Embrace Me Forever (Hartley Brothers #3)

17. Blake

17

BLAKE

Los Angeles – twelve years ago

This is exactly the kind of conversation I want to avoid when I’m on a case. Being reminded of the emotional storm brewing back home. I’m here to find a senator’s missing wife, but my own wife is hot on my heels.

“I need you home, Blake,” Flo says. “Not making your own decision to jet-set somewhere of your own will, breaking your promises.” She reminds me of my promise to come home to Anchorage last night.

“We booked the wrong suspect, Flo.” I sigh. If only the LAPD had heeded my advice that the linkage between the suspect and our evidence was tenuous at best. “I can’t leave until we find her. You know how unpredictable these cases can be,” I reason.

She scoffs. “You haven’t gotten over it, have you?” Flo hammers me with the all-too-familiar line. “Is this your way of punishing me?”

“Flo, we’ve agreed to move on. This trip has got nothing to do with the past. I want this. I need this,” I plead, trying to keep my frustration in check. Her affair had shattered me, shattered us, but my love for her remains. I knew affairs didn’t just happen. They were a symptom of deeper issues. It takes two to dance but also two to stumble. I had played my part.

“Forgive, but not forget? That’s your motto, right, Blake?”

“There’s nothing left to forgive,” I assure her. “And even though I can’t forget, we don’t look back, so we don’t keep seeing what we never forget. We’re in this together, are we not? I need you to be on board, Flo. Otherwise, this won’t work.”

“Then why do you keep trying to leave? You want a taste of the big league in California, don’t you?” Flo argues. “You know I won’t move there with you. You’d be free to do as you please.”

Her accusation hangs heavy between us. Alaska used to feel like this huge, endless place, but now it’s starting to suffocate me when it comes to my career. The excitement of the chase, solving the unsolvable—it can’t sustain me if I’m bound to one place.

“Flo, I want to be with you,” I reassure her.

I’ve been guilty of not always sticking to my promise about when I’ll be home, but when it comes to the big decisions, I never make a promise to her that I don’t intend to keep. Yet, I know that for us to last, changes are inevitable. Resolute, I say, “Just this once, Flo. Let me wrap up this case, and then we’ll figure out how I can be there for you more—yes, even if it means changing careers.”

Flo pauses, processing my words. “You really mean that?”

“When I get back, we’ll talk all about it.”

She clears her throat. “Okay.”

“You don’t sound convinced.”

“I said okay, Blake.”

“All right. I have to go now,” I say as I prepare to hang up. “I love you.”

“I love you, too,” she sighs.

I meet Eddie Schwartz in the hotel lobby, my friend and the seasoned PI leading the investigation, despite the LAPD’s repeated attempts to undermine him. Recklessly, I might add. Senator Krauss himself hired Eddie, but it seems desperation swayed him to side with the LAPD. Although, after yesterday’s debacle, Eddie is back in the senator’s good graces.

We quickly head to his shiny Maserati. Moving to California has transformed him—from his attire and choice of car to ditching his old notebook for a sleek, high-tech tablet. He opens the passenger door for me with a tense expression; the deep lines around his eyes betray his many sleepless nights. Honestly, I can relate to that more than I’d like to admit.

He fills me in. “We need to rustle up a new lead. Our suspect’s last known haunt on Baxter Street—today’s raid turned up nothing.”

“Damn it! I bet our real mark got the jitters from yesterday’s circus,” I muse.

“Well, he’s probably toasting us for snagging the wrong fall guy.” Eddie chuckles dryly.

“Think this decoy might still play into our hand? Maybe that so-called innocent fall guy isn’t far off from our real target.”

“You suggesting a connection?”

I shake my head, frowning. “No direct ties to the senator’s mess, I reckon. More like they might rub elbows in the same shady corners.”

“Could be,” Eddie muses. “Honestly, those LAPD suckers should get the sack. They were so hell-bent on taking the lead, they lost their heads. Senator’s breathing down their necks sure didn’t cool things off.”

“They could use a crash course in teamwork,” I grumble, still steamed about them ignoring our playbook.

“Anything more on the ransom drop?”

“Zip,” Eddie replies.

“What if we’re barking up the wrong tree?” I toss out.

“You’re not hinting we should poke around the idea that the Senator’s playing a role in this, are you?”

“At this stage, I’m sold on his story,” I affirm. Politicians are ace at bluffing, but when I grilled him about the ransom when we first met, the Senator’s clenched fists and those fleeting, almost desperate glances he shot me felt all too real. “His reactions seemed straight from the gut.”

“That’s a relief.” Eddie grins. “Last thing I want is to slap cuffs on the guy cutting our checks.”

I chuckle. “I’m relieved too, man. Diving into a quagmire of domestic betrayal? That’s not the puzzle I want to piece together right now.”

