19. Zoe
19
ZOE
“Strauss, I’m hoping you have better news than last time,” comes Duchovny’s matter-of-fact tone. “Were you able to gather something more substantial for the investigation? Might I also add that we have the update briefing in three days. The board is going to expect some type of results. What do you have so far?”
I’m dazed and exhausted, trying to cobble together a proper answer. I’m still in the hotel room I’ve been sharing with Gallagher, sitting on the side of the bed with the phone to my ear. In his absence, the only thing I could think to do was focus on the case. Concentrate on my investigation and do my due diligence by calling Duchovny for another update.
But as he poses his questions and demands more evidence, I find my throat going dry. The talking points I had outlined so clearly in my head begin to jumble, mixing themselves up like a mental version of Scrabble.
“Well? What is it that you have, Strauss? You know my schedule is airtight. I don’t have time to waste.”
“I… we…” I swallow and try again. “I’ve managed to plant a couple hidden cameras in the lounge of the underground casino. We’ll be able to get the direct evidence we need that connects Boone to everything that’s been going on.”
Duchovny makes a sound with his throat that’s a cross between a hum and a grunt. It’s not an encouraging sound, but more so one that tells me he’s hardly impressed.
“It’s only a matter of time before we catch something on video and audio. That lounge is where all the VIPs guests have been watching the shows Benz’s girls have been putting on. They then select which ones they’re interested in and go to private rooms. That’s without even mentioning all the illegal gambling and betting going on during the tournament. Boone has raked in millions already and the tournament’s barely halfway over.”
“Yes, well, that may be, Strauss, but I expected more. You promised you could get Boone in the act. You can bust him in the act of trafficking or drug dealing.”
My insides twist almost painfully. “I can get him. I mean I might. I’ve told him I want in on his scheme. I want to entertain some of his clientele myself. Tonight is the night I’m supposed to have my first client. I’ll need backup.”
“And you’ll have it the moment you need it. You have the code. You dial that and we’ll be alerted you’re in deep water. The local PD will be there within minutes.”
…but what if I don’t have minutes?
I’m silent, which only seems to agitate him further.
“This investigation was your crown jewel, Strauss. You know the rest of the board wasn’t going to greenlight this until I stepped in and advocated for you. In fact, that seems to be a common occurrence with your career—you screw up and I’m there to pick up the pieces.”
I stand up from the bed on a pulse of anger. “I haven’t screwed up! I’ve been one of the best agents under your purview and you know it, Duchovny!”
“Your work may be solid most of the time, Strauss, but that doesn’t negate the mountain of baggage you’ve always come with. Let us not forget that I got you the medical waiver for your bipo?—”
“I’ll land Boone!” I snap irritably. “I’ll do what’s necessary tonight to bust him and everyone working with him.”
Duchovny hardly sounds convinced when we hang up. I’m left as on edge as before the phone call, possibly worse. I called Duchovny because I was hoping it would distract from the mess I’ve found myself in.
It seemed easier than dealing with the aftermath of my blowup with Ozzie.
As it turns out, it’s only made it worse. Rather than offering even a crumb of praise at the hidden camera I’ve stashed in the lounge, Duchovny decided it wasn’t enough. He was looking for more so he could impress the supervisory board.
That was part of what always frustrated me about Duchovny. Other than continually throwing things in my face like my bipolar disorder, he cared about climbing the bureau’s ladder more than anything. He only cared about special agents that would make him shine and look good. The moment you were no longer useful was the moment he was ready to throw you under the bus.
An inkling deep down told me that was my inevitable fate with him—the next time I displeased him, he was cutting the cord. He was going to turn on me and throw me under the bus like he had done to so many others.
Including Tameka Braun, my mentor.
I haven’t forgotten about how he’d gone behind her back when working a case and stolen the spotlight. He’d submitted sensationalized evidence to the board that she was incompetent and insufficient on the field. She was no longer adept at her job.
The board ruled that she could no longer be an active special agent and she was to be reassigned to a desk job.
Tameka chose to retire early with pride rather than let Duchovny and the others ruin what was left of her reputation.
I’m next.
I’m the next Black female special agent being put on the proverbial altar to sacrifice. All while Duchovny will come out squeaky clean and spotless, possibly even with a promotion. He’s setting me up to either take the fall if this investigation turns out to be a disaster, or if it’s a success, he’ll claim it even happened in the first place because he advocated for it.
I cover my face with my hands and attempt to steady my breaths. I became an FBI agent because I wanted to hunt down men like Boone and it seemed like the only possible direction I could take what felt like an otherwise meaningless life in.
Being a federal agent is my entire identity.
It’s all I have.
I’ve never stopped to consider how… completely devastating that is until this moment. Probably because I’ve been so hyper-focused on my work and obsessed with taking Boone down that I never stopped to think about it.
But what did I plan to do if I did succeed in taking him out? Was I just going to spend the rest of my life fixating on one case to the next?
Ozzie said I pushed him away because he learned too much about me. He got too close and I became ashamed he found out about my disorder.
Alone in the tortuous silence of our hotel room, I admit to myself that he was right. That was exactly what I was doing and what I was so used to doing in my life.
My mind travels back to the moment I’d even found out. It was months after Zani’s death and I was spiraling. I was skipping classes, failing midterms, getting into loud screaming matches with anyone who I felt challenged me. I rarely slept and I always had so much adrenaline going that I couldn’t rest.
It was around this time that my college boyfriend cheated on me. I was too intense and erratic for him and so he checked out of the relationship. We broke up and I decided I could sate my needs with casual encounters, no matter how quick and fleeting.
