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I know the fucked-up things Herzog did to Alix. And there’s no way in hell I’m going to judge her for anything she does to the cocksucker who put her there. But I plan on spending the next week convincing her to let me take care of him. Let her move on in peace.
Kelly’s waiting. “Yeah,” I say. “Next Saturday’s good. And your price?”
He taps that letter opener again. The tip is sharp enough to take out an eye. “Sounds like you’re giving me a chance to clean up a blight on the Philadelphia waterfront.”
“I didn’t come here for charity.”
“Let’s see how it plays out. If we pick up collateral goods, we’ll call it even. Otherwise you’ll owe me one. Deal?”
Collateral goods. Fuck, I’m tempted to pay Kelly extra to walk off with the Herzogs’ drugs. Kick them where it really hurts. But I say, “Deal.”
Kelly slides open one of the drawers in his desk and comes up with two shot glasses and a bottle of eighteen-year-old Jameson’s. He pours with a heavy hand and passes one to me. “Slainte,” he says.
I echo the toast. Neither of us tosses back the liquor. We’re too fucking civilized for that. We sip like sophisticated motherfuckers.
“This boyo,” he says after I acknowledge the superiority of the whiskey. “He have a name?”
“Key,” I say. “Leo Key.”
Kelly’s not afraid to meet my gaze. “Like Alix.”
“Yeah. Like Alix.”
Kelly was there the night Alix sliced open Klaus Herzog’s carotid and carved his dick into dog food. Now, he gives me a look, like he’s wondering if I know what I’m getting myself into. I wish I had an answer.
When I keep my fucking mouth shut, he raises his glass again. “To Herself, then.”
I drink to Alix. And I wonder if Leo will get out of this alive.
3
ALIX
* * *
I’m sitting at my desk in the freeport office building, playing back video from the professional-quality camera that arrived this morning. I told Trap I didn’t need such a fancy machine; my phone would do just fine for whatever I have to record. But he insisted on buying the best—an investment we’ll use over and over as we promote freeport auctions to our clients.
I think he wanted it to distract me. To keep me from dwelling on lawyers and police, on the investigation into Klaus Herzog’s murder. Like any physical object could make me forget the paparazzi who crowd the freeport gate, the sickening freeloaders who want to turn my personal hell into another internet news cycle.
The video cameradidtake me hours to figure out, but I’ve finally filmed three uninterrupted minutes of the wall across from my desk. I’ve also mastered attaching the camera to its tripod, zooming in on details, and fading to black at the end of a shot.
“I’m ready for my close-up.”
I look up to find Trap framed in the doorway. His white dress shirt glows in golden light from the sunset behind me. Hints of brown and gold gleam in his near-black hair. The light brings out the jade in his jungle eyes.
I turn off the camera. “I didn’t realize how late it is.”
“You know you’re a salaried employee, right? The freeport doesn’t pay overtime.”
I appreciate that he’s trying to keep things light, but I have to ask, “How did your meeting go?”
He closes the office door. I might not be the only freeport employee working late, and some things shouldn’t be overheard.
“Kelly’s in.”
An iron rod melts in the column of my spine. I didn’t realize how anxious I was, how much I feared the handsome Irish mobster would refuse to get involved.
I want Leo. I need Leo. But I don’t want Trap going anywhere near the Herzog brothers on his own.
