35. Pasha
35
It would have been nice if my good mood lasted until I returned to the hotel.
Unfortunately, I have a habit of diving too deep into my own thoughts.
“Fuck.” I glance down at the cup in my hand when Daphne opens the door. “It’s melted.”
“It’s ice-cold juice. I love it.” She smiles and pulls me inside, happily accepting the cup of what was supposed to be a smoothie. “Everything okay? I was starting to worry.”
“Got held up. Nothing serious.”
“You’re here, and you’re safe. That’s what matters.” She sips her juice and bounces Taty in her other arm. “Right, sweetie? Daddy’s home!”
I’m in no mood to be good company, let alone a good father or husband. They don’t deserve to have their bright lights dimmed by my darkness. “I’ll be in the office,” I mutter under my breath as I move toward the suite’s furnished business room.
Daphne stops me with a hand to my chest. “Hold your daughter.”
“What?”
“You heard me.” She shifts Taty around and hands her to me. I’m unable to not take my baby without risking dropping her. “Now, go sit down. Snuggle our child. You’ll feel better.”
“I feel fine.”
“You came home with a storm cloud over your head.” Daphne nudges me to the loveseat and presses me down into it. “Now, hold the sweet little baby and tell her all about it.”
I sigh. I’m powerless against these women.
Daphne also might be onto something. I have to admit, holding someone so tiny and soft and warm who blinks up at me with nothing but pure trust and wonder… It’s doing something for my nerves. Taty blows a spit bubble, pops it with a squeal, and reaches for my face.
Dammit.
I do feel better.
“Alright, malysh. Here’s the deal. Daddy has a few idiots riding his ass?—”
“Language!”
I roll my eyes and try again. “Your grandpa is a very, very naughty man. And I’m just trying to keep you and all your tiny little toes safe from the big, bad wolf.” I pinch the tip of her onesie-covered foot and feel myself smile. It grows when I realize she’s trying to mimic me—her mouth curves in something pretty damn close to a smile. “He keeps saying, ‘Little pig! Little pig! Let me in!’ And I keep telling him to go shove it up his?—”
“And now, we’re going to discuss dinner plans.” Daphne gracefully slides into the conversation and cuts off my Mother Goose: Bratva Edition retelling. “What are you hungry for?”
“You.” I tug her arm just enough to steal a sound kiss from her soft lips. “And maybe pizza.”
“You can have pizza for dinner.” She nuzzles my face and whispers in my ear, “And me for dessert.”
Daphne steals her own kiss before sliding back off to go place the order.
“Come, my daughter.” I tuck Taty close with one arm and push myself off the couch with the other. I do still need to get some work done in the office, but I think it will be far more productive with my little assistant with me. “It’s time for you to start learning the family business. Step One: how to crush our enemies like painted eggs.”
“Special Agent Smithson is here to see you, sir.”
I nod at Jack and slide the paperwork I’ve been reviewing back inside my desk. “Send him in.”
“Before I do, sir…” Jack steps inside and makes sure the door is securely shut before he walks over to me. “I believe he’s wearing a wire.”
“Really?”
“I noticed him readjusting his tie, then his shirt. More than what’s normal, unless he’s developed an allergy to cotton.”
“Did you see the wire itself?”
“No, sir. But…”
I look up at the older man. “But?”
Jack shrugs. “Times have changed, I know. I just remember how itchy the tape could get.”
“You wore a wire?”
“Tried my hand at a few sting operations, sir. Didn’t much care for it.”
“For the feds?”
“Oh, no.” Jack scrunches his face in disgust. “Never them. Family to family; we needed to keep our own in line. Can’t have too many car bombs going off at once, and all that.”
I hide my chuckle behind a sniffle and a cough. Sometimes, I forget this unassuming, past-his-prime gentleman was once in the IRA. “Thank you, Jack. I’ll see him now.”
“As you wish.”
The apprehension in his gait tells me he’s concerned, which I appreciate. It’s good to have a loyal assistant who understands how things are supposed to be run.
