Chapter 23
Chapter Twenty-Three
Aleksei’s hands shook as he flipped through Phillipe’s old notebook.
He’d gone back to it because he had no place else to turn.
He didn’t know where Kemper was taking Rosemary, and he had no one to ask.
Kemper wasn’t answering his phone, and he’d let the other friendships he had within the FBI fade after Phillipe’s passing.
Now he had no one close enough to be willing to put their job on the line and share the details of a covert op. Especially not when he might still be on the suspect list.
And Virus was no fucking help. He was hanging out in his goddamn rocking chair, cleaning his fucking gun like all was right with the world.
Aleksei’s frustration popped like a pressure cooker bomb. “Why the hell did you let her go?”
Virus arched an eyebrow. “Are you really asking me that question?”
Aleksei’s fingers pressed so hard into the notebook that the page started to rip. “Yes! Don’t you see Rose is putting herself right in the line of fire? Why didn’t you stop her? I thought you liked her.”
Virus put the gun down on the tray table with a hard thunk, then began slowly massaging his left knee. After a few minutes of silence, he spoke.
“Let me see. She has evidence some mafia dickhead wants. If said dickhead doesn’t get it, he’s going to hurt Rose or her family.
Kemper has a stick up his ass, but at least he offered her a solution other than keeping her head in the sand and hoping it all works the fuck out.
He kept it real with her, gave her a choice, and respected her decision.
He’s putting his job on the line for her, and he’s going to have an entire unit ready to bust in if things go south.
If you were so goddamned worried, you should have kept your temper—and your ego—in check and gone with her.
At least then you could’ve busted in with them. ”
Shit. There wasn’t one fucking thing he could say to that. Everything Virus said was something he already knew.
“I’m frustrated.”
“If you want someone to blame, look in the fucking mirror.”
Classic Virus. He was never one to mince words.
Aleksei rubbed a hand over his head. His close-cropped hair prickled his palm. “Yeah. I know. I’m sorry.”
He was sorry. So fucking sorry he’d let his anger get the better of him. So fucking sorry he’d walked out. Of course, Rose went with Kemper. If it were his sister, he would have done the same goddamn thing.
He straightened his shoulders and turned his attention back to the notebook in his hand.
He couldn’t change the past. All he could do now was focus on the only shred of hope he had—the notebook.
If he were somehow able to figure out where Rose was going and get to her, there might be something in the notebook that could be a bargaining chip—information Rose could take in with her to use as leverage.
Or maybe he was bullshitting himself. Maybe he’d gone back to the notebook because he’d fucked things up beyond recognition. He was lost and alone and needed his best friend. Holding the notebook was comfort, but like every other time he’d looked at it, it yielded no clues.
The thing was exasperating. It was part diary, part planner, part sketchbook—a mishmash of doodles, sports scores, reminders, addresses, inspirational quotes, books to read, a few recipes, and even Christmas gift ideas for Samantha.
He’d pored over it before, reading and rereading it in the months following Phillipe’s death, but he hadn’t found the answers he was looking for.
He hadn’t found anything that explained why Phillipe would go out for an unplanned meet, alone, in the middle of the night.
There was a reason Phillipe had left the notebook on the table that night. There was something Phillipe wanted him to see. Something Phillipe wanted him to know. He was sure of it. But whatever it was continued to elude him.
He threw the notebook across the room. “Damn you, Phillipe. Damn you. Damn you. Damn you. Why the hell aren’t you here when I need you?”
The notebook bounced off the wall and flopped to the floor, the well-worn spine lying flat, the hot air from the woodstove flipping the pages.
“You all right there, friend?” Virus asked.
“Yeah, I’m all right,” Aleksei said, distracted. His eyes fixated on the slowly turning pages. The scent of myrrh filled the air. A chill raced down his back. It smelled just like that fancy English cologne Phillipe used to wear.
An odd sensation tickled his spine, and the aroma grew stronger. Magic tingled in his veins.
Phillipe was here with him.
He crossed the room, the floorboards creaking under his feet, and carefully plucked the notebook from where it had fallen. The cardboard cover was smooth in his hand and warm from the heat of the stove. A large printed Gandhi quote spanned both pages:
The law of karma is inexorable and impossible of evasion. There is thus hardly any need for god to interfere. He laid down the law and, as it were, retired.
