14. Phae
Phae
B eep. Click.
I tensed as the penthouse door unlocked, and on the other side of the room, Emmy did the same. Showtime. It was five a.m. now. What had Lonnie been doing all that time? He’d barely lasted two minutes with the kid, and he didn’t strike me as the social type.
The kid… Emmy had worked her connections again and assured me that the pimp would be handled. When I asked whether the “handling” involved a shallow grave, she’d said probably not, because there was likely a whole network involved and the grave would be the size of a soccer pitch.
While we waited for Lonnie, I’d helped myself to a double espresso from the machine in the kitchen—the penthouse was real fancy—and took a combat nap while Emmy kept watch.
The past three days were beginning to catch up with me, not just the jet lag and fieldwork, but the whole Marc thing.
After all these years, I shouldn’t still love him, but I did.
If I could turn back time, would I go to Hollywood?
Maybe, even though I knew it would kill me inside. A part of me had died anyway.
McDonald stumbled into the suite and tossed his phone onto a side table. Adrenaline spiked through me, quick and sharp. Emmy was moving silently to block the door, and she neatly pocketed the phone on her way as McDonald remained oblivious to our presence.
But not for long.
“Evening, Lonnie,” she said, and he spun so fast he risked whiplash. “It’s been a while. Did you have fun tonight?”
I’d expected anger, but what Emmy got was a leer.
“Who the hell are you? Because you’re not my type.”
“Oh, I already know that. Transactional relationships aren’t my thing. But relax; we’re not here to put your Viagra through its paces. I have a business proposal.”
“What the fuck are you talking about?”
“You’re aware of the incident on Malati?”
“That bullshit with the movie star? Yeah, it’s all over the news.” McDonald squinted at Emmy. “Do I know you?”
“‘Know’ is too strong a term. You groped my ass at a party once, but that’s not important today. Seeing as you own the piece of land involved in the Malati affair, you didn’t think it might be a good idea to, I don’t know, get in touch with the authorities and ask if you could help out?”
“Why would I do that? I’m not changing my plans for some two-bit eco-warriors.” He spit the words as if they disgusted him. Damn, I really wanted to break this asshole’s face.
“Even with lives at stake, you’d rather be the bad guy than the hero?”
“No one’s gonna die.”
“How do you know that?”
“Like I said, it’s bullshit. Just my kid trying to get revenge because I wouldn’t pay for her college tuition.”
Huh?
I looked at Emmy, and she shrugged. No, she didn’t have any idea what he was yapping on about either.
“You’re going to have to elaborate,” I told him.
“She’s an attention whore, like her momma. If you want to arrest her, go right ahead.”
“Are you saying one of your children is involved in the plot to kidnap Marc di Gregorio?”
“And Serena Carlisle,” Emmy added.
“Look, she’s been a pain in my ass for years.
All her momma wanted was money, money, money.
And then last summer, Kam shows up out of the blue in my office and begs me to withdraw the development plans, but what did she offer in return?
Nothing. When you’re in business, you gotta have a plan, understand? You gotta have leverage.”
Emmy nodded along, playing good cop now, lulling McDonald into a false sense of security. “Yeah, yeah, I get that.”
“So I told her, ‘McDonalds don’t beg; they negotiate. Come back when you can pay me the full value of the land plus, say, twenty years of lost profits, and then we’ll talk.’”
“And she’s associated with the Wild Roots group?”
“Probably. She got into all the environmental stuff just to spite me. It’s Cassandra’s fault—she knows I hate that greenwashing crap.”
“Cassandra is your ex-wife?”
That wasn’t the name we had on file, and he only had three kids listed, twenty-four-year-old twins—one boy, one girl—by his first wife, and a sixteen-year-old son with the current Mrs. McDonald.
No “Kam,” although the sixteen-year-old was a real piece of work.
He’d already been arrested three times, twice for drug offences and once for sexual assault, but no charges were ever brought.
“Hell, no. Cassie wasn’t the type of woman you marry. She was a six-month mistake, and I’ve been paying for it ever since.”
I was wearing an earpiece so Echo could listen. Emmy had done the same, but her comms were hooked up to Blackwood. The faint sound of keys clicking tickled my ears.
“So, six months and a kid?”
The asshole nodded. “Wouldn’t surprise me if Cassie fucked the asshole who did the DNA test. Kamryn doesn’t even look like me, and she sure didn’t inherit the McDonald IQ.”
If she’d avoided spending time around McDonald, she was smarter than he thought. Arrogant and overbearing, he reminded me of my own father—and I’d ordered him a tombstone that said “In a better place now.” I wasn’t religious, but if there was a hell, I sure hoped he was burning there.
“What’s her full name?” Emmy asked. “Kamryn McDonald? We want to make sure we arrest the right person.”
“No, Kamryn Delacort. Part of the deal was that she took Cassie’s surname.”
The deal? Presumably a payoff had been involved. Go away quietly, and I’ll toss you a few bucks.
“Age?”
“Twenty-three.”
Yikes. He’d screwed around while wifey number one was pregnant?
I summed up the scenario. “Just so we’re clear, your daughter by a previous mistress is upset because you want to develop a pristine Indonesian island, and instead of raising an obscene amount of money to buy you out, she decided to kidnap two movie stars so someone else would demand your cooperation in return? ”
“That’s about the size of it.”
Man, I hated family drama, and this time, it wasn’t even my family. Without Marc’s involvement, I’d probably be on Team Kamryn.
“Super,” Emmy said. “Well, they sent us, so here’s how this is going to work. The Blackwood Foundation will buy the land from you for one dollar, and you’ll record a video apologising for your lack of research when it comes to wildlife and property development and promise to do better in future.”
McDonald snorted, and I took over.