Eddie’s expression hints at personal concerns. “Speaking of domestic, everything all right with you and Flo?”

“We’re managing,” I answer succinctly. Eddie knew about our struggles, but Flo’s affair remained my burden alone.

“Good to hear.” He dips his chin. “Got your full focus on this, then? We’re up against the wall, and I need you firing on all cylinders, Sherlock.”

I lean back, easing into the case talk. “Let’s rewind to square one,” I suggest. “A note lands on the Senator’s desk. It’s a demand for a million bucks and a call for him to back off the arms control bill.”

I pause, catching Eddie’s twitch of impatience from the corner of my eye. Then I push on, “Senator Krauss pegs it as a manifesto from some pro-gun warrior. But he’s too wrapped up in this to see straight. I need another look at that note, Ed.”

As he zips through the busy streets with agility, I quip, “I don’t remember you driving like this on prom night. Remember, Flo and I were squeezed into the back seat of that ancient Beetle of yours?”

Eddie grins. “This is no Seward, man. Here, you either learn to weave like a racecar driver, or you get honked into the next lane.”

I chuckle. “Guess you missed your calling in NASCAR.”

His grin fades as he shifts gears, both literally and figuratively.

Upon arriving at the LAPD headquarters, we’re greeted by the Captain in charge of Krauss’ case. Without preamble, he pulls Eddie aside. Through the glass door, I observe the Captain’s gestures. It looks like he might have just had a heated exchange with the Senator and is now venting his frustration on Eddie.

When Eddie rejoins me, his face is set in grim lines. We are quickly escorted to a secure area where the ransom note is being kept. An officer hands me the note—a single sheet of printed paper.

I pore over the note again. Forensic analysis has narrowed it down to a dozen printers capable of this output. The suspect the LAPD nabbed yesterday is a known activist found loitering near one of the identified print shops, yet there’s nothing tying him to the actual printing of that note.

The demand for the Senator to back out of the arms control bill reads strangely personal, lacking the usual public declaration vibe. It’s almost intimate.

I propose, “Sure, it smells like a political decoy. But don’t forget, Krauss isn’t just in politics. He’s deep in retail real estate, and his wife’s big in residential development. Have any other senators backing this bill received similar threats?”

“No,” Eddie responds, his expression taut with concentration.

“There you go, buddy,” I lean in, connecting the dots. “I’d wager it’s a business rival, someone in his circle, judging by the personal twang to that note.”

“Damn! At the event, Mrs. Krauss talked to a guest who signed up last-minute.” Eddie scrolls through his tablet, searching for the details. “Looks like it was a Mr. J. Smith.”

“Clever,” I remark, appreciating the simplicity of the alias.

“Fuck me!” he murmurs, scratching his forehead.

“A begrudging businessman losing too big a slice of the pie?”

“Blake, flying you out here in business class is paying off big-time!” Eddie says, his eyes unfocused as he tries to piece everything together. “We’ve got his face on camera. Krauss said they talked about construction and mentioned that his wife seemed pretty impressed by the guy,” he muses. Then he stares at me like a wide-eyed owl, puzzling it out loud. “Hold on a second. Didn’t Krauss just finalize a buyout of a construction firm?”

“You tell me,” I quip, knowing he’s just about to connect all the dots.

“Good sniffing, Blake. That angle might just crack this case wide open,” Eddie acknowledges, then he turns to the forensics analyst. “Let’s pull the CCTV footage from those print shops. We need to see if Mr. Smith popped up at any of them.”

As the gears turn, the contours of our suspect’s motive start to crystalize. It’s a reminder that sometimes the answer hides in plain sight, just waiting for the right pair of eyes to uncover it.

“We nailed the print shop but snagged the wrong guy,” Eddie notes as footage exposes our actual suspect in the background of the scene where yesterday’s mistaken arrest occurred.

“That’s exactly why our guy got cold feet and bolted,” I explain, referencing the morning’s fruitless raid on our real suspect’s house.

Eddie returns to brief the Captain, who quickly mobilizes his team. As the operation kicks off and I opt to stay back, I find myself at a quiet diner. I attempt to call Flo, but the call goes unanswered, leaving me staring at the phone, a mix of concern and anticipation mingling in my chest.

Hours tick by, each minute stretching longer than the last, until finally, Eddie’s number flashes across my screen. “We found her, Blake. She’s alive and well,” his voice crackles through the speaker, vibrant with relief and triumph.

An unrivaled sense of satisfaction washes over me, a feeling that’s hard to replace now that I’m contemplating stepping away from the world of sleuthing.

“The senator would like to wine and dine you,” Eddie says, his tone light but insistent.

I smirk, feeling a sudden rush of eagerness to return to my normal life. “Tell the senator to keep his wine. My best bottle’s waiting at home with my girl.”

