Chapter Thirty
In which we learn that True Crime shows can be surprisingly helpful.
Wallace…
I can feel Scarlett watching me, a little frown creased between her eyebrows. She wants to comfort me and if I could, I’d shut this laptop, take her into the bedroom, and get back between her thighs. I could make us forget everything else outside of that bed.
Murder Mittens abandoned Scarlett to sit on the conference table. Unfortunately, her arse is planted firmly on a pile of documents I must sort through.
“Move, MM. I need those papers.” She gives me a well-bred sneer and licks her paw.
“Murder Mittens, come over here immediately!” Scarlett half-rises from the couch and the beast lifts its furry arse off my files, moving a fraction to the left. Her gold-green eyes don’t leave mine, waiting to impart the secrets of the universe or just wanting another can of salmon from the galley.
My tie is strangling me and I loosen it slightly, returning to the reports that Uncle Alec sent me from London.
Scarlett slides into the seat across from me.
She hands me a red marker. “How about drawing it out on the glass tabletop so you can see how the-” she hesitates.
Talking about diagramming my father’s attempted murder is a balls move.
“So you can visualize it more easily? I remember Dad saying that knowing how they did it can lead you to who did it.”
“That’s a good idea, wife.” The look of relieved happiness on her face is worth having to recreate the moment where a bullet entered my father’s chest.
“According to the trajectory, there’s only two locations that would make sense for the shooter.” I’m sketching out a rough outline of the street in front of Dad’s building. “The building right across the street, it would have to have been the fifth or sixth floor.”
“Okay, that sounds easier to access,” Scarlett’s abandoned her chair and she’s sitting cross-legged on top of the conference table. “Multiple rooms, two floors.”
“Aye, but those floors are leased by a high-tech security firm,” I say, running my finger over my lower lip.
“So harder to access, but never impossible in our world,” she agrees. “What about the other location?”
“The building next to it, still under construction. With the position, though…” I sketch it out on the table, “the shooter couldn’t get the angle unless he-”
“-Or she,” Scarlett reminds me. “Remember Russo? She nearly broke my arm and she slipped into the bathroom with Marlena because your guards were looking for a male threat. Clearly, we can be murderous dirtbags just as well as a man can.”
“I support women rising through the ranks of whatever criminal enterprise they wish,” I agree dryly. “In the second location here, the shooter would be forced to balance on a steel girder on the exterior of the building to take the shot.”
“It’s a given that your people already pulled any camera footage in the area,” she says.
“Yes, there’s construction folk on the building site on that floor…
” I pull up some of the grainy images on my laptop.
“Here’s the girders…” The long steel beams dangle horizontally from a crane on the side of the construction site.
“Time stamping the…” I rub my forehead. “...the shooting, there’s two men in the general location who could take the shot.
One’s empty-handed…” I enlarge the image, though it dinnae help much. “The other is holding a drill.”
Scarlett leans closer, her citrus and vanilla scent soothes me.
“I know next to nothing about long-range weapons. I can shoot a gun with some accuracy, but that’s it.
Still… Look at how he’s holding the drill.
A drill has a standard hand grip, see how his index finger looks higher than the others?
Aren’t there sniper rifles that can be broken down in seconds?
"I was watching this True Crime episode last month; they talked about a new rifle that uses a short barrel and still has superior accuracy.” She points to the drill again. “I know we can’t get better resolution on the footage we have, but can Xenia sharpen the image?”
“I’ll send it to her now.” I’m focused on the screen, and I nearly miss the hesitant, hopeful look on her bonnie face. I should praise her. It’s a good idea.
“While you’re waiting for Xenia,” she says, “Maybe you could sit with me for a minute? You’re so stiff, your shoulders are up around your ears.” She wiggles her fingers invitingly. “No training in massage therapy but a lot of natural talent.”
I must go through the analysis that Uncle Alec sent. It covers the statistical likelihood of which crime family would be suicidal enough to go after my father.
“Not now, but thank you.” I look back at my screen, not wanting to see her disappointment.
Scarlett…
It’s a short flight from Edinburgh to London, but after our late night of fire and sex, the sun’s already creeping over the horizon as we land.
Wallace is already back on the phone, speaking tersely into his headset as we head for The Clinic.
Waiting for him to disconnect, I leap into the brief gap as he dials another number. “The Clinic. Does it have a name?”
“No, it’s an anonymous medical center for our type,” he says, eyes still on his phone. “Regular people don’t know about it, the place doesn’t look like a hospital.”
He said don't and doesn’t, instead of dinnae. God, I miss his Scottish accent.
“Don’t all the competing crime organizations just rush in and shoot the place up when there’s an enemy there?”
“There’s an ironclad treaty,” he says, “if we want world-class care, we have to share nicely.”
“That’s very well-behaved of everyone,” I say. He gives me a distracted smile before starting the next call.