He’d concentrated on that quote so many times before, trying to divine its meaning—even considered whether it was a coded message—but this time, with the waning sunlight flowing through the window, the words blurred, and his attention was drawn to the tiny sketches at the corners of the pages.
Phillipe’s sketches were always precise and lifelike. Although small, these were no different. The drawing on the bottom left was of a beautiful arched window. The one on the right showed two men in business suits.
One man was tall, with slicked-back hair and an outstretched hand that offered a stack of cash.
His posture exuded authority and condescension.
The other, shorter man lazed against a wall with an air of bored indifference.
He had one arm extended, as if reaching for the money.
A cigarette hung between two fingers of his other hand, a thin line of smoke floating up into the lined white pages.
Recognition hit like a sucker punch.
It was Kemper and Moresco.
Phillipe had no reason to draw them together. Kemper had never met Moresco in person. He’d only seen him on surveillance tapes. Or so he’d said.
It could be an imagined scene, but any time Aleksei had seen him sketch, Phillipe had drawn something right in front of him—their server, a dog, a building they were staking out. That meant there was a good chance Phillipe had actually seen them together.
Kemper and Moresco. Together.
Son of a bitch.
He ran a finger over the image of the arched window, trying not to vomit. At the point of the arch, there was a hammer crossed by a saw and encircled by leaves. He knew that window. There were three of them over the front door of the building where Phillipe was murdered.
The sketch of the window and the sketch of the men were on opposite pages, but his instincts told him they were connected.
Did the payoff happen in front of that building?
He knew Phillipe. Phillipe always looked for the best in everybody.
If Phillipe saw Kemper take money from Moresco, he would have confronted Kemper about it face-to-face.
He would have given him a chance to explain.
And what would Kemper have done in response?
The smoky, earthy scent of myrrh tickled his nostrils again.
He lifted his head. Virus sat in the rocking chair, head down, focused on cleaning his rifle.
No candles were lit. No incense was burning.
Aleksei ran his finger over the drawing of the arched window, letting his mind wander back to that terrible morning, allowing the images of Phillipe’s dead body to settle in his mind instead of pushing them away as he had in the past.
Phillipe was face down, parts of his skull shattered by the close-range gunshot.
Dried blood spattered and pooled on the walkway near his head and the stubs of his hands.
Then the medical examiner had flipped him over.
Aleksei saw Phillipe’s wide, glossy eyes and the grayish-black smudges that dirtied his face and speckled the front of his white shirt.
That night, his only thought was that he wanted to wipe those marks away, that Phillipe shouldn’t have dirt on his face.
He mentally zoomed out to take in the entire scene.
Cigarette ashes littered the ground. Now, he saw those smudges for what they really were.
Ashes. Ashes on the ground weren’t surprising, especially in a warehouse in a blue-collar part of town, but something about the scene didn’t sit right with him.
Puddles.
There had been puddles on parts of the walkway, too. The fluorescent crime scene lights glinted off the wet grass. Ashes littered the walk, as if someone had smoked while pacing.
It clicked.
If the ashes were old, the rain would have washed them away.
The ashes were fresh, and there were a lot of them.
But no butts. Someone had smoked multiple cigarettes while waiting for Phillipe but hadn’t left one single cigarette butt—someone smart and cool-headed enough to think about DNA evidence in the face of murder.
He flipped the pages of the notebook, studying the drawings on each page, looking at them as if they were one complete picture instead of random, disjointed doodles.
He found a few other sketches of Kemper—one with Moresco and others with a woman who looked vaguely familiar, but he couldn’t place her.
It didn’t matter. Her identity wasn’t the priority.
If Kemper was on Moresco’s payroll, Rose was in even more danger than he’d thought, and he couldn’t think of one friend he had in the bureau who would believe him.
It doesn’t have to be my friend!
He may not have a friend in the FBI who was close enough to call, but Rose did.
She had Christian. When she’d called him, Christian had put his job on the line, skulking around FBI files to get her the information she wanted, no questions asked.
If Christian thought Rose was in danger, he’d likely do anything to help her.