By Sin To Atone (Sinners Duet #1)

Prologue

Ezekiel

I know what you did.

Ice clinks against the crystal tumbler. I lift it to my mouth and sip the whiskey but don’t quite taste it. Don’t quite feel the numbing effects of it.

I read the text message for the hundredth time, tempted to reply, angrily staring at my screen as if it will give me an answer. A name. A fucking face.

I know what you did.

That’s it. Five words accompanied by a newspaper article about the accidental death of my father and his mistress.

Mother. Fucker.

“Mr. St. James?” a woman’s soft, slightly accented voice interrupts.

I shift my gaze up to the server who clears her throat, a blush already creeping along the pale skin of her neck.

Nora.

I check my expression, force a smile.

“Yes, Nora?”

“The gentleman you were expecting is here to see you, sir.”

I glance at my wristwatch and nod to her. That pink hue blooms, coloring her cheeks. She’s sweet. Young. Pretty. Very pretty. And far too inexperienced for her own good. There’s a part of me that knows I should warn her. Tell her to stay away from the men who frequent this club. Men like me. But I’m too selfish for that. And nowhere near good enough to do it.

“Show him to my table.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And make sure we’re not interrupted, will you?”

“Yes, sir.” She turns to go, hesitates.

“What is it, Nora?” I ask, trying to keep the impatience from my tone.

“Um. I was wondering if you’d perhaps need me later?” she asks, a note of optimism in her voice even as she swallows the last part.

That pink deepens to crimson. She’s embarrassed.

“You’re sweet to ask, but no. Not tonight,” I say.

She blinks, looks every which way but at me. “Oh. I…” She finally clears her throat and is able to meet my gaze once more. “I’m sorry, I just?—”

“Let’s not keep my guest waiting, Nora. You know how I feel about being made to wait.”

“Yes, sir. Of course, sir.” She nearly trips in her rush to get to the door. I don’t even watch her go. I look at my phone instead. At that fucking message that has stolen the little joy I have these days. But when I hear the overly exaggerated twang that can only belong to Robbie Shetland, I tuck the phone into my pocket and watch him enter, charming Nora. He towers over her with his big cowboy boots, the signature fur coat he inherited from his granddaddy, as he likes to tell the story, the black hat still on his head. He catches my eye but there’s no break in his monologue.

The other patrons turn to take in the large, loud American who clearly doesn’t belong. Eden 9.5 is a high-end bar known for its many shadowy corners. It’s tucked in an out-of-the-way alley in Amsterdam’s Red Light District. Hidden in plain sight, it doesn’t draw the multitude of tourists who frequent the district.

Robbie tips his hat to someone whose eye he catches, and I study the way he makes himself appear so casually unaware. So fucking clueless and not at all like the man he is. In reality, I am sure he’s cataloged all the faces in this room already. He has that kind of memory. I’m certain he will know all their names by tomorrow morning.

I stand, adjust a shirtsleeve. The polished Montblanc cufflink gleams when it catches the light.

“Robbie,” I say, stepping around the small table. I extend my hand in greeting. “Pleasure to see you again.”

He shakes my hand. “Pleasure’s all mine,” he says, then turns to Nora. “Truly. All the pleasure is mine.” He bends to kiss the inside of her wrist and I almost roll my eyes.

“Nora if you’ll take Mr. Shetland’s coat and hat?” I ask.

“Yes, sir,” she says as Robbie slips his coat off and hands both it and his hat to her.

“You take good care of that, sweetheart,” he says with a wink.

“I will, sir. Can I bring you anything else?” she asks, but there’s a bottle of whiskey and a second tumbler already waiting on the table.

“Looks like I’ve got everything I need.”

Nora nods, turns and walks away.

Robbie watches her go. “Sweet little piece.”

“Inexperienced,” I tell him.

“Lucky for her, I’m a very patient teacher.” He settles into the chair across from mine.

I take my seat. “Remind me again why you make such a spectacle of yourself,” I say, pouring Robbie a whiskey before picking up my glass and leaning back in the deep, comfortable leather chair.

He glances around the room. Most of the patrons have resumed their conversations although a few still glance his way. He smiles, says a howdy to one, gaze steady. The man who was looking down his nose at Robbie clears his throat and turns away.

“Don’t know what you mean. I’m just a loud American tourist,” he says to me, sipping his drink.

“Right.”

He shrugs. “Better for me if everyone thinks I am at least. Easier, considering my line of work.”

He’s right about that. Robbie Shetland is one of the most cunning men I know. He came from nothing, no, less than nothing. His mother and sister probably cleaned toilets for men like those sitting here tonight. The elite of the elite with more money and privilege than brains. And he has a way of finding people who don’t want to be found. He’s known within The Society. Although not a member himself, he has worked privately for several members. It’s one of the reasons we’re meeting here tonight and not at a Society venue. I don’t want anyone knowing my business.

