Kicking up my feet on my desk, I relax back with my keyboard on my lap and tap out some words across a face.
DECEASED
My eyes drift across to my next target, my lip curling. The Fox. Polish. A man with a fondness for selling young girls. Another contact of The Bear, and further proof of his reach. Of the control he has over the criminals in this city.
My email dings, and I bring up my inbox on the largest screen in the center of the wall. I open the attachment. And suddenly, lost amid the surrounding faces of criminals, is Beau Hayley.
I stare at the photograph of a young woman on the pavement of a Miami street. She’s the image of her mother, the woman who relentlessly tried to hunt me down. Jaz Hayley lost her life as a consequence. And now her daughter is about to lose hers too.
“Let it go, Beau,” I whisper, stroking over my Cupid’s bow slowly, my stare fixed on her. In this shot, her mask is off, and her grief is embedded on every inch of her fair skin. Her eyes, eyes bordering on black, are infinite pits of sadness. She’s beautiful. But eerily so.
Beau Hayley projects darkness.
And I am responsible for that darkness.
I tear my eyes away and make a call to the right person. “Hi, it’s me,” I say when the call connects.
“Who?”
I can’t help laughing at myself. Sandy is a bloke. I didn’t question the name. I didn’t question the fact that my new contact appeared to be a woman.
“I asked a question.” His accent is thick. Russian.
“That’s irrelevant. I need some stock.”
“I only do business with men I know.”
“Don’t take it personally. No one knows me, and since you’re new to the area and business, I would have thought you’d take every buyer you can get.”
“Name.”
“You can call me The Enigma.”
He inhales, and I smile. “Your real name.”
“Don’t tell me you were christened Sandy.”
“Moot point,” he drawls.
“Do you want my money or not?” I ask. “And as an added bonus, I’ll kill The Bear. Or I could just kill you, take your guns, and leave The Bear filling The Brit’s boots.”
“I’m listening.”
Of course he’s listening.
4
BEAU
Trying to make it to the front door is like fighting my way through a rainforest. Masses of hydrangeas line the pathway, creeping into the middle, narrowing the path. With my arms full, I resort to turning and backing my way through to avoid being smacked in the face by branches and beautiful pompoms of white and pink. I make it to the front door unscathed, and with a lack of a free hand to retrieve my key, I swing a pot of paint so it hits the wood. I hear her, singing her way to let me in. Aunt Zinnea. The woman is the epitome of sunshine and smiles. Someone around here needs to be.
“My darling,” she says as she flings the door open. “I was getting worried, you said you’d be back hours ago.” She opens the way, relieving me of the paint, and I pass her, stopping briefly so she can kiss my cheek.
“Dolly had a hissy fit.” I drop my things at the bottom of the stairs and stretch life back into my aching body. “Reg dropped me off at the end of the street.” His big truck doesn’t fit down our narrow road. He tried once and got wedged between two Escalades.
Zinnea sighs as she sets the paint down and flounces past me, heading for the kitchen at the back of the house, her kimono wafting behind her. “I don’t know why you didn’t accept your birthday gift from your father. You could still keep Dolly. How many times has she broken down now?”
Accept my father’s gift? That wasn’t a gift. That was a guilt crusher. I wasn’t about to feed his need for absolution. Besides, Mom bought me Dolly. She’s a classic. Busted, but still a classic.
I follow Zinnea into the kitchen and find Dexter at the table, engrossed in the screen of his laptop. He’s still in his blues. He looks up and gives me his usual kind smile. “Good day, Beau?” he asks. Always does.
“I met Nath for a coffee,” I say, and the inevitable looks are thrown between Zinnea and Dexter. I ignore them. They know why I met Nath. “And Dolly’s broken again.” I head straight for the fridge, pulling out a bottle of wine. “You?”
“Dead man by the ocean. Always fun.” He goes back to his computer. “The Feds have moved in,” he mutters, as I pull down a glass. I don’t offer wine to anyone. Zinnea is almost ready for her performance this evening, and Dexter will be there admiring his love as she woos the crowd.
I pour a drink and join Dexter at the table. He smiles, not taking his attention from his screen. “No work today?” he asks.
“No.”
“Is it drying up?”
“A little,” I admit. More looks are thrown between them. It’s long past being tiresome. “Don’t say it,” I warn.
“The force would have you back in a heartbeat,” Dexter says, ignoring my pleas. “Years at the academy, Beau. You aced the Phase One test. Top five in the country, for Christ’s sake. You’re throwing so much away.”
“I’m not working for an institution I can’t believe in,” I mutter, taking a swig of my wine. Look where it got Mom. Dead. And they’re doing fuck all about it. It’s time to change the subject before they see the rage burning my insides. “I picked up the colors for your room.”
“Ooh, let me see,” Zinnea says, distracted, as she wrestles to fasten her bra.
I jump up and head to the hallway to collect the paint, arriving back in the kitchen to find she has abandoned her bra around her waist and now has one leg in her pantyhose. I set the paint cans on the side, pulling my keys from my pocket, using one to lever off a lid. I reveal the color, and she’s across to me in a shot, holding the other leg of her pantyhose. “Oh, I love it.”
“Pink?” Dexter asks from behind, and we both turn to find his glasses have been removed, his attention now firmly pointing this way. “We agreed no pink.”
“Oh, won’t you indulge me?” Zinnea pouts.
“No. No pink, Lawrence. We agreed.”
I wince, peeking at Zinnea to gage just how pissed off she is. And not because Dexter is putting a rare foot down. “Dexter!” she barks, motioning down her half-dressed form. “What’s my damn name?” Her voice has deepened to its usual manly tone, anger fueling it.
Dexter sighs. “Well, I don’t know.” He throws his glasses on the table. “You’re standing there with your bra around your waist, one hairy leg in your pantyhose, and your balls hanging out of your satin panties. Who are you right now?”
I purse my lips, finding my wine and filling my mouth. The rules are clear, so I have no clue how Dexter fucked up so monumentally. If the wig is on, it’s Zinnea. And the wig is on, albeit wonky. I can’t remember when my uncle went from being an uncle to an uncle and an aunt all wrapped up into one. But I remember the shitstorm it created in the family. My father, the prejudice asshole, kept me and my mother away like his brother was contagious. And yet, even now, all these years later and a pile of further crimes marked against my father’s name, Zinnea never bad-mouths him. Dexter, on the other hand, shares my contempt. Good. I need someone to remind me of what an asshole he is whenever I’m feeling weak.