14. Ophelia
OPHELIA
“Ophelia Bennett,” says Mike Myers, shaking my hand.
“Phee is fine.”
“Very well, Phee,” says Mike, inviting me into his office. “Do come in and take a seat.”
I walk into the office, noting the chandelier and the upholstered couch. This man must know what he’s doing to afford an office as beautiful as this, and in the heart of Manhattan.
Horns blare in the distance as I take a seat opposite his desk. Clouds loom over the city, the sun starting to disappear.
“A storm is on its way, according to the weather forecast,” says Mike, following my gaze through the window. “The city could use some rain after all this sunshine we’re having.” He tucks himself into his seat, glancing across the desk at me.
The deep lines indented across his brow hint at many years of frowning, of asking too many questions, ones he never found answers to.
“You must be Elanor Bennett’s daughter.”
My mouth gapes open. He did not just say my mother’s name. “Um, yes,” I stutter. “You knew my mother?”
“Briefly,” says Mike. “We spoke a few times.”
My mother was seeing an investigative journalist?
“I heard she passed away a few years ago. My deepest condolences, Miss Bennett.”
“Thanks,” I say, swallowing the lump that forms in my throat every time her name is mentioned unexpectedly.
“Look,” I say, shuffling in my seat. “This might sound crazy, but I was in Queens earlier, walking around a block of self-storage units, when a black Toyota sedan appeared. They threw this onto the ground.” I slide the sheet across the desk, watching Mike carefully.
“Hence my visit today… Do you recognize the handwriting?”
Mike takes a look at the paper, adjusting his glasses. “I’m afraid I don’t.” He sets the paper down, netting his hands over it. “Did you see the driver?”
“The windows were blacked out.”
“Hm,” says Mike, staring into space as he mulls something over. “By the looks of things, Miss Bennett, it seems someone wanted you to pay me a visit.”
“Who would want that?”
Mike shrugs. “I have no idea. Perhaps you remember the license plate of this vehicle?” He slides his keyboard forward, fingers at the ready.
“My memory is like a sieve,” I groan, silently resenting myself for not paying closer attention.
“No worries.” Mike pushes the keyboard away, netting his hands together again. “If you see the vehicle again, take note of the license plate and give me a call. You can find my number here,” he says, handing over his business card.
“No need. Your number is right here on the paper.” I tap the digits. “See?”
“Ah, indeed,” says Mike, his brows knitting together as he inspects each number. “This person must have paid me a visit. Unfortunately, Miss Bennett, I’ve worked with too many clients over the years to even hazard a guess at who this person could be.”
“Perhaps the client recommended you to a friend?”
“Potentially,” says Mike, drumming his fingers on the table in thought. “The person who gave you this wants to help.”
“They can help by showing me their face.”
“I understand your frustration,” says Mike, bowing his head. “But this person could be hiding from someone. People go undercover in this city all the time, and the numbers are rising each year.”
“Why?”
“More threats,” explains Mike. “More crime.”
“Organized crime?”
“In most cases, yes,” says Mike, sorting through paperwork on his desk.
“You would think in a city like New York, the police would have everything under control, but big cities tend to be breeding grounds for crime. Once these organizations gain power, they can influence police decisions, buy them out. Before you know it, you’re dealing with a real-life Gotham situation, where the entire city falls.
Either you’re swimming in wealth, or you’re left with nothing, not even a pot to piss in. ”
Not exactly what I want to hear on a Saturday afternoon, but the truth is always better than hearing lies.
“You think the driver of the vehicle is running from someone powerful?”
“Yes,” says Mike. “But they’re taking risks by leaving you my contact information."
“Who could they be running from?”
Mike spins around in his chair, opening a draw. After flicking through a few documents, he produces a sheet of paper, handing it over.
“Is this where you were this morning?”
I glance at the photo, nodding immediately when I see the orange garage doors. “Yeah. How did you know?”
Mike files the document back into the draw. “Your mother used to store her belongings in one of these units.”
“Impossible,” I say. “My mother was a hoarder. She kept all her stuff in the house.”
“Stuff she didn’t mind you seeing,” says Mike, looking at me pointedly.
“Unfortunately, everyone has secrets, sides of themselves they would prefer to keep locked behind doors. Your mother was looking into her past, but the past had already been written and she was never going to get a lead on anything. In the end, I told her to burn her notes and draw a line under everything—I could see she was getting distressed,” says Mike.
