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Errol’s bedroom.
* * *
Grant and Tatihad no other choice but to wait for Alpha Morales to contact them after his meeting with Judith Holland, Marshall’s Executive Assistant, who now worked for Errol.
There was nothing Grant wanted to do more than to call the authorities for backup, knowing Lucas’s involvement was borderline suicidal, and now involved the Pinkie Posse and what he had to assume was their life savings.
He and Tati had met with the high-handed geriatric BFFs at the Four Seasons, to gain more information and determine next steps. While he sat there shaking his head in disbelief, Tati was totally bowled over by the women, telling them they were beyond inspirational, encouraging behavior that should have been left to professionals. It should go without saying of the law enforcement variety.
Unfortunately, given the precarious situation with a questionable Boston PD and local FBI unit, he was forced to sit on his hands in a run-down hotel outside of Cambridge and do nothing.
Not a damned thing.
It was late, and he was getting no response from his voicemails to Lucas, who was probably putting himself in danger using the excuse that he was protecting Birdie.
The Pinkie Posse gave Grant the name and number of Lucas’s trusty sidekick, Flynn Shepherd. As soon as Morales showed up with, hopefully, strong intel, he’d call this Flynn guy to confirm Lucas was okay. And to inform his damn boss to pick up his damn phone and call his police chief of a brother.
Grant didn’t mention his plans to contact Flynn as Tati had become fire-breathing mad upon learning her own personal sidekick had been snapped out from underneath of her and working for Lucas.
He sat on the edge of the bed while Tati pulled down the shades of the window to check out the parking lot for the hundredth time.
“You’re making yourself crazy.” He reached into the grocery bag sitting next to the coffee table. “I bought you a bag of hot Cheetos. You haven’t eaten in an hour.”
“For your information, this is what I do for a living, Chief.” Turning from the window, she eyed the bag he held up in front of her.
To his surprise, she turned with a sigh, her shoulders low and said, “Believe it or not. I’m not hungry.”
“Yeah?” he asked, unconvinced.
She pressed her finger and thumb to her eyes. “I swear, if he tries to shtup sweet little Judith Holland, I’m going to break his scrawny little neck.”
Which bears the question. “How does a man, like him, manage to…shtup so many women?”
“Easy. He homes in on those lonely and desperate. The ones who are older and alone or in a loveless marriage with a neglectful husband…or wife.”
“So, he swings both ways.”
“He has to. To up his stats.”
That was confusing. “Explain.”
“Think about it, when you’re a bottom feeder, it ups your odds of scoring when you’re working from a larger pool of fish.”
“Got it.” Sort of.
She sat next to him and dropped onto her back, lying flat. “How long does it take to question someone?”
Just as she asked the question, there was a knock on the door. She popped up and opened it. Grant watched her body go stiff.
He stood to see why she wasn’t inviting them in and faced a smarmy and smiling Alpha Morales and what looked to be a highly satisfied, and elderly, Judith Holland.
Tati turned her head toward him and to the side and muttered, “I think I’m going to be sick.”
Morales’s other hand moved toward the doorway. “You first, my angel.”
Judith tittered and walked in as if on a cloud while Tati glared at Morales. She then turned to Judith. “Hello, Mrs. Holland. How is Mr. Holland?”
Grant was about to face-plant at the inappropriate question.
