Do Not Disturb
Page 44
“Not at all. You always take care of me.”
“As do you,” I shoot back, my eyes studying the timer for our chat. Seventeen minutes thirty-eight seconds. “Talk to you soon?”
“You know it, babe.”
He clicks off and the “ENDED CHAT” message fills the screen. Eighteen minutes. A hundred and twenty-five bucks. Though for Mike, I’d have done it for free.
CHAPTER 50
THE MAN BEFORE Nick stands like a roadblock, framed by the arched doorway. A bright red roadblock, the man’s flushed skin almost matching his hair in intensity. “It’s late, Nick.”
He glances at his watch. “Mr. Renza said he wanted it.”
“I’ll give it to him in the morning.”
“It needs explanation. Can you just check—”
“Why don’t you just tell me the explanation, and I can pass it on?”
Nick looks past him, his gaze sweeping over a perfectly kept space as he tries to think. Fuck it. He has a girlfriend at home waiting. “It wasn’t easy to get. The girl has a really complex misdirection set up. The whole appearance is that she’s in Iowa. At a college there. It’s really tight. All the roads led the place they should. I almost stopped looking and brought you the Iowa apartment info I found.”
The houseman sighs as if bored. “Just give me the info.” He holds out a hand, the sleeve of his button-up riding up to reveal a watch that looks too dainty to be on a man’s wrist.
Nick hands over a single piece of paper, the address on it. “I woulda had it sooner, but it wasn’t easy to get. I had to track it down through the hosting account on a sub website, an old URL that isn’t being used anymore—”
“I’ll let him know.” The man snatches the piece of paper, turning, his hand on the knob as he swings the door shut.
Nick sticks out a hand, stopping the door. “He told me I’d get a bonus.”
The man’s eyes glare at his hand, as if it is offensive. “It’ll be in your paycheck.” His gaze drags to Nick’s face, the edge of his mouth curving slightly. “Your final paycheck. Your services are no longer needed, Mr. Hopper.” He shoves at the door, Nick’s hand moving just in time as the wood clicks shut with a loud finality.
He stares at the walnut surface, confusion giving way to irritation. Well… shit. Staring at the knob, he contemplates breaking down the door and getting her address back. Instead, swearing under his breath, he kicks at the nearest planter, the ceramic pot falling over with a satisfying crack, dirt spraying over the marble surface. His boots stomp down the gritty steps as he leaves.
CHAPTER 51
November 12—Two Years Earlier
“WHAT THE FUCK happened?”
The voice of Katie’s father. Loud. Louder than when she crashed his Range Rover into the country club’s entrance. Louder than when she had announced her teenage pregnancy, only to lose the baby three weeks later. Katie McLaughlin blinks her eyes and tries to focus, but can only see white. White fuzz. She closes her eyes tightly. Tries again.
“We aren’t sure.” A strange voice. One she doesn’t recognize. Soothing. That’s a mistake. Her father doesn’t like to be soothed or coddled. Hugged or loved. He likes to be respected. A soothing individual doesn’t, in his mind, respect him. The soothing stranger continues. “She was brought in by a couple of girls; they found her on Sixty-sixth Street just after four this morning. Curled against the back door of Maloney’s.”
“What the fuck’s Maloney’s?”
“Mr. McLaughlin, she’s lucky to be alive. We pumped her stomach as soon as she arrived, which removed much of the drugs before they could take full effect. She’d been heavily drugged. Had we not gotten to her when we did, who knows the effect of that cocktail on her system, on her brain and memory receptors for that matter.”
“She takes drugs.”
No! Her brain screams the word. She doesn’t do drugs. Hasn’t for four years. He should know this, she has told him. He doesn’t believe her. She blinks, fire-hot liquid pooling, vision unchanging, her brain infuriated by the white cloud that won’t lift from her eyes. Tries to turn her head but can’t. There’s a brace of some sort keeping it in place. Swallows. Tries to speak. Her tongue is not cooperating, nothing is coming out.
“These weren’t recreational drugs. They were Rohypnol, GHB. We cleared them from her system, and—other than short-term memory loss—there shouldn’t be any lasting effect.”
