Dick continued, “She used all of that diner money to pay a company called Atgaila. It’s Lithuanian for penance. The company is registered under her name in Lithuania, and other than that, it’s like it doesn’t exist.”
Student loans.
Diner job.
Shell company.
Penance.
I had been given a puzzle with a million pieces, and the biggest one had been hidden. What I did know was, the word penance implied she had done something wrong to atone for. I latched onto that like fingers gripping the edge of a cliff.
“What does the company do?” I finally asked.
“Dunno.” Dick scratched his belly, the one he had shoved into an Ed Hardy tee two sizes too small, the gym rat muscles peeking out in a way that was very much obscene.
I rarely raised my voice. Speaking threats at a level volume always worked better than shouting them, but I upped mine a notch or two, because Dick was that type of person. The type that mistook aggression for strength. “How much is it worth?”
He withered in front of me. The two-hundred-and-seventy-pound boxer in the distressed True Religion douche jeans and hot pink Tap Out briefs peeking out actually withered in front of me. “I don’t know.”
“Where is its headquarters?”
“Um, I don’t know?”
I wanted to strangle him. “Dick—”
“It’s Richard.”
“Dick, take a break from your Jamba Juice green smoothies, extra-strength steroids, and failed super heavyweight career, and teach your concussed ass how to do its fucking job.”
First Fika.
Now Dick.
Un-fucking-believable.
Competence, it turned out, was the Lochness Monster—it never existed in the first place, but people sure as hell liked to say it did.
I pointed to the penthouse door. “Get out.”
“But—”
Sliding Emery’s wallet out of my pocket, I tossed a few hundred-dollar bills at Dick’s stunned face. “Buy yourself a new fucking brain, and get out.”
I ran a palm down my face as Big Dick scrambled out of the chair. The door opened but never closed. When I looked up, I caught Fika hovering near the entryway like a confused puppy unsure how to use the stairs for the first time.
Delilah Lowell.
She could never mind her own business.
“Delilah sent you here,” I stated, taking in the newfound weight Fika carried.
His tan had returned since I had last seen him. I’d never seen his eyes this crystal clear, too. He wore a fitted purple Henley sheathed over scraggy muscles, but his skin no longer glowed a shade of death.
He paired the same distressed jeans he always wore with Nike slides and red and gold tube socks with the number seven stitched on the sides in white. Even the sallow cheeks I’d gotten used to had filled out.
“Delilah called me last night and said I might wanna make a day trip to Haling Cove.” Fika rubbed the top of his head, brushing four strands of stringy blond hair to the side. The Jonas Brothers wig no longer covered his scalp, but he had the same amount of hair as Rosco. He also didn’t look tired. “Not much to do for me in Eastridge, so I said, yeah, I’d make the trip. Saw your Ma at the supermarket the other day. She said Reed is coming back to town soon.”
I ignored his last comment, slid Emery’s wallet back into my pocket, and gestured to the chair opposite of mine, wondering if I had any cigarettes in my desk. I didn’t smoke, but I used to keep them around for Fika’s visits. “You look like shit, but less shitty than usual.”
“The tumors in my lungs are basically gone.” He rubbed around his ribcage before taking a seat. “Hopefully for good this time.”
I booted my laptop up and searched for Emery’s shell company. “Why are you here?”
“I know you paid off my medical bills.”
Fika looked two seconds from thanking me, so I cut him off, “It was anonymous.”
If I wanted his gratitude, I would have cooked him dinner and complimented his eyes. Never happening in the next ten lifetimes.
“What do you know?” His shrug emphasized how much he had filled out since I’d last seen him. “I’m a good P.I. I’m good at following clues.”
“Funny, considering you haven’t clued in on the fact that I want you out of here.”
I didn’t.
Not yet.
I had questions.
He had answers.
“Fine.” Fika held up both palms in the universal sign for surrender. “I was only here to say thanks.”
I let him walk to the door, searched for any signs of exertion, then stopped him. “Wait.”
He did. “Yeah?”
“Emery Winthrop—”
The few wisps of hair on his head flopped forward as he shook it. “I already said I ain’t sharing more about the Winthrop family, Nash.”
“Let me ask the fucking question first,” I bit out.
In front of me, my search for the shell company had come up empty. It would always. Unlike her pigeon-brained mother, Emery had a head on her shoulders. Fika, on the other hand, possessed answers. I needed them.
Fika heaved a sigh before returning to the seat and crossing his legs at his ankles. “Fine. Make it quick.”
“Look at you, Fika.” I toyed with the business card Brandon had left me a while back. It laid at the edge of my desk since. “Did your doctors swap your chemo drugs with something to grow your spine?”
“You’re an ass. You know that?”
Original. I’ve only been asked that by literally everyone I’ve ever met.
“Shocking revelation. No wonder you’re a P.I.” I cut to the chase, “Emery Winthrop is paying a Lithuanian shell company around $20,000 a year.” My eyes inspected his face, taking the time to search him for signs of distress, a spark of knowledge. Anything. “Do you know where the money is going to?”
He did.
It was obvious.
Stiffened shoulders.
Heavy sigh.
Resignation written between the grooves of wrinkles across his face.
“Yeah.” He paused and scrubbed his eyes, aging again before me. “It’s for a scholarship fund at Wilton University. The only recipient is this kid. Demi Wilson.”
“Who is she?”
“Angus Bedford’s daughter.”
I leaned forward in my seat until the edge of my desk pressed hard against my abs. “Angus Bedford didn’t have any kids.”
“He did with his first wife. They divorced while she was a couple of weeks pregnant. She put her last name on the birth certificate over his. He didn’t learn until later in life. His ex-wife passed away, and the kid lived with her uncle but went searching for her Dad.”
“She find him?”
“When Angus figured it out, he started making trips to New York every weekend to meet with Demi and help pay the bills. Had to stop after he lost everything he invested in Winthrop Textiles. Didn’t have the money for the trip or the bills. Life kinda spiraled for him. Then, he…”
“Killed himself,” I finished.
The newspapers blamed it on the Winthrop Scandal.
I had, too.
Still did.
Emery’s involvement, on the other hand, remained fuzzy. Mostly, I couldn’t pinpoint her motivations. She reminded me of time—out of reach, always changing, never conforming to my needs.