Fink

Chapter 14 Sydney

Sydney

After some cajoling and assurances that she wouldn’t do anything stupid, Sydney finally convinced Fink to get into the shower. Not that she could talk, but he stunk a little. She had at least cleaned her face last night. He was marinating in Mitchell’s guts. When he got done, she’d wash up.

While she wasn’t the best cook in town, she knew a thing or two about stains. Someone who had ample boobage like she had dropped a bunch of gunk on her blouse. Out of necessity, she’d gotten pretty decent at stain removing. Otherwise, she’d never be able to keep a wardrobe.

While Fink scrubbed Mitchell off his skin, Sydney did the same to his suit. The material was lovely. It was an expensive suit. This wasn’t from Macy’s. It was high-end. Burning the attire would be such a waste.

Hopefully, this outfit lived another day—if it survived her budget washing machine.

Standing over her sink with a large bowl of ice-cold water, she worked peroxide and bar soap into the blood marring the suit jacket. Determination consumed her as she concentrated on getting out the offensive stain.

“Out, damn spot.” She channeled her inner Shakespeare and giggled to herself.

She was far too amused with laundry. If stabbing her boss the night before and immediately fucking the guy who had beat him about the head wasn’t enough to convince her she had a screw or seven loose, this moment certainly had.

She was out of her mind, but she’d never felt happier and freer. Sydney never wanted this to end.

Bing-bong.

She froze.

The doorbell.

Glancing over her shoulder, she bit her bottom lip. What time was it? Why would anyone come to her door at this hour? Whatever one it was?

She glanced at the oven and noted the time was well into the afternoon, almost three. Okay, so not a completely unreasonable hour.

The police. That was quick. Wasn’t it?

Blowing out a breath, she calmed herself. This was her moment of truth. Would she crack under the pressure?

Taking a dish towel, she dried her hands. “Coming,” she called as the water in the shower turned off.

She glanced toward the small hallway as she exited the kitchen. The door opened.

She paused in complete awe of her first glimpse of Fink without his makeup. He was tall and lean. She’d already known those things. Decorative tattoos covered his chest and arms. On the side of his neck, which had been painted black the previous night, was a large clover.

Was he Irish? She made a mental note to find that out at another time.

She bit her bottom lip when their gazes met.

Her heart leaped into her throat, and her stomach was all aflutter. Her pussy clenched. With a dangerous edge and sharp angles to his features, he was to die for. His eyes magnificently combined colors that could best be described as hazel.

He was gorgeous.

Bringing his index finger to his lips, he ducked into the bedroom wearing only a towel.

Filled with new resolve and quite parched, she scurried across the room to the front door. She tossed the towel over her shoulder, closed her eyes, and smoothed her hands down her front.

Now or never.

Taking the knob in her hand, she twisted and opened her eyes and the door.

“Can I help you?” she asked the two gentlemen on her front stoop.

While they didn’t exactly match, their suits were similar. Tan and brown jackets over crisp white shirts and dark ties. Both wore serious expressions as their gazes swept her up and down.

“Hi, I’m Detective Ken Morris,” said the stout man with thinning hair and a mustache.

He held up his wallet, which had a badge inside it.

“And this is Detective Jerome Hendrix.” He gestured to the taller, darker man beside him, who also showed his credentials.

“We’re looking for a Miss Sydney Cassidy.”

“That’s me,” she said, making sure she was wide-eyed and innocent. Maybe a little curious.

“We’re sorry to bother you,” said Detective Hendrix.

No bother at all. I was only ogling my murder buddy. That could wait.

“If it’s okay with you, we’d like to talk to you about Mitchell Grant,” Hendrix explained.

Her heart raced inside her chest. Nerves vibrated beneath her skin. She shifted her weight slightly and planted a fist on her hip to hide the shaking. Doing her best to appear pissed off but calm, she furrowed her brows. “What about him?”

“May we come in?” Detective Morris asked.

She glanced over her shoulder. Was Fink visible? She wasn’t sure if that was part of the plan. They hadn’t discussed whether his presence should be known or not, but she decided against allowing them entrance. “No. I don’t really have much to say about my former boss.”

“Former?” Detective Hendrix quirked a brow.

She nodded and folded her arms over her chest. “Yeah. I resigned last night. That place is toxic as hell.”

The two men exchanged a glance.

“Nancy, the office busybody, spread a rumor that I was sleeping with Mitchell.” She regretted the words as soon as they left her lips. She wasn’t supposed to give them details. Vague! She was supposed to be vague.

“Rumor?” Detective Morris repeated.

Sydney nodded. How was she going to get out of this? The finger wasn’t supposed to be pointed at her. Did she make herself a suspect?

Think.

“Yeah,” she huffed, desperately trying to lie—but wait? She didn’t have to. Fink’s instructions were for her to be as honest as possible.

Internally, she nodded to herself and regrouped.

