Page 127 of Cozen

“Send it to me, now.”

Sargon knew better—just by the look on Jett’s face—whether than to ask if the man was serious or not. He pulled out his phone, and texted the photograph of Cozen drinking tea as she stood in her living room window.

Not two minutes later, the same photograph was printing out of Jett’s printer behind his desk. The black printer rested beneath a large painting of Jett and his two sons.

“How does she have family in Florida when she has practically been an orphan her entire life?” Jett asked.

Shit.

“It was a couple—young, like her. I don’t have all the details on them. I didn’t get that far as I was focused on getting to her after that. Do you want me to run some info on them?”

Jett grunted under his breath. “Maybe; I will leave the option open. You didn’t even lay eyes on them, then?”

“No—I told you, I didn’t get the chance to get there before she was already coming back. It’s possible they’re simply people she met on her travels, or maybe they were kids in foster homes she also lived in, and they remained friends. Whatever the emergency was, it was quickly cleared up.”

“How did you find out she went to Florida, and not California, anyway?”

Fuck.

“Made some calls—flight itineraries were sent over. You’re not the only man in this city who knows people that can get shit done for them on a fast schedule. I just don’t call in my favors very often. That’s how I got the info she was back in the city, too.”

Might as well add that info in before the bastard asked it.

“Ah.”

It was all doable. As long as someone had the right contacts. Jett had no reason to question Sargon, or distrust him.

Besides, the man was more distracted by looking over the photograph in his hands of Cozen drinking her tea.

“I like this,” Jett said, “I think I will keep it.”

Sargon blinked, and replied, “Okay.”

What else could he say?

Without another word, Jett turned his office chair around, and stood. He grabbed the edge of the painting of him and his sons, and pulled it away from the wall like it was a door.

Sargon supposed it was a door, of sorts.

It hid a safe.

Jett didn’t even attempt to hide the six numbers he keyed in to open the safe. Seven, five, nine, nine, five, seven. Each beep that accompanied the numbers rang heavily in the back of Sargon’s mind.

He memorized the numbers.

He eyed the items inside the safe once the door was open, too. Particularly, the cash stacked high on the top shelf. So much cash, that it filled the shelf entirely.

Jett shoved the picture into the middle shelf with what looked to be other paperwork, although Sargon wasn’t close enough to tell.

Then, the man pulled out a black box from the bottom shelf. He popped it open, and surveyed the ruby ring inside. A large, square-cut ruby—likely worth the cost of a large home, or a luxury vehicle.

“I thought I might need to have this cleaned,” Jett murmured, “but it’s still quite beautiful.”

Sargon eyed the jewelry. “I could have it cleaned for you.”

Jett passed him a look, and shook his head. “No, I take good care of this. My first wife barely wore it for fear someone might take it from her—it has an interesting history, you could say. I think someone else would appreciate it far more than she did, and they won’t fear wearing it every second they have it on. She did say red was her color.”

“And what exactly are you going to use that ring for?”