Page 11 of Jonas

“Yeah, the actor who⁠—”

“Dude, I’d have to turn in my action flick aficionado card if I didn’t know who Steven Seagal is.”

Action flick aficionado card.

Now was not the time to test her action flick knowledge, though I tucked that away for later.

“Well? Anyone who looks like Jack Cole roaming around?”

“Seriously? The Glimmer Man, that’s the Seagal movie you went with? Huh. I don’t know how I feel about you.”

I smiled as I kept an eye on the guy across the street as he walked toward the complex’s parking garage—both the loading and underground parking doors were open.

“We can discuss that tonight while Cash takes his bubble bath to relax and after we go over your reports. But right now we’re watching a guy who looks like he doesn’t belong, but he’s getting ready to dip into the underground parking garage and I need to know if I’m calling Kira to watch him or if Cash and I are following him.”

“I have so many questions,” she returned. “But to answer your question, no, I’ve never seen anyone who looks like Seagal, and I’ve tapped into the Hemingway’s security system and watch the feeds every night. So when I say I haven’t seen him, I mean in the six months I’ve lived here, Steven Seagal has never paid the Hemingway a visit.”

The guy stopped, reached into his jacket pocket, and lifted his hand to his ear. A moment later he ended the call, turned away from the garage, and walked in the opposite direction. Before he got to the corner, a black Mercedes slid to a stop and idled at the curb.

“What the fuck,” Cash said from beside me, his phone already in his hand recording.

Not that we’d need his cellphone footage. Kira—or from the sound of it, Derrika—would provide better images from the apartment’s security, but he still kept his phone pointed at the Merc as the guy in the leather jacket yanked open the back door and disappeared inside.

“What’s happening?” Derrika asked.

“You said the black Mercedes didn’t follow you to the toll road,” I reminded her. “Is there a shorter route here?”

“Yeah, the toll road is the long way. Why?”

“Because the Merc is in front of your building and Seagal just got into it.”

Cash’s hand went to the gear shifter at the same time I tagged my phone out of the cup holder, using my free hand to open the door. As soon as I was out of the Escalade, I switched my cell from the car’s Bluetooth to the device and jogged across the street.

“Cash is gonna follow them,” I told Derrika. “I’ll meet you in the lobby.”

“I’m exiting the highway now. I’ll be there in five.”

“See you then.”

I disconnected and continued making my way to the entrance of the Hemingway. I didn’t have to step foot into the building to see the opulence of the lobby through the wall of glass. Jesus, there was even a long black reception desk reminiscent of a hotel check-in. When I entered I was hit with a wave of perfumed air. The place even smelled like an upscale, luxury hotel.

“Hello. Welcome to the Hemingway,” a blonde woman with a severe updo and a crisp white shirt greeted from behind the desk. “How may I help you today?”

I didn’t miss the tightness in her voice or the way her lips turned down. One look at me and she knew as well as I did, I didn’t belong in a place like this. Although her assumption had led her astray—she assumed I couldn’t afford the rent. Not that I would live in a place like this long term if someone paid me. It was bad enough I was being paid to live here temporarily.

“I’m just meeting my girlfriend,” I lied.

The blonde didn’t hide her full-body scan, taking in my jeans, boots, and plain black t-shirt that had come in a five-pack from Target, nor did she hide her disbelief and disgust. I should’ve switched places with Cash. He was better at this than I was—charming women was his specialty. I had neither the inclination nor desire to play nice. If this bitch wanted to stare me down and judge my worth by my clothes, that was her prerogative. I couldn’t give two fucks what she thought of me. The blonde had no idea I could rent three units and still live comfortably. It’s amazing how little money a man needs when he’s dead, and I had a bank account to prove it. I’d rather live in a van in the woods than suffer through this shit.

I dismissed the woman before I said something regrettable and turned to the sitting area. Two leather couches, each with a table in front of them, magazines artfully arranged on their surfaces. I was positive the area was meant to be inviting, however, it was sterile and staged.

Fuck. I hope Derrika doesn’t hit more traffic.

My ass hit the leather and I felt the blonde’s censure from across the lobby. Definitely should’ve switched places with Cash. He would’ve turned on the swagger and flirted with the woman until she was eating out of his hand, ready to spill Hemingway residents’ secrets. I pulled out my phone in an effort to ignore the woman’s sneer and sent Kira an update.

Unsurprisingly, she responded immediately: Cash sent his crappy cell video. I already hacked the Hemingway’s cameras. The guy outside is Daryl Barnes. I’ll email you his specifics in a few minutes. Still no idea on the driver or passenger.

Daryl Barnes. The name didn’t ring a bell. I’d have to ask Derrika if she knew the name.