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Stitches’s eyes widen behind his wire frames. “Oh, boy. Do I even wanna know what you’ve got cooking?”
* * *
Upon his return to the land of the living, Ernest Adams purchased a luxury apartment in Northam’s upper echelon community known as Centennial Village. It’s where the city’s most affluent citizens and working professionals live. Delphine had lived there at one point, once she’d moved from her apartment near Northam Park.
His eleven million dollar apartment overlooks the city’s skyline and is two floors of sleek furniture and priceless art. He has a cleaning lady that comes three times a week and private security that surveils his apartment at all hours of the day and night.
Nicer than most family homes, he has five bedrooms, four baths, two dining rooms, and a kitchen featuring top-of-the-line appliances.
There’s a room directly across from his private office that’s dedicated to stroking his ego—the walls are plastered with award plaques, newspaper clippings, professional photographs, and everything in between from his time as both district attorney and city mayor.
If there’s one thing Ernest is going to do, it’s show off how he’s so much better than everybody else.
I admire an old campaign photograph from his early days as DA. Taken in the early 2000s, he was in peak family man mode. Constant public appearances with Mrs. Adams and his two perfect kids. Routine press conferences where he’d make a point to mention his family in the most endearing way.
It worked. Voters ate it up. Citizens across the city bought it hook, line, and sinker.
Never did they imagine that Ernest was a member of the Neptune Society,orthat he’d had dealings with the mafia.
The photo I’m looking at is one of Ernest with Mrs. Adams, Delphine, and her brother at the park. Only a second is spent observing the former DA and my current nemesis as he grins broadly at the camera and waves in a polo shirt and shorts.
Really, my attention’s on Delphine.
This was before I knew her. She must’ve been eleven or twelve in this photo. While her brother seems to enjoy the cameras on him and Mrs. Adams does her best to play along, Delphine’s more bashful about it. She’s in overalls, with her tight curls decorated by butterfly clips as she shrinks into Ernest’s side.
Even at age eleven, she knew it was bullshit. Maybe not consciously, but deep down she didn’t enjoy the theatrics of public office.
I’m half a second away from stealing the photo for my obsessive archives of Delphine before I remember the reason I’m here.
I turn away from the wall flaunting Ernest’s greatest career accomplishments and ask about the security.
“We handled ’em,” answers Omar casually. He glances around the room at the four walls displaying dozens of Ernest’s photos and awards. “Talk about ego. This guy’s not too modest, is he?”
“You have no idea.”
“Want us to hang around or stay posted outside?”
“Remain on standby for when I need you. We’ll be sending a very specific message.”
As we await Ernest’s arrival, I continue my perusal of his luxury apartment. I move on from his room of ego to his bedroom where no color exists except for various shades of gray. I wander the large space, taking in the neatly made California king and balcony view from the top floor. On his nightstand he has a framed photograph of Mrs. Adams.
The drawer inside is empty except for medications, reading glasses, a sleeping mask, insurance documents and…
I pick up the memo with the Blue Star logo that’s folded up beside the other papers. My eyes skim left to right reading the text addressed to him.
Sent from none other than Damon Thomas.TheDamon Thomas of Thomas Tech…
A key twists in the lock from the other side of the apartment, loud due to the absence of noise.
Somebody’s home.
Ernest enters at a stroll. The kind of breezy walk that a powerful man without a care in the world takes on.
For missing his dead wife and his relationship with his daughter, he’s sure at ease. He whistles, tossing his keys on the granite counter of his kitchen island.
“Alexa,” he says. “Mood lighting.”
The smart system obeys his request in a cool female voice, dimming the lights to his preference. He undoes the first few buttons on his shirt on his walk into his pantry. A glass of red wine is in hand when he emerges.
