34. Pasha
34
“Yes, I remembered to ask for the sprinkles.”
Daphne’s grin glows through her voice over the car’s Bluetooth speaker. “Thank you, my love. Taty says hi, by the way. Can you say hi to Daddy?”
“Hello, malyshka,” I croon to my baby girl as I listen to her babble. “I’m almost home.”
“She misses you. I miss you.”
“I’m maybe ten minutes out, moya plamya. Then I’m all yours.”
Having someone to go home to is worlds better than what my life used to be like. To be honest, though, I barely remember my life before Daphne.
It was miserable, I’m assuming. Compared to what it is now, how could it not be?
I catch a familiar sight in the rearview mirror and frown. “Daphne, don’t panic, but I’ve got someone tailing me. It’s probably nothing, but I’m gonna let you go so I can shake them.”
“Oh. Okay. Be careful.” I can hear the worry in her words, but she swallows it down. “I love you.”
“I love you, too.”
Judging by the tinted windows and not-quite-current-year model of the SUV, the vehicle I’ve been watching in the rearview mirror belongs to the feds. There’s no telltale spotlight on either sideview mirror like other cars I’ve spotted in recent days, but that means this is probably a personal vehicle.
I take a sharp left at the last second to throw them off. A few cars honk at me so I know he’s probably not going to?—
Son of a bitch. He’s still following me.
The SUV behind me revs the engine and barrels dangerously close. I swerve to the side so there’s room for it to pass. Instead of passing, though, it pulls up in my blind spot and nudges my car.
Motherfucker.
I slam on my brakes and whip a hard right. Thank God I drove the Charger and not one of my own SUVs—this maneuver is sure to flip something larger.
I’m counting on it, actually.
My pursuer seems to make the same calculation and decides to continue on, abandoning the chase almost as quickly as they started it.
Fucking cowards.
I take one more turn for good measure. Just to make sure I’m not being followed by anyone else before heading back to the hotel with Daphne’s smoothie. I veer down a side road and?—
My foot slams on the brakes.
A fleet of identical SUVs hems in around me, corralling me in the side street safely away from peeping eyes. It’s a smart move for someone who doesn’t want to raise any questions.
Except I have several.
Starting with, “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”
Special Agent-in-Command Smithson gives me a cocky little wave as he jumps out of his vehicle to meet me. The only reason why I don’t flatten him to the ground is the circle of agents surrounding us. “I thought we could have a friendly little chat.”
“By running me off the road?”
“It was a love tap, Chekhov. Besides, you’re not answering your phone. How else was I supposed to get in touch?”
“I don’t answer spam calls.” I grip my keys in my fist, my thumb hovering over the panic button just in case this gets ugly. “I’m here now. Am I under arrest?”
Smithson shakes his head. “No, no, nothing like that. This is genuinely just a chat. No need to get your panties in a twist.”
“Good.” I move my thumb away from the button. “Make it quick. My wife is waiting for me.”
“Such a gentleman. I’ll cut straight to the point.” He tilts his head to one side. “Sidney Ewing is missing. You know anything about that?”
I scrunch my nose and pretend to think about it. “Conrad?”
“Sidney Conrad Ewing, yes. The artist.”
I scoff. “‘Artist’ is debatable. You said he’s missing?”
“No one’s seen him since Tuesday.” Smithson looks me over. “We figured you might have an idea of where he went.”
“How should I know? We don’t run in the same circles.”
“Your wife knew him. She was engaged to him, too, before he cheated on her.”
I give him a patronizing stare. “I have better things to do than stalking my wife’s ex.”
Smithson shrugs and tucks his hands in his pants pockets. “Sounds like he was stalking your wife. Causing problems. I can’t say I’d blame you if you happened to take matters into your own hands.”
He’s trying to bait me. Trying to sympathize with me so I’ll slip up and drop hints here and there for him to follow up on later.
“He’s not the only one who’s been stalking my wife, despite all the restraining orders. Have you talked with the Hamishes?”
He flinches. There it is. Same as with Brennan.
“Why would I do that?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe because you know them. And you know they’ve been kissing Ewing’s ass for years. Clearly, they would have more information about him than I do.”
“No, we haven’t talked with them.”
“Really? That surprises me.” I play it casual just like him, leaning against the side of my Charger. “You’ve known them for… how long? At least a year, I’d guess.”
Smithson blinks at me. “I don’t?—”
“I’ve always wondered how that worked out. Are you allowed to investigate their son-in-law? I thought there was some sort of conflict of interest in that.”
