Chapter 12
Mateo flipped open the file in his lap and scanned its contents for the tenth time.
He sat in his rental car in the parking lot of a minimart across the street from Melody’s apartment.
The sun had begun to set, casting the shadows of the building over his black sedan.
Peering over the wheel, he found the same thing he had the last time he’d looked up. No movement. Not yet.
Melody should be leaving for Solstice any minute, but until then, he was left with nothing to do but wait.
A half-eaten cheeseburger and a handful of fries sat in a carton on the passenger seat, but Mateo ignored them in favor of the file Darcy had delivered to him that afternoon.
He had spent most of the day on and off the phone with Carlisle, who had blistered his ears the moment he’d answered.
She had torn him a new asshole, throwing around words like ‘reprimand’ and ‘disciplinary action’ and ‘suspension.’ The threats weren’t hollow, but Mateo knew he hadn’t gone far enough over the line for Carlisle to follow through.
He was on a tightrope from here on, and Carlisle spent the rest of the day making sure he knew that.
After Carlisle had finished chewing him out, she hung up on him.
She called back half an hour later, after she’d cooled off, to inform him that despite his defiance, she was going to push for the warrant he’d requested.
The photos and videos he’d taken could never be used in court, but would be enough to get them a warrant for a raid if Carlisle could frame the evidence as having come from an anonymous source.
Without being implicated in the illegal surveillance, Mateo would fly under the radar.
Only his boss and team would know what he had done.
It would stay that way, as long as Mateo walked the straight and narrow from now on.
In the glow of the light coming from the dashboard, Mateo took full stock of the details Darcy had unearthed.
Her conclusions validated Mateo’s suspicions, resulting in more questions than answers.
All records of Melody Johnson began twelve months prior, with nothing before that to indicate she’d ever existed before then.
Her driver’s license, which stated that she was thirty-one years old, had been issued by the Louisiana DMV seven months ago.
Her social security number had to have been recently generated, as it wasn’t tied to any previous earnings or employment history.
Her apartment lease, utility bills, and phone number had all been established within the past year.
Her employment with Solstice had been handled through an agency with ties to Valemont Holdings.
She didn’t even exist online, lacking a single social media profile.
There were no high school or college transcripts, no medical records or credit history.
Melody Johnson, club waitress, was a fraud.
What Mateo couldn’t yet figure out was whether the fake identity covered the past of a criminal or of a victim.
With no insight into her background, Mateo couldn’t be sure what her connection to Suede or the club might mean, which was why he was here.
Until one or both of his requests for warrants had been pushed through, his hands were tied.
Donovan wouldn’t have the results of the crime lab testing until tomorrow morning at the earliest. The rest of the team had their marching orders. Carlisle had been placated for now.
Mateo had found himself pacing his hotel room with nothing to do but pull apart and examine every detail, trying to make the fragments fit together.
Frustration had driven him from the room, and his intention had been to grab dinner, take a drive, and find some way to distract himself until he was tired enough to attempt sleep.
Mateo had ended up here, waiting for Melody to vacate her apartment so he could slip in behind her.
It was exactly the sort of move he should avoid after his stunt last night.
But unearthing the truth about Melody had become as important to him as finding the UNSUB.
As important as taking down Suede, Morrison, and Wilson.
As important as sniffing out the owner of Valemont Holdings.
Because something deep inside him, some instinctual thing, told him there was a part of the puzzle in which Melody fit.
He wouldn’t rest until he figured out the contours of that shape and where it fit.
He flipped the file closed and slid it between the seat and the center console.
He had just raised his eyes to the second floor of the apartment building when Melody’s door swung open.
She appeared, wearing a light jacket over her getup for the night, something black that sparkled with sequins in the fading light.
A pair of thigh-high boots covered her legs.
He watched her descend the stairs and turn right, heading toward Solstice.
He kept his eyes on her until she disappeared, then remained where he sat until he was certain she hadn’t forgotten anything.
Once Mateo was sure enough time had passed, he left the car, snatching the hood of his sweatshirt over his head.
He took a wide berth around the building, taking his time.
He approached from the back, climbing up the fire-escape to Melody’s second floor apartment.
He came up through an opening on her wrought iron balcony, just large enough to hold two people.
A set of wicker chairs sat with a square table between them.
He gingerly stepped over and around the plants cluttering the space.
There were pots everywhere, bursting with greenery and flowers—wedged into the corners and behind the chairs, hanging from hooks.
The sliding glass door had a flimsy lock, and he had it picked in seconds, sliding it slowly open and stepping inside.
She had left a lamp on in the living room, illuminating a space that was stark and clean. Too clean.
Fishing a pair of nitrile gloves from his pocket, he slid them on and searched every corner and surface of the room.
The furniture was modern and stark, hardly used.
Few concessions to decorating had been made aside from more plants.
There were ferns and rubber trees and pothos tucked away here and there, and an entire shelving unit held a collection of orchids and other exotic flowers, all displayed to their advantage.
The supplies to care for them were neatly tucked into a crate in a corner—shears, spray bottle, watering can, fertilizer.
Mateo searched under the couches and chairs before moving to the kitchen, opening cabinets and drawers.
Everything indicated a person who lived alone.
The offerings of the refrigerator were sparse and only two sets of dishes and silverware had been stored.
Inspecting the walls, he found only a few pieces of modern art.
No photos of Melody or her friends and family. No memorabilia or trinkets.
Ducking into the bedroom, he retrieved his flashlight and shined it across the space.
It was more colorful in here, decorated in shades of pink, teal, and orange that matched the patterned bedspread.
Rugs had been scattered over the hardwood floors to offer comfort and pops of color.
A record player sat on a low table in one corner, crates of records stacked beside it.
He rifled through the albums, not bothering to stifle his curiosity.
Melody, apparently, liked Country music.
There was an impressive collection of R it reminded him of Melody’s hair.
Mateo peered into her closet next, finding that it seemed to belong to two different people.
On one side hung her club attire—sexy pieces of leather and denim, sparkling with gems and glitter.
On the other side were clothes meant for comfort—worn jeans, t-shirts, sweaters, hoodies, shorts.
None of them were designer, the labels worn and faded.
The pieces had the soft, worn feel of thrift store clothing and her sexy heels were all knockoffs.
Her dresser drawers revealed more of the same—loungewear and pajamas in soft fabrics and feminine colors.