Chapter 47
Harrison
Only two kinds of men cause this level of eye twitching at the LAPD.
America’s Most Wanted.
And me.
LAPD.
Manhattan PD.
At this point, I’m basically building a nationwide network of deeply annoyed law enforcement professionals.
Along with a few dozen pawn shop owners.
And one sanitation supervisor who claims he’s doing all he can.
I don’t believe him.
In fact, I don’t believe any of them because it’s been weeks and, hello?
Still no ring.
I let out a slow breath and press two fingers to my temple while soothing elevator music actively destroys my blood pressure.
After the way things ended at the airport, I’m not showing up in Iceland empty-handed.
Not until I prove I’m the man who fights for her.
Her person. Whatever the hell that means.
Her ride or fucking die.
No matter what.
She has to know that.
Which means:
No ring.
No Ava.
So here I am.
On hold for nearly… I check my watch. An hour and a half?
How is it that every time I call, my wait gets longer?
Are they fucking with me?
Because if they’re trying to wear me down, joke’s on them.
I’m not going anywhere.
And on hold I will remain until somebody finally picks up the damn phone.
After another twenty minutes, the awful elevator music cuts off.
“Detective McKinsky.”
“Finally, yes—”
“DAD!”
Shit. Not now.
I clap a hand over the phone. “Hang on one sec—” Then quickly add, “And do not put me back on hold.”
I holler toward the hallway.
“I’m busy!”
Then I put the phone back to my ear.
“As I was saying, Detective, this is Harrison Evans calling from New York again.”
“Hello again, Mr. Evans.”
He sounds absolutely thrilled.
The kids shout again from the other room.
“SOMEONE WANTS TO TALK TO YOU!”
Unbelievable.
All freaking day, I’m completely available.
Not a peep.
The second I’m busy, suddenly I’m the belle of the ball.
“Not. NOW!” I roar at the top of my lungs.
Then, calmly, I clear my throat and return to the call.
“I’m back.”
“Look, Mr. Evans.” I can practically hear the detective rubbing his temples over the phone. “We’re doing all we can.”
“I can send the photo again. The diamonds look like a marigo—”
“Yes. A marigold.” He sighs heavily. “We know.”
“And I’m offering a reward.”
“That exceeds the value of the ring, sir. We know that too.” A beat. “Very generous of you.”
Is he mocking me?
For fuck’s sake.
This is important.
Because right now that ring is either in the hands of:
a) an international crime syndicate
b) a very lucky crackhead
or
c) a pigeon roughly two seconds away from shitting out half a million dollars.
“It’s a custom ring,” I insist. “Somebody has to notice it.”
“We circulated photos. If anyone tries to move a stone that size, we’ll hear about it.”
Papers shuffle on the other end of the line.
“Now, if you’ll excuse me, several thousand other people in Los Angeles are also having terrible days.”
Definitely mocking me.
“Don’t call us. We’ll call you.”
“Good,” I mutter. “Please do.”
The call disconnects.
At the tail end of my sanity, I grab my keys.
“Kids, get in the car.”
Fuck it.
If I can’t find Pix’s ring…
I’ll just remortgage the house and buy her another one.