The last straw came one afternoon when I had a breakdown at my parent’s house. I came home for the weekend like I so often did at the time and found the house in shambles. Dad was gone. Mom was passed out. The place was trashed after another visit from loan sharks, and something inside me snapped.
I thought about Zani as a little girl—and even myself—and how we’d spent years in this vicious cycle. We’d begged them to get help; we pleaded for them to love us enough to walk away from their vices.
But it was never going to happen.
I screamed at the top of my lungs and punched at the mirror in the hall. The broken glass webbed out in jagged lines and blood dripped from my split knuckles. Then I went on a rampage, where I destroyed what was left of everything in the house. I wound up sobbing on the front lawn and looking up at the sky, begging Zani for forgiveness.
The neighbors called the cops for what was the third time that week. Except this time I was the cause. I was the one the medical professionals were almost about to put on a psychiatric hold.
My psychiatrist believes I was triggered by the intense grief I felt losing Zani, though there’s a possibility I was predisposed hereditarily.
When I joined the FBI a few years later, I was almost disqualified. It was Duchovny who pulled strings and got me a medical waiver, arguing I was stable enough that my condition posed no danger and didn’t impair my judgment.
I’d been obsessed with my FBI career from that moment on.
Maybe because it was the only thing I had going for myself. Maybe because if I turned my attention on anything else, I would remember how empty, hollow, and alone I was…
I sigh, sliding my phone and wallet into the back pocket of my jean shorts, and I head for the door.
Ozzie’s only been gone for half an hour. He couldn’t have gotten far, right?
I take a taxi to the Velocity Garage in hopes Louie’s going to tell me Ozzie’s come by to return his Screaming Eagle, or better yet, if I were to run into him doing so.
But neither are the case. Louie tells me he’s seen no sign of Ozzie.
“I told him he could keep the bike as long as he wants. The King’s are good for it.” He flashes me a friendly grin thinking he’s helping me out when really he’s told me Ozzie could be anywhere. He could even be riding back to Pulsboro on the bike, planning to return it sometime in the future.
I walk out of the bike shop garage in disappointment, realizing I’ll have to press on with my investigation without him. I’ll be going into tonight alone and can’t blame anyone but myself. I’m the one who made a mess of things like always.
The fifth round of the tournament begins with a bang. Boone’s gives a speech to the remaining players, reminding them how close they are to the big pot at the end. A cool twelve million dollars, all theirs should they place first.
I scan the game floor in search of Ozzie and don’t see him anywhere. He always strands out with his dozens of tattoos, mohawk, and permanently crooked grin. As I search for him, I can almost imagine him among the others, his gaze meeting mine with a reassuring wink.
Something deep inside me aches. Except it’s more so the absence of that something, as if I’m suddenly acutely aware there’s a piece of myself missing.
I’m not sure what to call it or what it could possibly be.
I just know that Ozzie being gone makes the ache worse. It makes me feel uneasy and unlike myself, even as I’m supposed to be venturing into the most dangerous part of my investigation yet.
Benz spots me on the floor and barks at me to start serving.
“Boone told me about you wanting to work the private rooms,” he says low enough so I’m the only one who could hear him. “I was sure you were the rat, but if you’re going to be fucking for pennies, I guess I was wrong. Hurry up and get these drinks out or you’ll fall behind!”
I rush to do that, balancing a large tray of drinks on my arm so that I can deliver them to the correct tables. The fifth round begins and everyone in the lounge is engrossed by the gameplay. Their eyes are glued to the monitors showing the game live at each table.
I wait until I’m certain no one’s paying attention and then I check the spot where we’ve placed the hidden camera. My palm slides along the underside of the Aztec ornament as discreetly as I can, while still pretending I’m wiping down a sticky and abandoned table. I feel all over the place for it, but it’s nowhere to be found.
The little device the size of a popcorn kernel is gone .
An instant cold chill pours over me, paralyzing me on the spot. I can barely keep the shock of it from bleeding into my expression.
“There she is!” Boone’s voice booms above the rest of the racket in the lounge. He’s approaching from behind with a cigar smoldering in his mouth.
I spin around from the table I’m wiping down and almost knock over the empty glasses on the table.
“Your boyfriend’s been a no show for this round,” he says. “I hope he realizes that means he’s disqualified—and of course, there’ll be consequences.”
“I… I’m not sure where he is. We haven’t spoken all day.”
Boone cackles, smoke hazing between us. He looks at the other two men he’s with. On his left is Carlito Estrada. On his right is a man I don’t recognize. He’s of average height with a number of visible tattoos, ear-length golden brown hair, and distinctly gaunt cheeks, like he’s gone far too long without a good meal. He looks maybe only a few years younger than Boone, though he seems a lot less jovial. His expression is ambiguous, his eyes dark.
“So there is trouble in paradise!” Boone exclaims. “I suspected after last night things were going south between you two. Though can’t say I blame Oz—maybe he didn’t want his girl banging all the VIPs in the lounge. Are you ready for tonight, doll?”
My gaze swings from Boone to Estrada and then to the last man. I’m still thrown off by the hidden camera being gone, and the fact that Ozzie has disappeared too only unsettles me more. Are these things connected and I’m already in deep shit?
“Yes, of course,” I say, keeping my act up. “I told you I needed the extra cash, didn’t I?”
“That’s good news then because I want to introduce you to someone special.” Boone gestures to the man on his left who I’ve never seen any other night of the tournament. “Meet Nathaniel Rollins. He’s a very special guest who’s come a long, long way. I told him I’d show him a good time tonight and what better way to do that than to offer him our newest girl?”