No Nath.
Pulling out my cell, I dial him, checking the street for his car. No car. But it could be in his garage. His phone goes to voicemail, but I don’t leave a message. Instead, I try knocking again. And again and again and again. “God damn it,” I mutter, trying someone else instead, my worry multiplying with each minute that passes and no appearance or word from Nath.
Ollie answers immediately. “Hey, it’s Beau.” I start pacing outside Nath’s front door, up and down, constantly looking at the window. “Have you spoken to Nath today?”
“Yeah, only a while ago actually.”
“Where?”
“At the office.”
“And he was okay?”
“Yeah, I think so.”
“You sure?”
“Beau, what’s with the twenty questions?” Ollie asks, exasperated.
I shake my head, exhaling heavily, trying to find reason and expel my worry. “I was supposed to meet him at his place. He’s not here.”
“Hey, I’m sure it’s nothing to worry about,” he says gently. But Ollie doesn’t know what I know. I pause for thought. What exactly do I know?
“I’ve called him repeatedly.”
“He’s probably been called to a scene.”
I realize everything Ollie is saying is reasonable and, I pray, true. There have been plenty of times Nath and I have had arrangements that have changed at the last minute because something came up at work. A dead body. An armed robbery. But he always called. Or texted. “Can you check?” I ask, aware I’m clutching at straws. There was a time Ollie would have told me anything I wanted to know, because I was one of them. Not anymore.
“You know I can’t, Beau.”
I laugh under my breath. “You can, and you would have if I was still a cop.”
There’s silence for a few beats, silence except for me hammering on Nath’s front door again. “Let me see what I can find out,” he says, defeated.
My hand stops just shy of the wood again. “Thank you.”
“No problem. Now go home before one of Nath’s neighbors puts a call in to the police.”
“He has no neighbors,” I point out, scanning the row of garages that Nath’s apartment is spread over. If he had neighbors, I would have hammered on their door as well to see if they’d seen or heard from him.
“Go home, Beau,” Ollie says gently. “I’ll call you.”
I relent, backing up to my car, my eyes taking one last glance up at the window. “I’m going.” Hanging up, I get in Dolly and start her up, worried out of my mind.
What would have Nath so damn rattled?
44
JAMES
I slowly move out of the recess, watching her chug up the road. Goldie pulls up beside me, her window down. “Stay with her,” I order, and she speeds off immediately, no questions asked. She senses something’s not right, and it’s not just my foul mood.
I cast my eyes across to the mews apartment spanning the row of garages. Assess the roof. The windows. The front door. After a quick scope of the area for cameras and people, I walk casually over the road, pulling out my wallet and a credit card. I tug my shirt out of my trousers and push my hand into one of the tails, taking hold of the handle, slipping the card into the small gap by the lock and sliding it up a fraction. The door releases, and I hold it open only an inch, waiting for any chimes to indicate an alarm. Nothing. I peek through, searching for sensors. Nothing.
Pushing my way in, I elbow the door closed again, listening carefully. Silence.
I climb the stairs up to the apartment slowly, quietly, on high alert. It leads to an open plan space at the top, and the first thing that hits me is how immaculate the room is. I would have put my life on the fact a woman lives here. Until I see the art on walls. All women. All naked. All abstract.
But no photographs. I wander through the kitchen space, the counters sparse, and into a bedroom. Definitely a bloke’s bedroom. A laptop sits on a chair in the corner, and I wander over, crouching before it. I hit a button with my knuckle, and the screen comes to life, just as my phone starts vibrating in my pocket. I dig it out. “Otto,” I say, staring at the empty box requesting a password.
“The burner phone that received the message from The Snake’s cell ordering Jaz Hayley’s death.”
“What about it?”
“It was switched on briefly last night.”
I stand slowly, my eyes darting. “Trace it.”
“Done,” Otto mutters, always one step ahead. “I’m texting you the address.” My phone dings, and I pull it away from my ear, opening the message. “I’m running a search to find out who lives there,” he goes on.
“The fuck?” I breathe, looking up and glancing around.
“You recognize it?”
“Motherfucker.”
“I’ll take that as a yes.”
“I’m at that address now.”
“What?”
“I’m there. Standing in the bedroom.”
“Are you fucking joking?”
“No, who the fuck lives here, Otto?” I ask, going to the window and checking the street below.
“Give me a sec, it’s just coming thro . . .” He fades off, and my heart pumps faster as a result. “Fuck.”
“What?”
“You’re in FBI Agent Nathan Butler’s apartment.”
Ice glides through my veins. “Butler is their inside man.” I hang up and call Goldie, going to the nightstand and pulling open the drawer, rifling through. Nothing.
I slam it as Goldie answers. “She’s heading east,” she tells me. “Home?”
“Nathan Butler’s their inside man,” I spit urgently, stalking out of the bedroom. “Do not let Beau out of your sight.” Fuck me, all this time, her friend?
I hang up and leave, my mind in chaos, constantly circling around the fact that Butler called Beau and she came straight here.
To kill her?
45
BEAU
On my drive home, I battled with the pull of the steering wheel, fighting the urge to head to James’s and find my escape. A swift recap of my earlier conclusions soon pulled me into line. It also brought the unreasonable feeling of resentment crashing back. He’s a dad. A father. He’s responsible for a person and, God save my soul, I’m injured that that person isn’t me. That all his attention and dedication can’t be just for me—to free me, to take me away, to distract me from life. Anger rises. It’s unreasonable, but I can’t stop it.
I park Dolly, pull my purse onto my shoulder, checking my cell for the thousandth time, and trudge up the path as I try Nath once again. No answer.
I still at the front door when a message flashes up from James.
Hope your friend is okay. Come over when you’re done.
I reply before I can talk myself out of it.
I’m home now. Tired. Speak soon.
I hit send and cringe all over my cell. Speak soon? There are a thousand meanings in those two words, and none of them mean I want to speak soon. No child needs my brokenness in their life.