“We’ll upload the video to Marc di Gregorio’s social media accounts, and everyone will live happily ever after.”
Except for me, obviously. I’d still be besties with my vibrator and hate myself after every disappointing hookup.
“Why the fuck would I want to do that?”
“Because if we don’t upload that video, we’re going to upload this one.”
I stood out of reach and hit “play” on my phone.
The lighting hadn’t been the best, but it was unmistakably McDonald fucking a young Thai boy in the ass.
I knew it; he knew it. And the child was clearly crying—a nice touch.
The colour drained from Lonnie’s face, and he made a lunge for me.
Emmy got in fast and shoved him back onto the couch.
“Down, boy.” She ducked as he swung a punch. “What was it you said earlier about leverage?”
“Fuck you.”
“What, you don’t like it when a woman comes prepared?”
“Nobody’s gonna believe it. You know what they can do with AI these days?”
“Sure, you can tell people we faked it, and perhaps some will even believe that. But plenty of others won’t, and everywhere you go, people will wonder if you’re really a paedophile. Although you probably won’t get out quite so much—I mean, I can’t see you being invited to the Met Gala again.”
“You’re bluffing. You don’t even have access to Marc di Gregorio’s social media accounts.”
That was the card he played? A two of spades? Keep digging, buddy.
“Firstly, we do have access,” I told him.
Marc hadn’t changed his email password in a decade, the dumbass.
Every so often, I nosed through his overflowing inbox while studiously avoiding the pinned message at the top addressed to me.
All I had to do was reset his BuzzHub password, and the whole world would see the video.
“And secondly, does it matter where we upload it? Maybe we’ll just email it to reporters on six continents. ”
“Make it seven,” Emmy suggested. “I’m sure there’s a bored naturalist in Antarctica who’d love to write a paper on the vagaries of human behaviour. Anyhow, this is a one-time-only deal. If we walk out of here, we won’t be back.”
Realisation began to dawn on McDonald. We might actually be serious.
“Look,” he started. “Kam won’t hurt anyone, I swear. She’s just trying to score points off her old man.”
“At this stage, we really don’t care.” Emmy stuck out her bottom lip and made an exaggerated sad face. “Nobody wants to see those cute monkeys die.”
“You little bitch.”
“I’m actually quite a big bitch, but hey, semantics. Are you ready to be a movie star?”
He glared at us with hate in his eyes before finally nodding, and it was moments like these that sparked joy in my cold, dark soul.
“Good. Here’s what you’re going to say.”
After more cursing and a vain attempt to leave, McDonald managed to record a passable statement, even though it took three tries because he kept getting overly emotional.
I saved the clip alongside the other video, and of course I backed up both to a murky corner of the cloud.
Was I worried about retaliation? Not so much.
I saw McDonald for what he was—a self-centred bully, but also a coward. And I knew how to handle bullies.
“My lawyers will be in touch with your lawyers,” Emmy said, and as a parting shot, she added, “If you consider reneging on our agreement, or if you ever start thinking about payback, remember we still have the video. I’ll rent a billboard in Times Square if I have to.”
I blew him a kiss as we walked out the door. Fucker.
The adrenaline began to dissipate as we rode down in the elevator, leaving a low-level buzz that barely masked my tiredness. But this wasn’t over yet.
“Are you coming back to West Papua?” Emmy asked.
I didn’t want to. No, I wanted to get on the jet, hotfoot it to Vegas, and help Marcel wrangle Thanksgiving turkeys because the closer I got to Marc, the more unsettled I felt.
But even with the videos safely in our possession, there still wasn’t a clear-cut end to this.
If we were right up against the end of the deadline, we’d have one option—release the “I’m sorry” video and hope both Lonnie McDonald and Wild Roots stuck to their sides of the bargain.
And criminals weren’t exactly famed for keeping their word.
McDonald could try to wriggle out of the agreement before the paperwork was completed, or Wild Roots could get spooked and kill the hostages instead of releasing them—why let them go and risk witness statements and e-fits?
And even if they set Marc free, success would encourage them to try the same trick again.
Of course, there was a chance the environmentalists were bluffing.
The blanks, Marc’s lack of terror, and the group’s relatively benign history suggested that was a possibility.
But I didn’t operate on possibilities. No, I wanted Marc safe and on a flight back to the US, and I wanted those fuckers getting intimately acquainted with the inside of a jail cell.
Or a hole in the ground—I wasn’t too bothered which one at this point.
And since we had a day in hand, the best way to achieve those goals was to find the kidnappers’ lair and surprise them. Only I couldn’t do the surprising.
“I’ll come, but in a strictly observational capacity.”
“Aw, you don’t want an awkward run-in with your ex?”
“Something like that.”
“Have you considered womaning up and just, I don’t know, talking to him?”
“Have you considered minding your own fucking business?”
“It’s honestly not that hard. I still work with all of my exes in some capacity. Hell, I even played bridesmaid at one of their weddings.”
“That’s my idea of a nightmare.”
“Nah, the nightmare part was when a bird stole the rings and muggins here got sent up a tree to retrieve them.”
“Are you serious?”
“It was that or shoot the creature down, but people frown on that kind of thing. Would you have used a bullet?”
“Not unless I intended to pluck the bird and eat it.”
I still hunted occasionally, but only for food. Posing with dead endangered species had been my father’s hobby, not mine. He’d definitely have shot the bird, and probably the tarsiers too.
“Fair enough,” Emmy said. “So, you want me to rescue Marc while you stand on the sidelines?”
My fists clenched involuntarily. I’d grudgingly learned to respect Emmy, but that didn’t make the idea of her getting up close and personal with the man I still loved any easier to swallow.
“Yes, that’s precisely what I want.”