“You don’t know my daughter. She’s a drug addict.”
“As do you,” I shoot back, my eyes studying the timer for our chat. Seventeen minutes thirty-eight seconds. “Talk to you soon?”
“You know it, babe.”
He clicks off and the “ENDED CHAT” message fills the screen. Eighteen minutes. A hundred and twenty-five bucks. Though for Mike, I’d have done it for free.
CHAPTER 50
THE MAN BEFORE Nick stands like a roadblock, framed by the arched doorway. A bright red roadblock, the man’s flushed skin almost matching his hair in intensity. “It’s late, Nick.”
He glances at his watch. “Mr. Renza said he wanted it.”
“I’ll give it to him in the morning.”
“It needs explanation. Can you just check—”
“Why don’t you just tell me the explanation, and I can pass it on?”
Nick looks past him, his gaze sweeping over a perfectly kept space as he tries to think. Fuck it. He has a girlfriend at home waiting. “It wasn’t easy to get. The girl has a really complex misdirection set up. The whole appearance is that she’s in Iowa. At a college there. It’s really tight. All the roads led the place they should. I almost stopped looking and brought you the Iowa apartment info I found.”
The houseman sighs as if bored. “Just give me the info.” He holds out a hand, the sleeve of his button-up riding up to reveal a watch that looks too dainty to be on a man’s wrist.
Nick hands over a single piece of paper, the address on it. “I woulda had it sooner, but it wasn’t easy to get. I had to track it down through the hosting account on a sub website, an old URL that isn’t being used anymore—”
“I’ll let him know.” The man snatches the piece of paper, turning, his hand on the knob as he swings the door shut.
Nick sticks out a hand, stopping the door. “He told me I’d get a bonus.”
The man’s eyes glare at his hand, as if it is offensive. “It’ll be in your paycheck.” His gaze drags to Nick’s face, the edge of his mouth curving slightly. “Your final paycheck. Your services are no longer needed, Mr. Hopper.” He shoves at the door, Nick’s hand moving just in time as the wood clicks shut with a loud finality.
He stares at the walnut surface, confusion giving way to irritation. Well… shit. Staring at the knob, he contemplates breaking down the door and getting her address back. Instead, swearing under his breath, he kicks at the nearest planter, the ceramic pot falling over with a satisfying crack, dirt spraying over the marble surface. His boots stomp down the gritty steps as he leaves.
CHAPTER 51
November 12—Two Years Earlier
“WHAT THE FUCK happened?”
The voice of Katie’s father. Loud. Louder than when she crashed his Range Rover into the country club’s entrance. Louder than when she had announced her teenage pregnancy, only to lose the baby three weeks later. Katie McLaughlin blinks her eyes and tries to focus, but can only see white. White fuzz. She closes her eyes tightly. Tries again.
“We aren’t sure.” A strange voice. One she doesn’t recognize. Soothing. That’s a mistake. Her father doesn’t like to be soothed or coddled. Hugged or loved. He likes to be respected. A soothing individual doesn’t, in his mind, respect him. The soothing stranger continues. “She was brought in by a couple of girls; they found her on Sixty-sixth Street just after four this morning. Curled against the back door of Maloney’s.”
“What the fuck’s Maloney’s?”
“Mr. McLaughlin, she’s lucky to be alive. We pumped her stomach as soon as she arrived, which removed much of the drugs before they could take full effect. She’d been heavily drugged. Had we not gotten to her when we did, who knows the effect of that cocktail on her system, on her brain and memory receptors for that matter.”
“She takes drugs.”
No! Her brain screams the word. She doesn’t do drugs. Hasn’t for four years. He should know this, she has told him. He doesn’t believe her. She blinks, fire-hot liquid pooling, vision unchanging, her brain infuriated by the white cloud that won’t lift from her eyes. Tries to turn her head but can’t. There’s a brace of some sort keeping it in place. Swallows. Tries to speak. Her tongue is not cooperating, nothing is coming out.
“These weren’t recreational drugs. They were Rohypnol, GHB. We cleared them from her system, and—other than short-term memory loss—there shouldn’t be any lasting effect.”
“You don’t know my daughter. She’s a drug addict.”