“What do you have for me?” I ask.

He takes a single, folded sheet of paper out of his pocket. It’s crumpled and he makes a point of setting it on the table and flattening out the creases.

“It’s fine.” I pick it up and when I see what’s on it, I raise my eyebrows. “What the hell am I supposed to do with this?” It’s some sort of computer-generated code I can’t make heads or tails of.

“That piece of paper tells us where those emails originated.”

I glance again at the sheet as he points out a couple of things and starts explaining.

“I don’t want a lesson in reading code. That’s why I hired you. I just need the answers.”

“I’m getting to it. You ready for this?” He pauses for dramatic effect. “The email you received originated from New Orleans.”

“What?” I ask. Judging from the look on his face, the shock must be evident on mine.

“From an unremarkable little apartment in a part of town I’m sure you, being Society folk, don’t frequent.”

“New Orleans?” Dread claws my gut.

“Oh, forgot one more thing.” He digs around in his pockets and takes out another crumpled piece of paper. “Here she is.” He unfolds the sheet and hands it to me. “Coincidence of coincidences, turns out she’s an employee of The Cat House.”

I take it from him. It’s a grainy, black and white printout on cheap paper.

“The Cat House? As in, The Society Cat House?”

“One and the same. Hell of a coincidence.”

“And it’s a woman?” I try to make my eyes focus on the page, take in the shoulder-length dark hair, the big eyes on the woman’s unsmiling face.

“Women do blackmail. We live in modern times. Equal opportunity and all that.”

I shift my gaze back to him. “You sure this is correct? If she works at the Cat House?—”

“Not in the way you think.” He winks, chuckles while shaking his head. “Dirty devil. She serves drinks.”

I look again at the sheet of paper. “This is the best photo you could come up with?”

He shrugs a shoulder. “Hotel’s printer was nearly out of ink.”

I study the printout more closely. “How old is she?” she barely looks to be eighteen.

“Twenty-seven according to her ID.”

“Right.” This girl is not twenty-seven. It’s a fake, obviously. “What do you know about her?”

“Her name, well, I should say the name she gave HR, do you all have HR?” he asks, pausing. I raise my eyebrows. “I digress. The name she gave whoever hired her is Blue Masterson. She doesn’t have a social media profile, no on-line presence at all, in fact. Very odd especially for someone her age. That there is her employee mug shot.”

I look from the photo to him. “Blue Masterson. Even that sounds fake.”

“Blue moved to a shitty little apartment in NOLA about six months ago.” Six months. The first email only showed up around two months ago.

“From where?”

“Don’t know.”

“What do you mean you don’t know?”

“No paper trail but I’m still searching.”

I look at the picture again. She’s attractive. Like all the things that are bad for you are attractive. Her gaze is sharp, clever and cautious in that way people who are hiding something have. I know it well.

“Are you sure it’s her?” She just seems too young. Too poor. Too much not a part of the world I come from.

“I don’t make mistakes, Zeke.”

“Ezekiel.” Only my mother, my brother and my niece call me Zeke. Zo? used to. Not sure she’d ever even said my full name.

“Ezekiel. Pardon me.”

I blink to clear the memory of Zo?. “It’s fine.”

“Blue Masterson has managed to erase her past. She’s better at it than most which is surprising. Dig as I might, I don’t get any hits. Like she didn’t exist until she showed up in New Orleans. The only thing I’ve managed to find are monthly payments to the Oakwood Care Center.”

My forehead creases. “What’s that?”

“Psychiatric hospital.”

“Oh?”

“Don’t know more just yet. All that fucking patient privacy and this place actually has decent online security.”

I sit back looking at the strange girl’s face, her narrowed eyes. She looks like she’s telling off the photographer. “So, she’s using a fake name. Fake papers. But if she works at IVI, she’d have been vetted.”

He shrugs a shoulder. “If you say so.” He finishes the whiskey in his glass and reaches to pour himself another. “I’ll be sticking around here a few days. Never been to Amsterdam, you know. But I’m guessing you’ll be heading back to New Orleans pronto.”

“It appears so.”

“I jotted her schedule down on the back of that photo.”

I turn it over. “You’ll keep looking into Ms. Masterson.” I get to my feet, taking out my wallet and dropping some bills onto the table for Nora.

“I wouldn’t consider my job done until I figure out who the hell she is.”

“I want to know everything there is to know about this woman. Every fucking detail.”

“You got it.”

“You know how to reach me.”

He nods and I turn and walk away.