Sugar Rush
Page 25
Nice. I could totally be down with that.
“But, more than anything, if he loses, he’s going to be scrambling for the money. And who do you think he’s going to go to to avoid ending up in the hospital?”
“Me,” I say firmly. He’ll absolutely come to me, and I now see where Dennis is going with this. “I give him the money in exchange for ownership of The Sugar Bowl.”
“Exactly,” Dennis says with satisfaction.
“How do we ensure JT loses?” I ask, because that’s the part that’s risky.
“Well,” Dennis says hesitantly. “That’s going to cost you some money too, but I’ve got an idea. When are you due back?”
Dennis Flaherty is an interesting character. He’s imposingly big, yet looks elegant in a light gray tailored suit with a pale blue hankie in the pocket. His face is boyish with Irish freckled skin, bright red hair, and crystal blue eyes, yet there’s a wisdom there that tells me he’s seen stuff in his life. Although Beck said he came highly recommended by a friend of his, I can also tell by just looking at him that he’s trustworthy. It’s a gut instinct, and I’m anxious to hear more of what he has to say about JT.
We flew into San Francisco last night via another layover in Zurich—this time easily making our connecting flight—but Beck and I are feeling the keen effects of jet lag as we all take seats in our living room. With his hand holding mine on the couch, we both watch as Dennis sits in one of the matching white suede armchairs and crosses one leg over the other in sophisticated fashion.
“Where do you want me to start?” Dennis asks as he reaches down beside the chair to a briefcase he deposited there a moment ago, pulling a manila folder from a side pocket. “The info I have on JT or the photos?”
Beck turns to look at me, his eyebrows raised in question for me to make the call.
“The photos,” I say with a hard swallow. That will be the hardest part, as evidenced by the thumping of my pulse.
Dennis stands from his chair and walks over to the coffee table. He opens the folder and pulls out a thick stack of photos and lays them out on the coffee table before me. “There are a lot to go through. I narrowed them down as best I could by the descriptions you gave me, the time period, and what Beck could recall of those fraternity brothers who were close friends with JT.”
I nod as my eyes start scanning the photos before me. They’re all in black and white on glossy paper, with four pictures per page. Leaning forward on the couch, I hover over them while Beck’s hand goes to my lower back, where it presses in softly for support.
My eyes scan left to right, first the top row, then the bottom. I flip through page after page of photos, noting dark hair, pale hair, light eyes, dark eyes. They all look nondescript to me and not one of the photos causes an internal reaction.
Shaking my head, I mutter, “I don’t know…no one looks familiar.”
“It’s okay,” Beck says softly, his hand rubbing in circles against my back. “Take another look.”
I do as he asks, flipping back through, a bit slower this time. All the men look back at me with innocent eyes.
“Nothing,” I say in frustration, pushing them across the table back at Dennis.
“Doesn’t mean he’s not in there,” Dennis says as he picks up the stack and straightens it before putting the photos back into the folder.
As he turns to sit in the armchair again, I look at Beck. “When I first saw JT on TV, there was a vague recognition. I wasn’t sure how I knew him, but there was a familiarity. I don’t know that the other men are in that stack Dennis has.”
Beck pulls me back onto the couch, wrapping his arms around me. Placing a kiss to my temple, he whispers, “Don’t worry. We’ll broaden the search. We can head over to Stanford one day and look through all the yearbooks. It will be tedious, but maybe you’ll recognize someone that way.”
I nod, smiling uncertainly at him before turning my gaze to Dennis. His eyes are kind as he watches me.
“Putting my other attackers aside, how do we handle JT?” I ask him.
“Well,” Dennis says with a glint in his eye. “We could force JT to confess his accomplices. The information could be tortured out of him. Probably a personal confession too.”
A zing of pure pleasure courses through me and I sit up straighter over Dennis’ words. They resonate with my own bloodlust that I’ve been trying hard to keep at bay.
“That’s not a good option at this point,” Beck says, and I instantly deflate.
But he’s right. We spent a great deal of time talking about this while in Vienna. Although I still sometimes dream of JT’s death by my hand, I know deep in my gut I can’t do that. Not because I don’t think it’s justified, but because it’s not what’s best for me and Beck as a couple. One thing I’ve managed to understand with great clarity is that Beck has now become the most important thing to me. While I still need to seek justice for myself, I need to balance it with keeping myself safe and ensuring that Beck comes out of this with no damage. Ideally, that means having The Sugar Bowl intact and untainted before JT is made to pay for what he did to me. In this respect, Beck and I have formed a partnership, so to speak, whereby we both can achieve our goals.
“I’ve decided to go to the police,” I tell Dennis as my hand goes to Beck’s knee where I squeeze it reassuringly. This was also something we talked about in Vienna, but was a decision that I came to on my own.
“After we get JT out of The Sugar Bowl,” Beck amends quickly.
Dennis nods in understanding, but points out the problems with this plan. “Your memory of the tattoo may not be enough to force the district attorney to compel a DNA sample.”
“It’s a risk,” Beck agrees. “But we also have Melissa Fraye. He tried to drug her. Hopefully that will be enough for the DA to investigate JT.”
“And he may not turn on his accomplices,” Dennis says, but this is also something we considered.
This was the part I was willing to sacrifice if need be. It was what I was willing to give up in order to make sure our two main objectives were reached. JT paid for what he did to me and Beck gets The Sugar Bowl free and clear.
“It’s not important,” I tell Dennis brusquely.
“It is important,” Beck says as he turns to face me on the couch. He holds my eyes so he knows that this is troubling to him, but this I already know. We talked this issue to death while sitting on the bank of the Danube River a few days ago, trying to figure out how we could have it all.