A few of his fellow agents glance at him. I’m going to guess that yes, investigating the in-laws of friends crosses a few lines in their field.
He laughs it off like I’m being ridiculous. “There’s no conflict of interest. I barely know those people.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t say that. You’ve been doing so many favors for them, like a good friend would.”
Smithson scowls at me. One of his hands hovers near his gun, but I don’t think he’ll use it. He’s not that dumb.
“I only know them through the information Stewart Hamish has been giving us,” he snaps. “About you, your company, your ‘family business’—”
“Wait. Your intel is coming from a disgraced and disgruntled former employee?”
More agents glance at each other, then at their Special Agent-in-Command. They’re not making any moves, but I can see their faith in him begin to waver.
I mean, I knew all this already. I just wanted to see if his fellow agents—the ones under his command—knew about this. Pity that they didn’t.
I’m more than happy to keep them informed.
“Let me get this straight.” I hold up a hand just for dramatic effect. “You’ve been coming after me, raiding my offices and invading my family life and having your agents loom over my wife and infant daughter to the point where they can’t even go outside… because a man who committed corporate espionage said he didn’t like me very much?”
More glances. A few step back, like physical distance between them and this rat will save their own hides.
I can’t help it—I laugh. “Tell me, Special Agent: what the hell did he have to say?”
Smithson is fuming, but trying not to showcase just how bothered he really is. He shoves his clenching fists back into his pockets. “There were no such records of any lawsuit or charges of ‘corporate espionage,’ as you claim.”
“No. Because unlike you, I don’t make a move until I have all the evidence. All the facts.”
Which is mostly true, now that I think about it.
But overlooking the fact that Stewart Hamish had two daughters is probably the best thing that could have happened to me.
“I’m happy to fill you in,” I offer cheerfully. “Let’s see. When my father, the founder and first CEO of Chekhov International, got himself killed by some mistress’s husband, Stewart Hamish didn’t do a damn thing to protect the company from the fallout. And when the man who murdered my father came after us, he bribed Hamish for insider information and used all the stolen data to temporarily take over the corporation.”
“You should have reported it. Turned him over.”
“I did!”
The part of me that’s been simmering for a decade comes to the surface in a single moment of roaring, untethered rage. It’s the Pasha who scrambled to seek justice, who was young and barely an adult and desperate to save his mother and siblings from utter ruin.
It’s the part of me that was laughed at and turned away by the very government now surrounding me with guns half-holstered and suspicious glances tossing around.
Then I rein it in.
Anger will do me no good here.
“I’m surprised, Agent Smithson. Didn’t any of this come up when you ran a background check on Mr. Hamish? The dismissed accusations, the filed paperwork your people neglected to investigate…?”
“No such records?—”
“I was the one who filed them,” I snarl. “So I can assure you, they exist.”
I’ve made him look bad in front of his associates. Irresponsible, if not incompetent. Whoever was still blindly loyal to him five minutes ago has since stepped back.
As for me, I’m listening to him reveal his hand.
Poker is one of the few pleasures I allowed myself as a bachelor. Half the time, I played it simply for the thrill of the bluff: reading other players’ tells, practicing concealing my own tics while lying through my teeth.
The trick to a successful bluff is to tell the truth and hang everything on it.
And then don’t panic when you find out someone else has been counting cards.
Smithson is panicking. His panic is making him sloppy. His sloppiness is revealing holes in his case that I have a sudden urge to poke.
And poke.
And poke.
Just to see the motherfucker unravel in real time.
“Who do I talk to about this ongoing investigation? Since you’re hanging everything on the word of an actual criminal—who was found guilty of attempted kidnapping, remember?”
He’s glaring at me with renewed fury. “We’re done here.”
I whip out my phone and open the note-taking app. “Hold on—I’ll just need that number and name of the best agent to discuss this with. I’m thinking now’s as good a time as any to reopen that espionage case, don’t you? Plus, that artist is missing. Who knows what Hamish might have done to him? You’ll need all this for your real investigations.”
“We’re done,” he sniffs. “Give my regards to your wife.”
Smithson signals for his people to pack it up and move it out. He turns on his heels and climbs into his SUV, glaring at me through the tinted windshield.
I smile and wave at him.
A gesture of gratitude.
I keep waving at his fleet of vehicles as they peel out, just leaning against my Charger as if I don’t have a care in the world.
As if I didn’t just figure out why Smithson’s so determined to do whatever Hamish demands.