged along behind him the whole time.

“Alright,” he conceded. “But I get to snap his pinky finger—that’s the best one,” he said, as he let Hayes tug him down the hall.

“Whatever you want, sweetheart,” Hayes agreed with a chuckle.

Chapter 19

In the end Hayes had been right—of course. Sleep had been much needed. As Beckett padded into the living room shortly after 9:00 the next morning, he felt like a whole new man.

“How do you like your eggs?” Matthew asked him politely.

“You’re up early,” he commented, frowning at the Mafia boss as he sat at the kitchen counter, sipping coffee and frowning at his phone. A man stood at the stove, flipping things in a pan. As he turned towards them, Beckett was surprised to see that the man was terribly disfigured. It was hard to imagine what had happened to leave him so scarred, but Beckett’s best guess was that the damage was from serious burns.

“Kyle is an amazing chef. Makes the best scrambled eggs in Montreal, if you’d like to give them a try,” Matthew said, catching Beckett staring as if mesmerized. “He was a cook in Afghanistan. Fed a whole platoon,” he informed him, and it was perhaps the simplest, and best, way to explain the man’s appearance to Beckett. Caught in an explosion in foreign territory, he surmised.

“Sure, thanks. I never turn down free food.”