Chapter 21
Ace
I realize I might've been able to prevent her from calling her brothers, but I knew I wouldn't be able to prevent her from going to California. It's why I'm sitting beside her in first class on the way to the Golden State.
I could say a lot of things, but I saw the resolution in her eyes when I didn't kiss her back. I know the rejection probably stung. She wouldn't have tried to kiss me if she thought there was a chance I wouldn't reciprocate. I know her to be a woman who doesn't take many risks, not counting her little trip to the spa earlier in the week.
Add on top of the news she just got about her sister, and I don't doubt the woman went from wanting to kiss me to get her mind off the bad news to hating me completely.
Giving her something she wanted at the moment would end up being seen as me taking advantage of her when the dust settled. I can be a jerk right now, but I'm not going to be an asshole she hates for the rest of her life.
I'm not so egotistical to think that she's pounding back glasses of white wine like she's at a frat party because of me but it doesn't make it any easier to watch.
My job is technically over. Kincaid asked me to help find Sadie Preston, and even though this is the worst-case scenario, she's been located .
I called him back, all but putting myself on the murder investigation because I just can't seem to distance myself from Cora.
I felt my own pain and regrets while witnessing her grief, and that may make me a glutton for pain. I went through my loss over Noah all alone, and I wouldn't wish that on anyone. Plus, I need more information. All arrows point to William Preston, Jr. as being the one who set Sadie's murder into motion, but we don't have anything concrete. The man has made it his life’s mission to keep his secrets hidden.
"Can I get another?" Cora asks, her words slow and coated with a haze of inebriation.
"I'm so sorry," the flight attendant says with a gentle smile. "You've reached the limit allowed by the FFA."
"Okay," Cora whispers, just accepting that there are rules in place.
There might be, but I'm not aware of any. I know alcohol on the plane has to be served by the airline and that pilots have an eight-hour bottle-to-throttle rule, but I'm not aware of any limits on customers so long as they aren't being unruly.
Whatever the flight attendant's reasoning, I'm grateful for it. The hour and a half between now and landing in San Diego won't give her enough time to sober up, but at least she won't have the chance to pound anymore back between now and then.
She hasn't spoken much to me outside of thanking me for making flight arrangements. I didn't explain to her that Cerberus's spending isn't something William can track, and it's best if he doesn't get suspicious about what she's up to.
He has to know she was in DC because she used her personal credit card, and if he's tracking her spending, then he's tracking her vehicle as well. So, with a little encouragement on my part, she left her cell phone and the entire contents of her purse, other than the things required to get on a plane and a few changes of clothes from her hotel room, behind.
Landing goes off without a problem because she fell asleep not fifteen minutes after her drink order was rejected. It killed me to watch the softness on her face transform, and it was nearly unbearable to watch a tear leak from her closed eye. Even in her sleep, she can't seem to escape the sadness.
***
"This isn't going to be what you're used to," I say when the cab pulls up outside of the hotel. "But we'll be safe here."
I hold out a ten to the man who opened her door before waiting for him to pull luggage from the trunk of the cab.
He thanks me as I press my palm to her back and urge her to enter the lobby of the hotel.
"I'm not some snobby bitch," she mutters, making me realize that she may not be flat-out drunk, but she isn't exactly sober either.
I bypass the front desk. Max made reservations, and in his infinite skill set, he has managed to send some form of Bluetooth code to my phone that will enable me to open the hotel room door without having to make contact with any staff.
That's a nifty little trick I haven't had access to even with ICE.
"We didn't get a key," she says once the elevator doors close. "Do you have a fuck-pad here?"
"A what?" I ask.
She waves her hand as if dismissing me. "Ignore me. I read it in a book."
I tilt my head as the doors open up on the fifth floor.
I want to ask her what kind of books she reads, but I have to refocus on turning her in the right direction when she begins to go left.
Getting into the room with the code on my phone works just as well as a keycard would have. The room, although a suite, is nothing like the one she had in DC. This is more for a family on vacation with its two separate bedrooms and the small common area attached to the kitchenette. Honestly, it's bigger than the studio apartment Cerberus put me up in, although the apartment has a few better amenities.
"Which room do you want?" I ask.
"Either," she says as she focuses on the sofa.
I know if she makes it to the couch, it'll be impossible to get her back up, so I turn her toward the bedroom to the left. She complained earlier about her back hurting, and that sofa doesn't look like it'll be comfortable to even sit on much less sleep off her white wine buzz.
"Can you call for turndown service?" she asks, her words a little slurred.
"No need," I say, reaching down and pulling back the blanket and top sheet. "It's done."
"There's more to it than that," she mutters, but doesn't stop her momentum moving forward.
She sits on the bed, her pretty face devoid of any makeup. She went into the bathroom at the apartment and came out with a fresh face that did nothing to hide the trauma she'd just gone through.
Her eyes remain bloodshot, her cheeks red and blotchy. I can't help but wonder if she's going to regret going out in public the way she did but, honestly, it's only natural for her thoughts to be elsewhere.
Plus, she’s gorgeous either way. I imagine she'd argue with me, not realizing it's the misogyny she's lived with all her life that has formed her opinions about how a woman should present themselves .
"This room isn't so bad," she says as she lies back, her hands floating over the sheet.
I pull her shoes off her feet a second before she tucks them under the blanket and then tug the top sheet and blanket over her body.
"Tomorrow will be a better day," she whispers. "Promise."
I don't argue with her, but I know for a fact that tomorrow will not be a better day. Tomorrow, we meet with someone about her sister's case. Although I told her that Sadie was murdered, I failed to mention that there was a calling card left behind by a serial killer hitman that several governmental agencies have spent the better part of a decade trying to track down.
I leave the bedroom, but not before moving the trash can closer to her. I don't know if she's the type to get over a binge drinking session by getting sick, but I know she has enough guilt over what has happened and she doesn't need it piled on by making a mess in the room.
I take a seat in the living room, wondering if I'm going to get the chance to sleep tonight.
There was an hour and a half between informing Cora about her sister and heading to the airport, making it after two in the morning now.
I don't have much that I can do right at this very moment. I didn't want to have to get ICE involved with this situation, but they're involved with the Full Deck Killer.
I've read about the case in the past, catching stories from agents working it on occasion, but never really paid much attention to it. I work in sex trafficking, and although Sadie had a weak link to Daydreamer's Spa and now has been murdered, there's not a strong enough link to think that the killer has any ties to sex trafficking.
Sadie's body was left with the two of hearts shoved into the bullet wound that ended her life .
Research on this man or woman is extensive even though it hasn't led to any arrests. It's believed that the hearts suit are connected to murders hired out by someone who once loved those they're paying to have killed. It strengthens the idea that we're looking in the right direction by focusing on William Preston Jr.
If it were a spade, then we'd look to a business associate. A club would've pointed us toward someone in their personal life. No diamonds have been found yet, so there isn't any speculation as to what one of those would mean. And, of course, all any department has is speculation. It's all circumstantial because no one has gotten close enough to even question a suspect, despite many agents thinking they're on the right track.
The closest they've gotten is solving a case by the person hiring the hitman confessing to hiring out the job, but the hitman wasn't disclosed. They swore that they had no idea who it was, and for the man to have stayed in operation for as long as he has, that guy was probably telling the truth.
They've used the information they've uncovered trying to set up a hit inorder to draw him in, but the man has never taken the bait.
The most anyone can hope to get out of this entire situation is William's confession.
Because catching the Full Deck Killer is impossible.