Eddie chuckles on the other end. “That’s the Blake I know. Go get your girl, buddy. You’ve earned it.”

Making my way to LAX to catch the last flight to Anchorage, I dial Flo once more. This time, I leave a voice message. “Hey Flo, it’s me. Guess what? I’m coming home early. Thinking about spending a quiet evening together—just us, phone off. And if you’re down, we can spend the whole night in bed, getting it on.”

As I end the message, visions of her waiting and perhaps worried fill my mind. I will celebrate the success of the case with my girl in whatever way she chooses. I watch the L.A. cityscape blur past as the taxi speeds toward the airport. I’m ready to hang up my PI hat and say goodbye to the chase. Building a life with her is no longer just a dream. Starting tonight, it becomes my main focus, the real definition of my success.

I manage to get some sleep on the flight despite my overactive mind. Knowing there won’t be anything open at Anchorage Airport, I already bought a teddy bear back at LAX and tucked a card inside it, pouring my heart into the words I wrote. I may not be able to speak them when I see her. But she ought to know that she’s the one, my everything, and I vow to honor my promise. To be the best husband I can be to her and a father to our future children.

But upon entering my street, the sight that greets me freezes my blood. My house is cordoned off. Police officers try to block my path.

“Get away from me!” I bark, their efforts to stop me falter as I push past them.

“Blake! No! Blake! Wait!” From the other side of the street, my old partner from the Anchorage PD, Dean Crawley, calls out to me.

His words fall on deaf ears. This is my goddamn house! It’s violated, and I need to know why. Need to know if she’s safe.

As I burst through the front door, a sinister tremor slams against my ribs. The first thing that catches my eye is a pair of men’s shoes by the entrance. Shoes that aren’t mine. A cold shiver runs down my spine as I step further into the chaos of my own home.

As I enter the living room, time slows, and a chilling sight grips me. Flo is laid out on the couch, unmoving. Her pale skin contrasts with the red stains spreading across the fabric underneath her head. Her face, still as beautiful as the day I met her, is serene yet still.

Dean holds me back firmly, preventing me from kneeling beside her to offer a final embrace. “Blake, you can’t stay here,” he murmurs.

I’m too weakened to protest, and the last thing I want is to disturb her peace. So I remain rooted to the spot, my heart tearing at the sight. It’s not just the devastating silence of her being, but the presence of another man next to her, equally lifeless, his features distorted in a gruesome final grimace. I don’t know what’s more agonizing—the sight of her lifeless body or the realization that she was with another man in her final moments. Someone I believed was long gone from our lives.

Pinned to her chest, a handwritten note sears through the haze of my shock: Since you weren’t home.

The chilling message leaves no room for doubt, I know exactly who he is, and Flo took the bullet that was meant for me. It’s the remnants of the gang I helped dismantle years ago, back when I was still Dean’s partner.

The room spins as rage takes hold. Next to me, Dean stands like a statue, surveying the same horrific scene. His voice is low and strained when he finally speaks, “Bane was shot this morning.”

So, it’s the younger brother, Tosca, driven by a vendetta to avenge his brother’s death. “Fuck! And Tosca thought it was me?” I growl, the name turning to poison on my tongue.

Over the years, I never shied away from my encounters with Bane and Tosca, even after my departure from the Anchorage PD. Whether by chance or design, we inevitably drew each other into conflict. But I had never imagined it would culminate in such bloodshed.

Dean puts a hand on my shoulder. “I’m sorry, Blake.”

His apology boils within me, a fierce tide rising against the walls of my composure. I don’t need sympathy, not now, not ever. But I keep my reaction hidden. Dean Crawley isn’t just a former colleague; he’s a friend, a brother in arms. We’ve been through the fires of hell together, and our bond is unbreakable, even now.

He continues, “Someone must’ve sent the wrong message.” His gaze flicks across the room, finally settling back on the couch. “This shouldn’t have happened.”

No, it shouldn’t. Flo should still be alive. Yet, as Dean speaks, I sense the unasked questions hovering between us. He’s a friend but unaware of the full chaos unraveling at home, and tonight, the unexpected presence of our neighbor only deepens his suspicions.

“Did you know?” he finally asks.

“Yeah, he was coming over for a game of poker,” I fabricate swiftly, the lie settling in my mouth as if it were the truth. “Flo said they’d be waiting for me.”

Dean sighs and gives a small bow, a gesture that accepts my words without pushing further. “Come on, you’ve got to get out of here.”

Knowing there’s nothing more I can do at this crime scene, I heed his command, the need for action elsewhere fueling my steps. I’ve got to find Tosca. His swift action to avenge his brother was brutal, but I’m even swifter. I bet he doesn’t think his end could come tonight.