I just can’t tell him—yet—that I’ve been banking on Smithson showing up wearing a wire.
The FBI agent sees himself into the office, a smug smile on his face. “You said you have information on Sidney Ewing’s disappearance? Please tell me this is a confession.”
“Have a seat.”
And slow your roll, asshole.
Smithson plops himself down in a chair like he owns the place. I don’t know what he thinks is about to happen.
I’m almost giddy with knowing what really is about to go down instead.
“I have to thank you, Mr. Smithson. You inspired me to take a look at things from a different perspective.”
He sighs. “Agent Smithson?—”
“We’ll see.”
I’m so tempted to snap a photo of the look on his face. It’s fucking priceless.
“Just tell me what you have,” he snaps. “I don’t have all day to play games.”
“Oh, but you love games. Don’t you? That’s what I keep discovering, the more I dig.”
Smithson freezes.
I smile. “See, I’ve been wracking my brain over why the hell you’re so dedicated to helping the Hamishes. Stewart, specifically, but we both know Ophelia has an iron grip on his balls. How did you become friends? What did he do for you, or you for him? This loyalty… it’s different.”
“Just get to the point, Chekhov.”
“It’s new.” I pull out a manila folder and slap it on the desk so his colleagues can hear it on their end of the microphone. “Your relationship with the Hamishes. It’s brand fucking new and that really made me scratch my head. I mean, I don’t see that kind of loyalty for at least the first few years from employees… unless I have something they want.”
I look him dead in the eyes.
“Or, better yet: something they’re afraid of.”
Smithson adjusts his sleeves. “Do you or do you not have information pertaining to?—”
“Don’t rush me. You have plenty of time.” I flip the folder open. “See, I’ve been looking at it all wrong. It’s not about anything he’s done for you or vice versa, is it? It’s about what he has on you.”
Blood drains from his face. “Let me see that file.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll make sure your supervisors receive everything.” I flip through the pages just for show. I’ve already memorized the important details. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I do try to hire like-minded people. My father was the same way. Which means that as much as I’m loath to admit it, Stewart Hamish and I have a lot in common. At least, in the way we think. And the way we control people, situations… you get the gist.”
“Just—”
“So when I realized there’s got to be a different angle, I also realized I’ve been avoiding that simple truth. That Hamish and I are like-minded people. So I had to ask myself: what’s the best and easiest way for me to secure the loyalty of someone on the inside of the Federal Bureau of Investigation?”
No more interruptions from him.
He’s too busy trying not to piss himself.
“Go digging, Mr. Smithson. Dig through closets. Dig behind doors. Find those proverbial skeletons and make sure the owner of the house knows I’ve found them. Or, in your case, get a bit more literal and dig up the actual skeletons of a man who’s been missing for… how many years has it been?”
“Shut up.” Smithson is barely able to wheeze the command. “Shut the hell up, Chekhov.”
“I don’t think I will. The irony is, I have zero reason to help out in this cold case. It would have never crossed my path, let alone my mind… if you weren’t so goddamn annoying.”
I pull out the flask I keep in the bottom drawer for special occasions. This definitely warrants a shot.
“Here, see for yourself.” I slide the folder across the desk so he can look at all the nails in his own coffin. “I’ll send you the invoice for the private investigation firm. Cost me a pretty penny to find the remains.”
Smithson glances at the papers. Then snaps the folder shut. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“But you do.” I smile at him even more. “And so does Hamish. It was one of his own employees, wasn’t it? After he left this company and tried starting his own. Joshua Haversham, one of Hamish’s personal assistants. A promising career… for your wife’s ex-boyfriend.”
Smithson presses a hand to his chest. Fifty bucks says he’s trying to muffle the mic.
“You look thirsty. Let me pour you a drink.” I stand and make my way over to the wet bar, taking the opportunity to smirk when my back is turned.
“I’m on the clock.”
“Water, then.”
When I bring him the glass, he does exactly what I counted on: he takes it with his right hand, uncovering the mic in the process.