“But, more than anything, if he loses, he’s going to be scrambling for the money. And who do you think he’s going to go to to avoid ending up in the hospital?”
“Me,” I say firmly. He’ll absolutely come to me, and I now see where Dennis is going with this. “I give him the money in exchange for ownership of The Sugar Bowl.”
“Exactly,” Dennis says with satisfaction.
“How do we ensure JT loses?” I ask, because that’s the part that’s risky.
“Well,” Dennis says hesitantly. “That’s going to cost you some money too, but I’ve got an idea. When are you due back?”
Dennis Flaherty is an interesting character. He’s imposingly big, yet looks elegant in a light gray tailored suit with a pale blue hankie in the pocket. His face is boyish with Irish freckled skin, bright red hair, and crystal blue eyes, yet there’s a wisdom there that tells me he’s seen stuff in his life. Although Beck said he came highly recommended by a friend of his, I can also tell by just looking at him that he’s trustworthy. It’s a gut instinct, and I’m anxious to hear more of what he has to say about JT.
We flew into San Francisco last night via another layover in Zurich—this time easily making our connecting flight—but Beck and I are feeling the keen effects of jet lag as we all take seats in our living room. With his hand holding mine on the couch, we both watch as Dennis sits in one of the matching white suede armchairs and crosses one leg over the other in sophisticated fashion.
“Where do you want me to start?” Dennis asks as he reaches down beside the chair to a briefcase he deposited there a moment ago, pulling a manila folder from a side pocket. “The info I have on JT or the photos?”
Beck turns to look at me, his eyebrows raised in question for me to make the call.
“The photos,” I say with a hard swallow. That will be the hardest part, as evidenced by the thumping of my pulse.
Dennis stands from his chair and walks over to the coffee table. He opens the folder and pulls out a thick stack of photos and lays them out on the coffee table before me. “There are a lot to go through. I narrowed them down as best I could by the descriptions you gave me, the time period, and what Beck could recall of those fraternity brothers who were close friends with JT.”
I nod as my eyes start scanning the photos before me. They’re all in black and white on glossy paper, with four pictures per page. Leaning forward on the couch, I hover over them while Beck’s hand goes to my lower back, where it presses in softly for support.
My eyes scan left to right, first the top row, then the bottom. I flip through page after page of photos, noting dark hair, pale hair, light eyes, dark eyes. They all look nondescript to me and not one of the photos causes an internal reaction.
Shaking my head, I mutter, “I don’t know…no one looks familiar.”
“It’s okay,” Beck says softly, his hand rubbing in circles against my back. “Take another look.”
I do as he asks, flipping back through, a bit slower this time. All the men look back at me with innocent eyes.
“Nothing,” I say in frustration, pushing them across the table back at Dennis.
“Doesn’t mean he’s not in there,” Dennis says as he picks up the stack and straightens it before putting the photos back into the folder.
As he turns to sit in the armchair again, I look at Beck. “When I first saw JT on TV, there was a vague recognition. I wasn’t sure how I knew him, but there was a familiarity. I don’t know that the other men are in that stack Dennis has.”
Beck pulls me back onto the couch, wrapping his arms around me. Placing a kiss to my temple, he whispers, “Don’t worry. We’ll broaden the search. We can head over to Stanford one day and look through all the yearbooks. It will be tedious, but maybe you’ll recognize someone that way.”
I nod, smiling uncertainly at him before turning my gaze to Dennis. His eyes are kind as he watches me.
“Putting my other attackers aside, how do we handle JT?” I ask him.
“Well,” Dennis says with a glint in his eye. “We could force JT to confess his accomplices. The information could be tortured out of him. Probably a personal confession too.”
A zing of pure pleasure courses through me and I sit up straighter over Dennis’ words. They resonate with my own bloodlust that I’ve been trying hard to keep at bay.
“That’s not a good option at this point,” Beck says, and I instantly deflate.
But he’s right. We spent a great deal of time talking about this while in Vienna. Although I still sometimes dream of JT’s death by my hand, I know deep in my gut I can’t do that. Not because I don’t think it’s justified, but because it’s not what’s best for me and Beck as a couple. One thing I’ve managed to understand with great clarity is that Beck has now become the most important thing to me. While I still need to seek justice for myself, I need to balance it with keeping myself safe and ensuring that Beck comes out of this with no damage. Ideally, that means having The Sugar Bowl intact and untainted before JT is made to pay for what he did to me. In this respect, Beck and I have formed a partnership, so to speak, whereby we both can achieve our goals.
“I’ve decided to go to the police,” I tell Dennis as my hand goes to Beck’s knee where I squeeze it reassuringly. This was also something we talked about in Vienna, but was a decision that I came to on my own.
“After we get JT out of The Sugar Bowl,” Beck amends quickly.
Dennis nods in understanding, but points out the problems with this plan. “Your memory of the tattoo may not be enough to force the district attorney to compel a DNA sample.”
“It’s a risk,” Beck agrees. “But we also have Melissa Fraye. He tried to drug her. Hopefully that will be enough for the DA to investigate JT.”
“And he may not turn on his accomplices,” Dennis says, but this is also something we considered.
This was the part I was willing to sacrifice if need be. It was what I was willing to give up in order to make sure our two main objectives were reached. JT paid for what he did to me and Beck gets The Sugar Bowl free and clear.
“It’s not important,” I tell Dennis brusquely.
“It is important,” Beck says as he turns to face me on the couch. He holds my eyes so he knows that this is troubling to him, but this I already know. We talked this issue to death while sitting on the bank of the Danube River a few days ago, trying to figure out how we could have it all.
