“Wanna grab a beer after our meeting?” Mark asks.
“I can’t.”
“Got a hot date?” Mark wiggles his brows.
“Meeting Avery. Haven’t seen her since I got here.”
“How’s she doing?”
“She’s good. Busy. Between her modeling career, her fashion designs, and other shit I probably don’t know about, it’s a miracle she remembers to breathe.”
“I love Charlie, but my god, Brody.” He whistles, shaking his head, eyes wide. “Your sister on the Sports Illustrated cover last month—”
“Watch it, Dix. That’s my kid sister.” I glare at Mark as I see Jackson in my periphery approaching my cubicle.
“Hey, it’s a compliment.” Mark’s hands raise up in surrender. “I was just saying—”
“Don’t say another word, man. Just keep your opinions to yourself. As a matter of fact, don’t even think about my sister. You’re a married man.”
“Yes, I am. Happily, blissfully, ecstatically married to an amazing woman, but I’m not blind.”
Why couldn’t Avery be a teacher, a nurse, or a nun? Instead, she’s prancing around in front of a camera. Her body splashed on magazine covers all over the world is hard for me to swallow.
I should be used to the remarks from the guys about Avery, but I’m not. I know my sister is beautiful, but these donkey-holes just say shit to get under my skin and it works every time.
“Ready?” Jackson asks Mark with a lift of his brow and a slap to his shoulder.
“I’m always ready, Muff.” Mark stands up then looks down at me. “Let’s go, Justin Bieber.”
“Me?”
“We need to discuss the Sullivan assignment.” Jackson’s voice is low and serious, his expression blank.
Now I’m more than interested in what’s going on since I just submitted my report and invoiced the client.
I shoot off a quick text to Avery for another raincheck, not knowing how long I’ll be and what will come out of this meeting. She will be royally pissed because I have been giving her the shaft since I’ve been back in town.
A few steps into Jackson’s office, I see papers scattered across the conference table. I move closer and glance at the various photos and other documents as I pull out a chair and take a seat.
“What’s this about?” Mark asks, confused just as much as I am, picking up a photo and waving it in the air.
Jackson clears his throat. “We have been coincidently tangled with an investigation.” Jackson points to the photos on the table. “These women between the ages of twenty-two to thirty-five have all been drugged and their bodies left in a shallow ditch not too far from Sullivan’s club.”
Sullivan’s club?
My stomach tightens, and I suddenly feel a sharp pain in my chest. All I can think about are Dee’s topaz eyes and how I lost sight of her at the club. Is she one of the women in the investigation? Is that why I got pulled into this meeting?
My fists clench and a knot forms in the pit of my stomach as I scan the pictures spread on the table. “How long are these women found after someone has dumped their bodies?” I ask, sifting through the Polaroid photos until I see brunette hair. I pick it up. The woman’s eyes are closed, and dirt smudged on her face. I flip it over.
Name: Nancy Peterson
Age: 28
Hollywood
DOD: 01-04-2020
I let out a breath. It’s not Dee.
I pick up another and another, flipping each one over to read their profiles, hoping I don’t find her name.
“It varies. They find some women the day after they have left the club. Others after several days, even weeks,” Jackson replies. “All were seen at Sullivan’s establishment the day they died.”
“And you want to know if I saw anything?” I ask.
Jackson nods. “Autopsy results noted Rohypnol in all of their systems.”
“The date rape drug,” Mark states as he’s looking at a few photos. “Men who use that shit to have sex with women are fucking lowlives.”
“Brody, LAPD is asking for our help. To shed a little light in their direction,” Jackson asks.
“I’m not defending the guy. But what makes LAPD think Sullivan’s involved?” I ask.
“They have no evidence he is. All these women visited his establishment at some point and then were found dead.” Jackson holds up a sheet of paper.
I toss the stack of photos in my hand on the table, grateful I didn’t see Dee or her friend.
“I don’t recall seeing anything out of the ordinary. But if you think about it . . . why does Sullivan have a guard in the first place? He’s just a club owner. Maybe that’s where PD needs to start. What else could he be into?”
“He got a guard after he found out his wife cheated on him,” Jackson says quickly.
“Was Sullivan afraid of the man his wife was sleeping with?” Mark asks with a bit of chuckle behind it.
“Then maybe you should be questioning her,” I add.
“She’s dead,” Jackson says matter-of-factly.
“Dead?”
Jackson taps a few keys on his keyboard and an article with a picture of a woman in a gown standing next to Bryan appears on the monitor. “This is Megan, Bryan’s wife. It was all over the news.”
Mark speaks up, “Wait . . . I heard about this one. It was several months ago.”
“A shootout at a Kansas carnival where a reporter from San Francisco got shot?” I ask.
“And a former SEAL. Dylan Marshall,” Jackson adds, giving Mark a knowing look.
“Dylan Marshall?” Mark questions.
Jackson nods.
“Did he make it?”
“He’s alive and well.”
“I had no idea. Fuckin’ Marshall. I gotta give him a call and check on him.”
“Was he on your team?” I ask.
Mark shakes his head. “Nah. That playboy was on another team. They teamed us up on a mission in Afghanistan. It was probably one of the worse missions I’d been on. There were tunnels deep in the mountains and comms were down. We were on one end; Marshall’s team was on the other. For whatever reason, their team split up and . . . it was the day they lost Shelton.”
My thoughts veer back to Matt. As much as I loved being a SEAL, I hated losing a teammate just as much.
Footsteps echo in the dark.
The flash of light blinds me.
The heat burns through my fatigues.
The impact knocks the wind out of me, and I can’t breathe.
Not only do I see Matt’s face, but hers now too. Dee.
She’s in my arms.
Red dress torn and unraveled at the hem.
Eyes closed.
Dirt smudged on her face.
Hair mangled.
She’s so beautiful and I never got a chance to tell her.
“No!” I shock awake. My sheets are sweat soaked, and I swear the scent of death lingers in my nose.
Fucking hell!
I flick on the lamp. The pounding of my heart throbs in my chest. The sting of the phantom pain in my leg loiters.
Another night terror.
I thought I’d rid myself of them when I came back home, but they will never end. They’ll just follow me until I lose my mind.