“I was his secretary—whatever you want to call it. I think my official title was personal assistant. The fifth one, I might add. I stayed on the longest, but anyway.”

Morris scribbled in his tiny notebook while Hendrix studied her.

Keep it to the truth.

“That guy was a complete and total creep. He knocked up one of his side pieces and his wife within the same month.” She snorted and rolled her eyes in disgust. “Not to mention the woman he paid to have an abortion.”

“Side piece?” Morris repeated.

“He had three of them.” Sydney sighed. “I had to send them flowers and gifts and make sure his calendar didn’t conflict. Let me tell you, scheduling ultrasounds so they didn’t overlap was daunting. It was harder than my actual job.”

Once again, the men exchanged looks. Hopefully, that was a good sign.

“Do you know the names of these side pieces?” Morris asked. The words sounded awkward on his tongue. Obviously, it wasn’t a term he was accustomed to using.

“Not all of them. Just the one he knocked up. Kristen Spencer, his yoga instructor.”

Morris wrote in his tiny notebook.

“I was well aware he was a shithead. I would never sleep with that.” No. Her type was far more murderous, apparently.

She bit back her amusement and kept speaking. “But the office gossip.” She shook her head in disgust.

Returning to the moment, she took a deep breath. Why was she talking to these men again? Cops. Right. They were the police investigating the murder she had taken part in.

Focus.

“Why would Mitchell not being able to keep it in his pants bring the police to my door?”

Detective Hendrix smoothed down his tie. “One of your coworkers found Mr. Grant dead in his office last night.”

Sydney opened her eyes wide as saucers and covered her gaping mouth as she gasped in shock. She had to sell it, but not too hard. “What?”

“He was murdered,” Detective Morris said flatly.

No shit, Sherlock.

“By whom?” she asked. “Why?”

“That’s what we’re trying to figure out,” said Detective Hendrix.

Blinking rapidly, she did her best to summon tears as she once again looked past them. “A-a-are you sure?”

“That he’s dead?” asked Hendrix.

She nodded.

“Absolutely,” said Morris.

She leaned against her door. “Dead,” she murmured.

“We’re just hoping to piece together what happened last night.”

Staring off as vacantly as she could, she counted in her head so that it would seem like she was in shock but thinking. “We had our office Halloween party. I arranged the catering and the decorating,” she explained. “Then Nancy told me the rumor, and I left.”

“You didn’t see Mr. Grant at all?” asked Morris, who continued to scribble.

She shook her head. “He was in his office.”

“Alone?” Hendrix asked.

Still keeping her focus on the streetlamp at the opposite side of the parking lot, she chewed on her lip. There was a missing cat poster on it. That was new.

“Uh.” The objective was to cast suspicion on others.

Who should she point to? His wife? One of his girlfriends? No. That was terrible. They were about to be single mothers. She couldn’t do that to them. Maybe his hookup that delivered the cocaine?

She glanced around and wrung the towel in her hands. Lowering her chin, she fixated her attention on the floor. “I shouldn’t be talking about this.”

“About what?” Morris asked.

Lifting her head, she took a deep breath. “Mitchell got a delivery.”

“Of?” Hendrix asked.

“I can’t be sure, but it wasn’t from the mailman or FedEx. No one official.”

“What was it?” Detective Morris pressed.

She pursed her lips, attempting to give the impression she was conflicted about what she was about to reveal.

“Ms. Cassidy, telling us the truth will save you a lot of stress in the future,” Morris urged.

Fat chance, but she had to say something.

Ha! If they wanted the truth, she’d give it to them. Frowning, she once again shifted her stance. “I was his assistant. He got these packages well before I worked for him.”

Hendrix nodded. “We understand.”

“I’m pretty sure it was drugs,” she whispered.

The men’s expressions were blank—they knew this already.

“I’m not saying he was an addict, because he ran the company well, but he definitely got a lot of stuff brought to him.”

“Do you have a name?” Morris asked.

“Not on me,” she said honestly. “But it’s at the office. When I quit last night, I left everything there. You have my permission, if you require it, to search my desk. Anything you need to catch whoever did this to Mitchell.”

Morris continued to write in his book.

“What did he look like? This delivery guy?” Hendrix asked.

She shook her head. “I didn’t see him. I was busy with the party.” She screwed her features into an expression of concern.

Morris nodded and flipped his notebook closed. He glanced to Hendrix and gave him a brief nod. “We’re good here.”

Hendrix dug into his pocket. From it, he withdrew a business card, held it between his fingers, and offered it to her. “If you can think of anything else, give us a call.”

She accepted it and nodded. “Of course.”

“Thank you for your time,” Morris said before turning on his heel.

As the two men walked down the small path toward the parking lot, she closed her door and collapsed against it.

She’d done it. Sydney had survived questioning by the police after a murder. She deserved a damn cookie and a gold star.

Peering at her bedroom door, she cocked her head. She would settle for her murder buddy. Maybe they could become more.

Murder fuck buddies, perhaps?