“Thank you,” he mutters.
I nod and return to my seat with the tumbler of soda I poured for myself. No use getting drunk right before this place becomes crawling with feds. “So, Haversham. Tell me about him.”
“Not much to tell.” Smithson shrugs and avoids eye contact. He’s trying to look and sound calm when he’s clearly unraveling. “Just some guy my wife dated before she met me. From what I understand.”
“Huh. Really.” I reach across the desk to show him one of the photos Hamish’s investigators—and subsequently, mine—unearthed during their digging. “Isn’t this him? With your wife? At the Luxor in Vegas, yeah?”
His face reddens. “From before.”
“Before you? Or before you killed him for sleeping with her?”
Smithson’s eyes meet mine.
He doesn’t say another word.
“See the timestamp on here? That’s fairly recent. A few years ago, but definitely after the date notated on your marriage license. Which is public record, by the way. My daughter could Google it.”
His eye twitches. I’m getting to him.
“He vanished from his office’s parking lot not too long after he returned from his ‘business trip.’ The security cameras were faulty, it seems. Nothing but static.”
I slide another picture out of the file.
“Which, incidentally, is one of the more fascinating projects my company’s been working on in our security division. Did you know that sometimes, technical snow can be reassembled into clearer images? I had my team try out their newest software on this clip and look what we found.”
He shoves the picture of himself talking to Joshua Haversham in the parking garage aside, scattering the rest of the papers to the floor. “Enough! This is about you! And Sidney Ewing! Now, tell me where he is or I’m leaving!”
I laugh. “How the hell should I know where he is? You’re the one who killed him.”
Once again, Smithson freezes. He gapes at me in utter disbelief. “You lie.”
“Do I?” I push my chair back to stand with him, still completely calm and unbothered by his little tantrum. At this point, I’m just having fun playing with my food. “You were seen talking to Ewing in a parking garage right before he went missing, too. Haversham—what was left of him, I mean—was found in a pig pen of a farm about forty-five minutes from here. One of your old high school friends, right? I bet good money your people will find Ewing’s remains there, too.”
Surprisingly, he doesn’t flinch at the sound of footsteps thundering up the backstairs.
Or from the opening elevator ding out in the lobby.
Or even when the office door slams open and armed federal agents swarm in, guns raised and aimed squarely at… him.
“You s-son of a bitch,” he stammers.
“My mother is a saint. Your mother should have told you that pigs can’t digest human teeth.”
I don’t know what’s more satisfying to listen to: Smithson’s superiors reciting the Miranda Rights as the slap cuffs on his wrists, or the very long list of charges they’ll be filing against him.
The murder of Joshua Haversham. The suspected murder of Sidney Conrad Ewing.
Unsanctioned transportation of a body over state lines.
Dismemberment of a corpse.
Misuse of credentials to obtain classified information.
Bribery of public officials and witnesses.
If I could add a few of my own, those charges would include being a complete fucking dumbass.
And, most unforgiveable of all… fucking with the wrong family.
“Mr. Chekhov.” One of the agents steps over to me and extends his hand for me to shake. “I’m Special Agent Gunther. I’d like to extend our formal apologies for the intrusion of Smithson and his team. We’ll be launching a full investigation into his goings-on with you and your family, but please rest assured that we will not be following you around. Our preliminary scan hasn’t indicated any reason for us to continue such invasion of privacy.”
“I appreciate it.” I shake the agent’s hand firmly. “I’ll be happy to answer any follow-up questions, but during regular business hours here in my office.”
“Of course. Not a problem. We’ll be in touch.”
I’m tempted to ask about their plans for the Hamishes. But I don’t want to press my luck, at least not right now. I’m satisfied with the official removal of Smithson, who won’t stop glaring at me until he’s forced out the office door and into the elevator.
Jack stands next to me as we watch the agents take their leave. He’s as calm and collected as ever.
Once they’re gone, and we can no longer hear their footsteps in the distance, he smirks. “Well-played, sir.”
I do my best to bite back my own shit-eating grin. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”