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A flash drive.
Brick red, capless aside from a swivel cover.
Score another point for Joey Morales.
Evan walked over to the desk, plugged the flash drive into the computer, and sat in the chair. Hundreds of entries organized by date.
Evan clicked through a few. A few was sufficient.
Tenpenny in full congress with various women, the camera angles suggesting surreptitious recording. Many were inside this condo, but a few were from clubs and private orgies. Evan scrolled down, found the date he was looking for.
Tenpenny had already curated the clip as he had the others.
There he was at Tartarus, outside by the pool dancing with Angela Buford. Her hair was natural, a medium Afro with side bantu knots. She wore a sundress the color of ocher with a deep neckline, and she was turned around, grinding her rear end into him to the beat. Tenpenny’s face was flushed; he looked in a near frenzy.
Then they were inside, making out in various hallways, the party booming with wall-to-wall revelers. Tenpenny tried different doors and found most of the places occupied with other couples who’d beaten them to the punch.
Holding Angela’s hand, he led her upstairs. The crowd parted for him, but she turned her slender body sideways to cut through the current. Tenpenny went for a bathroom—occupied; the drawing room—packed; a guest room, engaged by a threesome. He was moving more quickly now, driven by what seemed like desperation, all but dragging Angela in his wake.
Back along the second-floor corridor, head swiveling this way and that, searching for a private space. He bumped into Rathsberger exiting the scarlet room. They had a brief exchange, Tenpenny gesturing.
Both men gave furtive glances up the hall toward Luke Devine’s master suite.
And then Tenpenny pulled Angela into the room, the camera selection switching perspective to follow them.
No one’s allowed in here, Tenpenny had said.Ever.
In his haste Tenpenny threw the barrel bolt early, not noticing that it wound up outside the steel catch.
Angela looked surprised at the setup, but he gripped her face forcefully, turned it away from the screens, and crushed his mouth to hers. They stumbled into the Faraday cage. Then they were fucking on the desk, against the bars, on the floor.
He wound up in the chair with Angela on her knees, servicing him.
After a time the door swung inward.
Johnny Seabrook stood stooped in the doorway, glassy-eyed and drunk. He was staring in disbelief at the wall of monitors and everything they held.
Tenpenny swung around in the chair, Angela clinging to his knees. He looked irate. But Evan saw panic working beneath the surface of his face.
In a single motion, Tenpenny rose, gripping Angela’s chin from above and snapping her head around. Johnny turned, reached for the doorframe, missed, and wobbled on his feet. Tenpenny rooted in his heap of clothes, came up with the 9-mil, and shot him through the back.
Johnny stumbled into the hall.
Hurriedly yanking on clothes, Tenpenny followed Johnny outside.
Another perspective switch showed the corridor outside with no sign of Johnny. The few partygoers straggling by looked smashed beyond coherence.
Rathsberger ran into the frame, conferred briefly with Tenpenny, trying to calm him down, then dashed toward the stairs to the foyer. Tenpenny put his hands on his knees, his chest heaving, panic-stricken. His gaze caught on the door just to the right, the one leading to the servant staircase. When Evan leaned close, he could discern a dark smudge on the wood.
Blood.
Tenpenny shouldered through the door, wiping the smudge off with a sleeve as he passed.
The door eased shut behind him. The corridor was empty.
The perspective blinked back to the scarlet room. Angela Buford lying naked on her back inside the Faraday cage, her head turned to one side. She almost looked peaceful.
No one was allowed in the scarlet room.