“But your mother didn’t want to burn the notes.
She felt like it would be a big waste of her time to do that.
That was when I suggested the storage unit.
She could keep her journal entries safe, and if she purchased a unit on the other side of the city, she wouldn’t be tempted to visit. ”
“What was in the journal entries?
“Stuff in her past that was never going to mean anything.”
“The Crows?”
Mike’s gaze shifts as soon as I mention that. “How exactly do you know about the unit?”
“The label on my mother’s dress matched the zip code for the location.”
“That is a very far-fetched reason, Miss Bennett.”
“Yeah, well,” I say, shrugging off the thought of my boss, choosing to keep the bastard out of this. “I like to read between the lines.”
“And the Crows? How do you know about this particular organization?”
“My mother drew a picture of the symbol.”
“I see,” says Mike, studying me carefully.
“Your mother was never meant to go back to the storage unit. From what you’re saying, it sounds like she sewed the zip code into the label of the dress to remember the location in case she ever needed to go back…
” Mike swipes a finger over his chin, deep in thought.
“As for the Crows, they were dismantled many years ago.”
“Is this what my mother came to speak to you about?”
“Yes.”
I glance at the nameplate on the desk. The words Mike Myers, Investigative Journalist are ingrained into the wood.
“Was she involved in the Crows? Was she in trouble?”
“Nothing of the sort,” says Mike, flashing me a reassuring smile across the desk. “In some ways, Elanor was exactly like you. She never knew when to stop digging. Her curiosity was bound to get her in trouble at some point. In some ways, I suppose it did, as she made herself sick.”
“Why would this person send me to you?”
“The answer is unfortunately very obvious. The driver was warning you to stay away. That is why they sent you to me.”
“But the organization was dismantled.”
“It was, but perhaps someone is rebuilding.”
The wooden chair creaks as I sit back into it.
Lenny Foster was murdered, and Salvatore Moretti has to be the killer.
What other explanation is there? My boss is a part-time billionaire, part-time psychopath.
Shivers run up my spine as I fill in the missing pieces, my skin breaking out in goosebumps.
“Do you have any idea who could be rebuilding the Crows?”
“I thought I’m supposed to be the one asking the questions.”
“I know,” says Mike. “But if you know anything…”
“I don’t.”
Mike consults his computer, typing away on his keyboard.
I watch the reflection of the screen through his glasses, seeing him scroll through a list of search results. He frowns over something in particular, zooming in.
“What is it?”
Mike glances at me, his mouth twitching, almost like he is on the fence about showing me something. For eighty bucks an hour, he damn well needs to show me.
“Take a look at this,” he says, flipping the computer monitor around. “Your mother bought the unit for an eighth of what it is worth now.”
“Who is the new buyer?”
“The buyer is private, but this price tells us everything we need to know.” Mike flashes me a look over the desk. “Your mother’s notes on the Crows are worth a lot to someone.”
And I know exactly who that someone is…
I rise from the desk, my heart beating out of my chest.
“I take cash, card. Whatever is easiest.”
I dig my hand into my purse, unfolding a wad of cash, handing over the correct amount.
“Ah,” tuts Mike, spreading the cash across his desk. “You’re missing another forty.”
“But I was only thirty minutes.”
“My prices have doubled.”
I frown, opening my purse, handing him another forty. “You should update your website.”
“Perhaps,” says Mike in passing, rising from his desk to see me out. “Goodbye, Miss Bennett. Remember to give me a call if you see the vehicle again.”
How much will that be? Eighty bucks a minute?
“Sure,” I say, bidding him goodbye, taking the elevator down after being fucked robbed.
I cross the road, staring vacantly into space like a zombie. I should probably report Salvatore Moretti. At least file a police report. Fuck knows what this guy does on the weekend…
“The weekend is a concept I have been struggling to understand for several decades now.”
I glance at the time on my watch, picking up the pace. I have weights to lift with Sapphire, and I could fucking use a gym workout right now to let off some steam.
By the sounds of things, I’m going to need all the strength I can get… and not just in the physical sense. Lifting weights builds willpower. It forces you to overcome the pain, to push through it.
And I will be doing a lot of pushing through and resisting next week when I look into my boss’s eyes and tell him no more sex.