Chapter 27 Bianca
BIANCA
I don’t think Rouge has seen me.
Of course, if she has, she wouldn’t make it known.
It’s like her brain is made of ice. She always keeps things cool, even in the most stressful situations.
She isn’t wearing her club attire—the Elizabethan gown dripping in her red diamonds—but her street attire. A smart pants suit with her flaming red hair tied up into a neat bun. I almost wouldn’t recognize her but for her long, crimson nails that extend from her fingers like demonic claws.
A small half-wall separates the check-in area from a lounge with cushy red couches, so I duck behind it and listen in.
Rouge’s voice is layered with faux sympathy as she speaks with the cops.
“Yes, I’m a dear friend of Florian’s. He’s in the hospital now, and the doctors have promised he’ll make a full recovery. They may even be able to save his eye, though he may require a corneal transplant.”
Damn. She’s already lining up Jack’s organs. If his eye isn’t a match, I’m sure Rouge has an arsenal of them at her disposal. Mr. Rose can just pop a new one in, one that was plucked from the unwitting corpse of one of her workers.
“Excellent news, ma’am,” the cop next to her mumbles.
Rouge crosses her arms over her large bosom. “And please correct me if I’m wrong, but you say there were two people with him in the office when the accident occurred?”
The cop nods.
“Are you able to provide a description?”
“That information is strictly for the investigation, ma’am.”
She fakes a laugh. “Of course. Don’t worry. I’m not going to go all vigilante on you. I’m just wondering, as a concerned citizen, if there are any troublesome people I should be on the lookout for.”
The cop nods again, and Rouge reaches into her cleavage, pulls out a small baggie. Even from here, I can tell it holds a few of her red diamonds.
“Are you married, Officer?”
“Fifteen years in October,” the cop says.
“Congratulations.” Rouge reaches into the bag and pulls out one of the diamonds. “Perhaps your wife will be expecting something a little extra this year for such a milestone.”
The cop widens his eyes as he scans the contents of Rouge’s palm. “Is that a ruby?”
“A diamond, Officer. A red diamond. One of the rarest types. Worth well over the two months’ salary that young men are encouraged to put toward engagement rings for their beloved.”
The cop laughs nervously. “My wife’s ring is cubic zirconium, I’m afraid.”
Rouge lays a hand against her breast. “Goodness. Perhaps she’s due for an upgrade then.”
“Ma’am?”
Rouge leans into the officer’s ear and whispers something, depositing the diamond discreetly in his right pants pocket. The cops face reddens, but then he steadies his face as Rouge steps back.
“Do we have a deal, then?”
The cop looks from side to side and then nods.
“The descriptions of the perpetrators?”
“We don’t know if they are perpetrators, ma’am. All we know is they’re witnesses who stepped out after the incident.”
“People who have nothing to hide don’t leave the scene. Tell me who they were.”
“A man and a woman.”
“Go on.”
“The man? Tall, broad shouldered. Dark hair, medium complexion. Stubble and a solid jaw. The woman, petite and slender. Pale, blond hair.”
“What were they wearing?”
“The lady was in a bathrobe. The man was in leisurewear.”
Rouge nods slowly. “Do you have a picture?”
The cop pulls a piece of paper out of his pocket and hands it to Rouge.
Her eyebrows twitch ever so slightly.
“Do you recognize them?”
“I’m afraid not.” Rouge folds the printout and tucks it in her purse. “Do you have names?”
“Nothing for the man. The room was booked under the woman’s name, but we’re pretty sure it’s a pseudonym. Whitney Royale.”
Rouge clasps her hands. “Fascinating.”
She’s figured it out. My name comes from the Italian word for “white.” My father named me that because I was born with a full head of hair so light blond that it was almost white.
The name Whitney shares a similar root. I always thought it was a clever little puzzle, but now I’m realizing I should have chosen a name completely at random.
Rouge would have recognized my face from the picture anyway.
No matter how she found out, though, my stomach is doing somersaults.
Because Rouge now knows.
She doesn’t know everything. She has no way of knowing we’re aware of the organ harvesting.
But she knows that Harrison and I are working together. And that we know Mr. Rose is a dangerous man. She’ll probably go straight to Aces and review the security footage, where she’ll connect the dots between Harrison and the Ace of Clubs.
She already knows I was hanging out in the ladies’ restroom for a long time the night of the seventeenth.
And there it is.
As soon as she puts it all together, we’re fucked.
The clock is ticking.
Without drawing attention to myself, I slink over to the elevator leading to the parking garage, Harrison’s and my suitcases in tow, and get in.
I throw the luggage in the trunk and then careen out of the garage—breaking through the barrier bar at the exit—and make my way as quickly as possible to the Caterpillar Hotel.
I pray I make it there in time.