32. Word Of Advice
word of advice
César
I ’m gathering intel for another client who suspects their partner is cheating. The usual, meeting up at a hotel on their lunch break. Another CEO fucking his secretary that convinced his wife to give up her dreams while he pursued his.
I hope she takes him for all he’s fucking got , I think as I snap photos of them exiting The Orlov Hotel looking flushed and disheveled. These cases tend to be cut and dry for the most part, but the emotional aspect? Not so much.
Catching a subject in the act never gets old. While some are more discreet and creative than others, they always leave breadcrumbs behind. I dread sharing those findings with my clients, because no matter how much they think they can handle what I find, the devastation guts them every time.
It’s one thing to suspect infidelity, but having actual proof is something you can’t come back from. Helping my clients find the truth they deserve is worth the trouble, but it also serves as something normal to share with mi abuela whenever she asks about work.
I stay a few car lengths back as I tail him, veering off when he pulls into the office parking garage.
“Scumbag,” I mutter as I send a text to my client, requesting a meeting to share an update on her cheating husband.
As I await her response, Deirdre’s upcoming date with Xavier crosses my mind, and it bothers me more than it should. I believe she should find someone to date that isn’t me, but she’s too good for him.
Not to mention he’s fucking boring.
Xavier Arnez Coleman Jr. is a twenty-nine-year-old Black man from Atlanta, Georgia, who is a physical therapist that lives alone in a studio apartment and has a three-year-old Shih Tzu named Carl.
He has a 660 credit score, drives an electric smart car, and plays basketball with friends every Saturday at a local gym, but always gets dunked on.
Like I said, boring .
His conversation skills are juvenile, leaning on the question game to learn her ins and outs. He only knows what she wants him to, which is basically nothing. How could they have a lasting relationship if she doesn’t feel like she can be herself with him?
My phone pings with a response from my client, informing me she’s available to meet at my office tomorrow morning at ten.
Now that that’s handled, I tap open my camera app to check in on Deirdre. She’s mindlessly snacking on cherries while she reviews an HR training on compliance in her office. I distract her for a moment, because I can’t help it.
You seem bored.
Doe
Very bored, but at least I have a snack.
Thanks for removing the pits.
Cherries are one of few fruits I’ve seen her eat. Her fragrance even smells like them, with hints of amber and vanilla. A scent that lingers in the air and in my mind. Kinda like her. A craving that cannot be fulfilled.
Anything to stay in your good graces.
Doe
Lie again.
There’s something about her that unnerves me in a way that makes me feel out of control. Almost as if I’m the one in front of the camera instead of her, and that makes me question my sanity. I’m long overdue for a couch session and should get on booking one right away.
A pulse check with my therapist may help me sort out some of these warring feelings between Deirdre and my career as of late. I’ve always felt rewarded by my work and prideful for the opportunities it’s granted me. I’m grateful to be able to provide for my family in ways I never saw possible.
I spend more time with my work than I do with my family, and now that my subject has become more of a fascination than simply a task to check off my list, I’m second-guessing myself.
I’ll break the law within my bounds for the right case and price point, but how does that make me any better than my clients? Or the subjects I’m hired to provide intel on?
Not one time have I sat in on a debriefing and willingly withheld information necessary to propel the case forward. But every time I sit down with the Hales since the meeting that went awry, I find myself rehearsing in my head what to share and what not to.
I’m simply a mortal compared to the beguiling and destructive Deirdre Klarke. She’s threatening to dismantle everything I’ve worked so hard to achieve in a matter of weeks, and doesn’t even know it.
You don't have to believe me, but I’ll let you get back to work.
Doe
Alright.
Will I see you around later?
Maybe.
I’ll remember to whistle.
Doe
I appreciate it.
I looked up the coquí and they are so cute!
They really are.
I stop my hands from typing anything further. I nearly suggest bringing her to Puerto Rico someday to see them in person, but I can’t say things like that. She doesn’t deserve to be lied to any more than she already has been and will be hurt enough when the job is done.
“He’s just gonna stand there all night?” I ask, swirling my rocks glass as the ice mingles with my whiskey. Divin, of course.
