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“Someone does. They’re just not talking. Or I haven’t reached the right person.”
“Want me to send the limo home?” He looks at me.
“Tell the car,” I say, “to keep waiting.”
“For?”
“I don’t fucking know.” I glare at him. “Yet.”
There’s another of those slippery words. Yet.
I push back from the wall and sprawl in the armchair in the Old Town House hotel, on the cusp of what I call no man’s land, an area that falls between the unspoken boundaries that slice up Delacroix City into its famous quarters and districts. Places where a lot of shady business goes on, usually shit I care nothing about.
Except tonight.
“Give me the photos again.”
Carlos knows me well enough not to question me, but as he hands me his iPad, he starts to talk.
“I believe surveillance shows Hendrick came by last night but didn’t get out of his car. One Harriet Esterhazy came by both days in a storm of fury. Her last visit was this morning.”
“So we all got notes at the same time?”
“I don’t know. You could turn your phone on.”
I shake my head. “I want to be hard to be reach. I want whoever sent the fucking note to seek me out.”
“Your call,” he says to me, working on his phone. “Nothing in the mail today. Just that one note, yesterday.”
“I can get more hardcore.”
Actually, I’m jonesing for that. Nothing I fucking love more than creating a scene, making my mark but instinct says not to. So I’m doing my own version of lowkey.
“Anything, Carlos?”
He nods at the device. “There’s nothing new. And my intel on that man in the images is sketchy at best. If it’s who I think it is, he’s a for hire, aneeds-to-knowin the bare bones arena thug. Not sure why he’s got her, but…”
“Stands to reason it’s not good.” I frown at the image on the screen. It’s been too long for it to be in any way good.
I don’t say that out loud. I don’t need to.
Blood will wash floors over this.
“I guess it depends what else the infamous Invisible Cat’s been doing,” he muses.
I flicker a glance at Carlos. “If you think this shit has to do with anything other than the Heart of Dark Desires, you’re fired.”
“Devil’s advocate.” Carlos goes to the bar and holds up the bourbon. I shake my head, and he sets it back down and pours a small drink for himself. Whiskey. “And I just think it’s fucking weird.”
He pauses as I enlarge the photo of the man with MG.
“Hendrick and Esterhazy have been talking,” Carlos says.
“I’ve seen the fucking photos.”
“Again.”
I don’t pay attention. The photo’s got that.