I stare out the window as the ubiquitous black bulletproof SUV takes us through London, my husband’s low, urgent tones as my soundtrack.
“Wallace!”
Sorcha hurries across the room to wrap her arms around him, and he dips his head, hugging her tightly.
“I’m so sorry, Mum. What’s his condition now?” They get lost in complicated medical jargon with a scrubs-clad surgeon who looks like he’s ready to fall asleep standing up.
Folding my sweaty hands, I look awkwardly around the room until a very tall man approaches me. “Scarlett? I’m Alec Davies, Alastair’s best friend, MacTavish-adjacent and Wallace’s godfather.” As he introduces himself, I instantly recognize the trademark MacTavish Green eyes and the height.
“Hello, it’s nice to meet you. Do I call you Alec, or Mr. Davies, or Don of the Davies-”
He cuts me off, laughing, but kindly. “As it happens, I am your uncle by marriage, so Uncle Alec is fine, if you’re up to it.”
“Thank you,” I say. “I’m an American orphan with no family except for my best friend Morgan and Murder Mittens here.” He eyes MM, who’s wrapped around my shoulders like a furry parrot. “Now, though, I’ve been gifted with an avalanche of family.”
Don’t cry, you idiot! When did I get so weepy and emotional? Morgan would be disgusted with me.
“Yeah, so that’s a bunch of unnecessary information,” I babble on. “How is Wallace’s dad? What can you tell me?”
Now that I have a good look at him, Alec is clearly beat to crap. His suit has what looks like coffee stains on his white shirt and his tie’s been ripped off and left somewhere. He may have dark circles under his eyes, but they’re still glowing a poisonous green. This man is pissed off.
“Alastair’s in stable condition. There were two bullets, one entered his chest a fraction above his heart,” he runs his hand through his hair in a tired, practiced motion.
“The other bounced off a rib and exited out his back. He was in surgery for three hours to extract the bullet wedged in his chest.”
“Scarlett, come meet my mother,” Wallace’s hand is on my back briefly before he leans into a fierce hug with Alec. Their sorrow is so palpable that I have to turn away.
Sorcha is waiting with a tired smile. “Ma’am, I’m so sorry to be meeting you this way,” I ask. “Can I get you something to eat? Coffee?”
I’m enveloped in her warm embrace and for a moment, it almost feels like my mother’s here. The same softness and comfort, even a little, soothing hum like Mom always did.
You’re here for them, Scarlett. Pull it together.
“No, I’ve been fed and watered, almost against my will.” She smiles tiredly.
“Understood.” I squeeze her hands before letting go. “There’s always that desire to do something but it doesn’t change how you’re feeling, does it?”
“Exactly.” Her eyes are glinting with a sheen of tears.
Wallace and his uncle are talking in hushed tones, it’s clear they’re barely holding on to their rage. There’s a lot of short, clipped sentences and gritting of teeth. He’s taken out his lighter, flicking it on and off. I’m not sure he knows he’s doing it.
“I wouldn’t presume to overstep,” I say hesitantly. “But could you get some sleep, now that Wallace is here? I could see if there’s a room here where you could rest?”
Sorcha sleeps for a few hours while Wallace and Alec go over all their reports together. There’s room service here in this expensive gangster hospital and a chef on duty, so I can’t even go down to the vending machine to bring them a cup of terrible coffee.
The room is more like a suite, with a main area for family, where there’s couches with lots of pillows in soothing colors and a long table covered in computer equipment and printouts.
Wallace’s father is lying in an attached room, his bed surrounded by medical equipment.
Sorcha refused to sleep unless she could be there with him, so they set up a big recliner for her next to Alastair’s bed.
“I hear that you came up with the theory that the drill on the construction site was actually a rifle,” Alec says approvingly. He’s being very nice, but when he narrows those eyes, I’ll bet grown men wet themselves.
“Did you get the enlarged image back?” I ask.
“Xenia’s working on it by adding multiple layers of the same image,” Wallace says. “She seems confident that we’ll get a clear shot.”
His grim expression softens as he takes my hand. “I am a mannerless bastard. I haven’t brought you over to greet my father.”
“I would love to,” I smile.
I remember being pinned in my broken seat, twisted in the metal and looking at my father’s poor, bloody face, his blank eyes…
and I didn’t recognize him. I held on to his body, crying and begging him to come back.
My dad was larger than life, with a booming laugh and always a smile for me.
It was unimaginable that anything could strike him down.
There were sirens and people shouting, the creak of twisted steel, but all I could hear was the lack of Dad’s voice.
It’s the silence that’s terrifying. Maybe Wallace is feeling it, too.
Alastair is covered in tubes and wires, his chest heavily bandaged, but he looks large and intimidating, like he’s ready to open his eyes, sit up and start barking orders.
“Dad,” Wallace’s voice is unbearably gentle. “I’m here, Scarlett is with me. We’ll look after Mum. Do find your way back soon.”