“That’s what he’s paid to do,” Emiliano confirms, his hand on his own glass.
Of course, this fancy pendejo suggested this swanky bar, not too far from his office.
This place is too quiet for me to lose myself in, which I guess is a good thing.
But the urge to whip out my phone and watch the woman on my mind has me swallowing down more liquor. The shits good .
“Feel free to start talking,” he nudges, glancing at his watch. It easily costs more than what the bartender will make in a year, but he’s otherwise dressed like just another stuffy asshole.
“Like you’ve got anywhere to be,” I mutter. I clear my throat and throw caution to the wind. “Remember that I told you I’ve sort of become intrigued by my latest assignment?”
“Which never happens, so this woman must be something.” His words oddly comfort me after weeks of second-guessing myself. I’m not hurting for pussy, I don’t need to find connections through work, and I’ve never jeopardized my career for infatuation.
Still, I swallow, preparing for our worlds to collide in a way it never has. Even when his older brother—who happens to be the head of the largest Cartel division in America—outsources me to find people, it’s never gotten as messy as this has the potential to be.
Because through my own fieldwork, I’ve learned that Regina Delvecchio is one of Emiliano’s current legal clients.
Yeah, this motherfucker’s brother is the head of the Cartel, and he’s a fucking attorney. Que jodienda .
I look at the man who’s been my friend since our freshman year of college and say, “Her name is Deirdre Klarke.”
Emiliano stares at me, his brows furrowed as he glances away, sorting through his mental rolodex. After a few moments, his eyes widen, and he meets my gaze again.
“This is how you’re choosing to die, güey ?” The way he fights a smirk pisses me off. But I’m not done yet.
“I know you’re representing her cousin, Regina Delvecchio,” I reveal, holding my hands up when he opens his mouth to respond. “I’m not asking you to breach any confidentiality agreement. I’m just putting all the shit out there.”
“The Hales hired you?” His eyes squint a fraction, and he downs his drink as he waits for my response.
“Yeah, but I can handle them. The last thing I need is for you and Ignacio to get involved,” I remind him. Shit can get messy, especially when white people are involved—foreign or not.
“So what are we discussing?”
“You making sure Regina doesn’t kill me when shit comes to a head.”
Emiliano snorts a laugh, shaking his head.
“What? You can’t save my ass?”
“Nah, it’s not that. She actually just asked if I knew anyone who could help her track down her husband,” he admits, quirking his brow at the timing of it all.
“The one who went missing?”
“Yup,” he answers, holding his glass of ice up so the bartender sees. “She’s convinced he’s still alive.”
“So she’s insane.”
“I don’t know,” he says with a shrug, nodding when he’s handed another drink as the empty glass is whisked away by a server. Spoiled cabrón. “She seems perfectly intact to me.”
“I’m not sure I can trust your judgment,” I start, grinning at his puzzled expression. “You can’t even tell when a woman doesn’t want your ass.”
“ Pinche pendejo ,” he quips under his breath, tipping his glass toward me before bringing it to his mouth. “But you don’t see me stalking her, César.”
He knocks back his liquor, and I follow suit, holding my now empty glass up because apparently that’s what these rich assholes do here.
“Then what do you suggest I do instead?” I ask, knowing damn well I’m not about to remove my equipment from her home and office. Still, I’m interested in his perspective.
“Show her who you really are.” He cuts his eyes to the side as he scans the room like there isn’t a man behind him that would gladly take a bullet for him. “You’re loyal, hard-working, somewhat funny, and women find you attractive. Let her get to know you the way you’ve gotten to know her.”
“So give her access to my every waking moment?”
Why do I even listen to him?
“And what about—” I start.
“Your pest problem ?” he interjects, speaking a little louder than I was. Shut the fuck up about criminal activity , his eyes say. “I know of a good exterminator.”
I can’t have the Hales taken out by the fucking Cartel. Can I?
No. I definitely can’t.
Another drink is set down in front of me, and before I can touch the glass, Emiliano asks, “Any advice for me?”
“Grow a pair and go get her,” I answer, watching him deadpan over the rim of my glass as I gulp down more whiskey.
Hector chuckles, and Emiliano lifts his hand for the check, tired of my shit.