I head straight for my usual informant, a young man who drifts from one halfway house to another like a newspaper blown down an alley. As usual, he always says he doesn’t know. But his eyes can’t lie, and I bet he knows what Tosca has just done to my Flo.

“Where is he?” I demand, gripping his collar and waving a stack of crisp bills—one grand—before his eyes, a price he can’t resist.

“He’s jetted to Sacramento,” the informant stammers.

“Where in Sacramento?” I press, my patience wearing thin.

“I don’t know, man!” His voice quivers with feigned ignorance.

I’m not in the mood for games. I press the cold barrel of my gun against his temple and tighten my grip. “Where?”

“All right! All right! There’s a new Harley Davidson store opening uptown. His hideout’s in the basement,” he finally spills, desperation clear in his voice. True to form, the guy is easy to buy.

With the information secured, I storm out, driven like a bat out of hell. Just as Tosca didn’t bother with subtlety, I can’t be bothered with caution now. My life as I knew it has ended. Pursuing Tosca is the last thing I’ll do.

Upon arriving at the Harley Davidson store, I waste no time. The basement door is concealed but barely a challenge. Inside, I’m met with the cold stares of Tosca’s bodyguards. They reach for their weapons, but they’re too slow. I take them down one by one, my movements mechanical, driven by a rage-fueled precision.

Tosca sneers from the shadowed corner of the basement, his eyes gleaming with cruel satisfaction. “Look at you, Blake. Came charging in here like some avenging angel. Did you enjoy the little show I left you back home?”

I step closer, my gun unwavering in my grip, my voice icy calm. “Mourning’s over, Tosca. I’m not here to grieve. I’m here for you. Bet you didn’t think I’d come this fast.”

“I must admit you turned up faster than Spiderman. But you’re out of your league. This isn’t some heroic cop movie, Blake. You’re playing in the big leagues now.”

“And yet, here I am,” I retort. “Right in your hideout. Looks like the big leagues aren’t so tough after all.”

We pause for a moment, and Tosca’s eerie calm suggests he’s hiding more than he lets on.

“I didn’t kill Bane!” I grit out.

“Who cares who did!” Tosca chuckles dismissively. “I’ve always despised you, Blake. Honestly, it didn’t matter to me who I had to take down to avenge Bane. What’s that they say about husband and wife? Two become one?” His laughter rings out cruelly.

I step into the light, making sure he can see every contour of my face.

He reclines, treating the moment like a perverse show. “Your dear Flo, she’s gone, Blake. Long gone. And to think, I showed mercy letting you find her like that, instead of in your bed, with that man fucking the daylights out of her! God, it’s so satisfying. Taking everything from you—something that I honestly doubted I would’ve tasted.”

I meet his condescension with a harsh, humorless laugh. “You think you took everything from me? You just cleared my schedule. Now, I’ve got nothing but time. Let’s see how you handle being on the receiving end.”

His confidence wavers as he realizes his mistake. The air charged with the promise of vengeance as I drive a bullet through his temple. The exact spot where he had shot Flo. His blood doesn’t soak into the fabric. Instead, it paints a vivid trail down the leather couch, a macabre delight for my eyes. The executioner becomes the executed. My work is done.

In that instant, two doors burst open simultaneously—one behind Tosca and another behind me.

“Blake!” Dean Crawley’s voice pierces the silence as movements behind Tosca’s couch catch me momentarily off guard. Fortunately, my former partner reacts swiftly, neutralizing the emerging threat.

This was the source of Tosca’s misplaced calm, believing my grief was a sign of weakness. He failed to anticipate that his last hired muscle would be too slow to save him.

“Blake, what the hell!” Dean whisper-shouts in my ear.

Pivoting to face him, I drop my gun, raising my hands in surrender. “Do what you have to do,” I resign, my voice hollow.

Dean strides away from me. “It was self-defense, Blake!” he insists, surveying the grim scene before him, his gaze finally resting on Tosca. “Where’s his weapon?”

“He didn’t have one,” I confess.

“Shit, Blake!” he curses under his breath, his eyes darting around the room in a frantic search. He paces quickly to the coffee table, gloved fingers probing until they find a hidden compartment beneath its surface. With careful hands, he extracts a gun, the metal glinting ominously in the dim light. Methodically, he positions the gun in Tosca’s limp hand.

“What are you doing?” I ask, disbelief and confusion swirling within me.

“Keep your mouth shut! The cavalry’s coming,” he hisses, his expression steely and resolute. “You and I are in this together now. You shot him in self-defense, do you hear me?”

The reality of Dean’s actions settles over me—a fabricated truth woven in desperation. As the distant sound of sirens grows louder, I realize the lines we’ve crossed. In this grim dance of justice and survival, my friend has tied our fates together. Yet, to this day, I still question if it was all worth it.