Chapter 24
Daisy
The woman approaching in leggings and a billowy, waist-length tee could blend in as any young suburban mom, but as her long blonde ponytail swings beneath her solid black baseball cap, she reminds me of the actress who played Barbie.
She weaves her way through the cafe and a few heads turn, which I’ve heard isn’t ideal for an operative.
Perhaps she believes the black baseball cap draws less attention, but for this woman, that tactic is a fail.
Jake set up this lunch meeting with his colleague, saying that if a Sterling employee saw him meeting a woman at lunch, it might raise questions, but that if asked, I can just say I’m meeting a friend.
Given I eat lunch with male friends and think nothing of it, I thought he was showing his ass-backwards Southern colors, but now that I see his colleague, I better understand his position.
If these are the women KOAN hires, then ol’ Rhodes really didn’t stand a chance when they targeted him. Of course, he’s so happy these days that if you didn’t know about his girlfriend, you’d assume he’d developed a THC habit.
Brie doesn’t slow as she approaches, her sneakers silent on the café’s worn hardwood.
She bends for a hug, and I catch a whiff of floral perfume.
I raise my arm for a slow pat, wondering what the eff she’s up to, when she says into my ear, “Smile like you know me. And like me.” Her breath is warm against my cheek, and I force my lips into what I hope passes for genuine affection.
Then she backs away and takes the chair opposite.
I followed Jake’s advice and picked a table in the back, away from the windows, and selected the seat where I can see if someone I know enters the café.
I had to drive Jake’s car to get to this location, so the chances of someone from work entering are slim, but not a nonzero sum.
Still, there’s nothing suspicious about meeting a friend for lunch.
Brie Anderson lifts the utensils—wrapped in a paper napkin—unrolls it, and places it on her lap with the poise of a lady who lunches.
“I love your haircut,” she gushes so warmly I brush my fingers over my hair to remember what exactly I did with it today.
This woman isn’t what I was expecting. Maybe because Jake is so rugged and rough around the edges. He’s someone who could blend in when needed and become less recognizable with a clean shave or a haircut, but he’s strong and I can also easily imagine him in fatigues with a big gun and a scope.
“Thank you for meeting me.” She smiles while twisting to scan the room. Something tells me she’d prefer to be in my seat. “We order at the counter, right?”
I give a quick nod.
“Do you know what you’re getting?”
“I’m thinking about the iced mint-lavender tea and a BLT.”
“Excellent.” I go to pull out my wallet and she waves me off. “It’s on me,” she says, a shade too loudly. “Remember? I owe you from last time.”
I watch as she goes to the counter, but then check out the patrons, wondering who she’s performing for.
There’s a mom with a baby stroller who could double as Brie’s sister.
An older woman reading a book spread out on the table with a coffee or tea in a cup and saucer beside her.
And then the two men who definitely noticed Brie when she entered.
The one in a suit gets up and empties a tray into the trash and exits.
The guy remaining is glued to his phone, but it doesn’t take long to recognize the scroll and smile routine.
He’s on TikTok or something like that, wasting time.
Brie returns with our drinks. “They’ll call my name when the sandwiches are done. How are things going?”
“Fine,” I answer, unsure of what we’re doing.
Jake told me this was to touch base and that they have an update for me. I asked why they didn’t email it and he said Brie’s in the area and Hudson, his boss, preferred to play it this way.
Whatever. The crazy thing about all of this is that Rhodes hired these guys out of concern for my safety, but the deeper I get, it feels ridiculous.
I mean, yes, there was the dead body that was moved, but I don’t feel like I’m in danger.
At least, as long as I steer clear of the class-action lawsuit, Phillip’s counting on me building his next get-rich-quick scheme. He’s not going to hurt me.
If I insisted that KOAN back off, then Jake would be off on another gig and he’d miss out on the double-salary lotto prize.
I’m basically doing several things I probably shouldn’t do—all for money.
Brie sips from her straw, glancing one more time over her shoulder.
“It’s clear,” I say with an eyebrow raise, wondering who she thinks is tracking us.
She smiles and leans in.
To anyone who cared to observe us, I’m sure we look like two friends, maybe from college, who have since grown into different people.
Brie being the tall, sporty, cheerleader-type and me being the oddball friend who recently dropped the Goth wardrobe but is holding onto her collection of piercings with all her might.
And the funny thing is, I’m the one coming from the office.
I left my blazer in the car because it’s hot as balls, so to the casual observer, in my black jeans and white V-neck tee, I probably look like someone on her day off.
“Sterling Financial sent a lawyer to meet with the law firm out in LA.” Brie pulls apart a sugar packet, the paper crinkling between her manicured fingers.
“They shared more information and this law firm has determined there’s insufficient evidence to take the case.
They notified Noah. Without evidence of corporate malfeasance, the lawyers claim they don’t have a case, no matter how many names he accumulates. ”
Sugar granules scatter across the table’s surface.
It’s a result Uncle Alvin’s lawyer had predicted—and one reason I investigated. It’s not Phillip Sterling’s fault that there’s no case. I nod and take a drag on my straw, the mint hitting my tongue with an almost medicinal sharpness.
“That’s one law firm. It doesn’t mean no one will take it up. Noah’s still following leads.” She sweeps the sugar into a tiny pile with her fingertip. “I’ve been here in DC, asking around.”
This isn’t news to me. Jake told me about Noah and also about Brie.
“Did you find anything here?”
“Nothing definitive. The people who think little of Phillip Sterling also think little of crypto.”
The espresso machine behind the counter hisses to life, drowning out the soft jazz playing overhead. I wait for the noise to subside before responding.
“Not everybody thinks crypto’s legit.” I lean forward, lowering my voice. “Being the preferred method of payment by criminals and money launderers doesn’t help either.” And yes, I have joined a company that makes money off crypto but it’s not like I’m responsible for crypto existing.
Sitting here with Brie, discussing what’s beginning to appear to be a pointless effort, I can’t help but question what the hell I’m doing.
ARGUS has detractors, as any AI does, but Rhodes is a good guy.
Better the devil you know than the one you don’t, right?
I’m getting to know Phillip, but I don’t know him yet.
“The investigation into Jocelyn’s death has concluded.
I get the sense that if there was someone who might benefit from an insurance claim, the fire department might continue the investigation, but without an insurance claim, the chances of actual fraud are diminished.
I drank a beer with one of the firefighters on the scene and he shared that the county is strapped for resources. ”
And then there’s Jocelyn. Why has it been so easy to forget her? Is it because I didn’t know her? Is it because I have no evidence, and coming forward implicates myself in a potential crime? There’s definitely been a crime. Of some sort. I don’t have to speculate.
“We know there’s been foul play,” I say under my breath.
There’s no one sitting close enough to hear us, but I’m a horrible person to not be more concerned about Jocelyn than I am.
The woman died. Of course, it might not have been murder.
It’s conceivable Sterling found her body and panicked about the potential fallout, and his only crime is removing her from the scene of death.
“Have you talked to any of the police officers? Quinn said not much has been filed.”
“That’s true, but not unusual. The online record tends to be slim, especially in rural areas. The police officer that responded to the scene has been reassigned to another district, and I’m not entirely certain anyone else from the police department was assigned to the case.”
“Is that normal?”
“When budgets are lean. I imagine if the fire department suspected arson, then they would’ve assigned someone.”
The casual way she discusses resource constraints—like Jocelyn’s death is just another case file—makes my stomach twist. Maybe because that’s how I’m treating it.
“Have you checked to see if anyone has…” I let my words trail because what I’m about to say sounds like pure conspiracy.
“If there have been any donations or attempts to influence?”
There it is. I’m officially thinking like someone who believes money can buy silence about a woman’s death. When did I become this person?
“None we’ve tracked.” Brie’s matter-of-fact tone suggests she’s asked this question in dozens of other cases.
“This must be such a boring case for you.” The words come out more bitter than I intended. “Just another dead woman and another rich guy who might have covered it up.”
She sets down her drink and really looks at me for the first time since sitting down. “No, it’s not boring. And I can see this is eating at you.” Her voice drops the cheerful friend act. “UC work does this—makes you question who you are when you’re pretending to be someone else.”
I’m not really pretending to be anyone else, am I?
Right then, a young man with paint-stained fingers and tired eyes approaches our table. “BLT and the Green Goddess wrap?” His voice cracks slightly—college age, probably working three jobs to pay tuition.
Brie points to herself for the wrap, and he sets down our plates with the careful precision of someone who’s dropped food before. I catch his eye and mouth “thank you,” earning a quick smile before he retreats to the kitchen.
The interruption breaks whatever spell Brie was weaving. I unwrap my sandwich, suddenly self-conscious, hyper-aware of the loudness of the paper.
“It can be emotionally challenging,” Brie says, sounding like a therapist as I carefully check the contents of my sandwich, unsure if he pegged our table correctly and this is the BLT.
“You know, your instincts were right when you started this.”
I lower the slice of white bread onto the bacon and tomato, and rest my hand in my lap, waiting for Brie to check her order, but also processing what she’s saying.
“This isn’t the company I want to work for long term. That’s what you’re saying? Jake talked to you?”
He acted supportive of me last night, but then he called in reinforcements.
“No,” she says, “I’ve simply had training in this area. And experience.”
She scratches her nose with the tip of her nail, the touch so light it’s as if she’s being careful not to disturb the makeup on her porcelain complexion.
“No judgment,” she says, the words tweaking something inside me.
She’s not judging me. No, I’m judging myself, and that’s worse.
“One thing I’ve learned,” she peels the wrapper on her sandwich, finally, revealing a collard green wrapped concoction, “is that a shell company Sterling Financial has contributed to is pushing crypto-friendly legislation.”
“That’s expected.” Every company pushes legislation that benefits their industry.
“It is. It also confirms he’s in a league of …” She drops her sentence, focusing instead on her wrap.
“It’s not like he’s the devil. Or they’re devils,” I say, but even as the words leave my mouth, I realize I’m defending someone who I suspect has done horrible things. The contradiction sits like a lump in my stomach.
“Perhaps,” she says, studying my face. “But here’s something I’ve learned in this job—even the devil was once an angel.”
I think about Phillip’s generosity with bonuses, his genuine excitement about technology, the way he lights up talking about innovation…and his daughter. Then I think about the way he dropped Alvin Reed’s name and Jocelyn’s body being moved like a problem to solve rather than a person to mourn.
“I’m not sure Phillip Sterling was ever an angel.” But what about me? What am I becoming?
Outside, a delivery truck rumbles past, its engine vibrating through the café’s thin walls.
“That’s the thing about this work,” Brie says, her voice gentler now. “It makes you look too hard at everyone—including yourself. Oscar Wilde had it right. We are each our own devil.”
The quote hits differently when you’re sitting across from someone who knows what choices you’ve made. I set down my sandwich, appetite gone. “And we make this world our hell.”