Thirty-Five Justice
THIRTY-FIVE
Justice
This place is a complete shitshow. My men edge toward the wide glass doors, weapons ready, muscles tight. I raise a hand, sharp enough to stop them as I move into the lobby, pleased Ella has gone the opposite direction. “Let ’em in.” They step back, eyes still locked on the flashing lights outside.
I glance at the dark cameras in the corners. “Also, somebody fucking find Kaz.” My voice carries through the marble, echoing off polished walls.
Uniformed cops barrel in, guns drawn, boots squeaking on wet tile. Their radios crackle, the smell of damp wool and rain-soaked leather cutting through the sterile polish of the lobby.
“The body’s at the end of the lobby down the hallway,” I tell them, motioning toward Sylveria. “Nobody’s gonna shoot you.”
They don’t look convinced. Can’t blame them. My reputation precedes me, and it’s not soft.
An older officer steps forward, easily pushing eighty, though his frame is still lean and wired with muscle. His mustache and gravelly voice give him a Sam Elliott edge, the kind of man who’s fought his share of battles. “Mr. Beathach, I’m to wait with you until the detectives arrive.”
I point to one of the plush seating areas. “Have a seat.”
“Sure thing.” He lowers into the leather with an impressive grace.
My shoulders loosen for the first time in minutes. At least Ella’s out. The thought steadies me. She’s mine to guard, mine to keep. Nobody takes what’s mine and walks away breathing.
I sit.
“Who found the body?” he asks.
I point to the crying woman in the corner already speaking with officers.
Fifteen minutes later, the detectives finally show. I’m not surprised to see Ashner and Caldwell again.
She’s buttoned into a navy suit with a pink shell beneath, boots polished to a deep brown sheen. He’s still in that trench coat, dark circles carved deeper into his face than last time.
They glance at me first, walk to the back hallway to see Sylveria’s corpse, which I assume is still sprawled across the polished floor.
They return, and the Sam Elliott look-alike stretches to his feet and crosses over to speak with my men behind the desk. Detective Caldwell takes the seat across from me, the leather creaking under her weight. Detective Ashner stays standing, chin lifted, eyes cutting down.
“This is a terrible coincidence,” Caldwell says, her voice flat but sharp.
My gaze sweeps the lobby again, expecting Kaz to walk through a door. Any fucking door. Where is he? “Isn’t it, though?”
“Yes, but the good news”—Caldwell’s eyes flick upward toward the corners of the ceiling—“is this is Malice Media. I’m sure there’s CCTV everywhere.”
“It’s my understanding the cameras are out,” I answer.
Her stare drags back to me, slow as a blade sliding free of a sheath. “Are you kidding me?”
“Oh, if only I were.” I lean back, calm on the outside, heat simmering beneath.
Why would anybody shoot Sylveria in the head and then tuck her into my damn closet?
The timing stinks. “We have witnesses but no video. She fell out of the closet when the cleaning lady found her,” I say evenly, pointing to Gertrude.
She’s sobbing into the chest of a uniform, voice rushing in Spanish, hands cutting frantic arcs through the air.
Caldwell studies me harder this time, suspicion bright in her dark eyes. “I didn’t think you were dumb enough to bury a body on your own property.” Her tone is low, almost a murmur, but sharp enough to slice.
“I’m not.”
“Maybe you are. Maybe you’re trying to look dumb.”
I force myself to remain relaxed. “Not my style.” My watch ticks faintly as I glance at it. Every second drags heavily against me. Whoever’s making a move is doing it hard. Right now.
Ashner pulls a stick of gum from his pocket and slowly unwraps it. “Do you have somewhere to be?”
“Always.” I lean back, shoulders loose. “Before you ask, I have no idea who shot Mrs. Rendale and dumped her in the lobby closet of my building.”
“That would make sense,” Caldwell says, “except the cameras are down.”
“Obviously,” Ashner mutters.
Caldwell shakes her head. “You’ve got one of the most intricate systems in the world. Are you telling me just anybody can shut it down?”
Around us, my men hold steady, but the police outnumber them.
Too many twitchy fingers near too many triggers.
One wrong move, and I’ll be nothing more than a red stain across the white marble.
“No,” I admit. “It’s incredibly difficult to infiltrate my system.
” Which leads to the real question—where’s Kaz?
His absence gnaws at me, especially since my system has gone dark. Did somebody get to him? Take him?
Ashner and Caldwell keep pressing, their clipped words and irritating voices scraping at my patience. But none of it slices deep. My skin doesn’t burn, doesn’t split. Not today.
It’s Ella. It has to be. Something about her, her voice, her kindness, her energy, somehow has eased the pain always around me. I think she’s correct in that her energy and mine complement each other. Belong together.
“Where is Ella Rendale?” Ashner asks suddenly, his gaze sweeping the room.
I wondered when they’d get to her. “She went shopping.”
“She’s not—” Caldwell cuts herself off with a short snort. “You let her go shopping by herself?”
I meet her gaze without blinking, my jaw steady, shoulders squared. “I don’t have her on a leash and chain,” I say evenly, though the truth is closer than I’d admit. “She chose to go shopping. I can’t tell you where she is right now.”
“Why don’t you call her?” Ashner plops the gum in his mouth.
“I’d rather not. If I’m going to tell her that her stepmother is dead, I’ll do it in person.” My voice stays mellow but my jaw’s locked tight.
Caldwell runs her palms down her perfectly pressed navy slacks. Her nails gleam a brighter pink today, catching the light like lacquered glass. Interesting. She breathes out before speaking. “Here’s the deal, Mr. Beathach, you’re coming down to the station with us.”
The heavy glass doors shove open again. Fergus shoulders his way inside, green flannel damp with rain, Carhartt jeans stiff, brown boots scuffed from work.
His dark hair is slicked back. “Sorry. Took me a while to get through that mess outside.” He shakes his head, water droplets flying.
“Not only do you have police everywhere, the news vans are here. Somebody tipped them off, boss.”
“Great,” Caldwell and I mutter at the same time.
Fergus moves forward, his gaze sharp. “From my understanding, based on what our men said on the way in, the cameras went down this morning, and then the cleaning lady found the body. The police were already en route, and the press was parked outside before anyone even knew what was in the closet.” He checks his watch, gold catching the fluorescent glare. “Somebody set this up.”
Ashner chomps his gum again. “Maybe your client set this up. It’s almost too obvious he’s guilty, right? That’s a decent defense, don’t you think, Caldwell?”
Caldwell tilts her head, a stray strand of dark hair slipping from her bun to frame her cheek. She’d be pretty if she weren’t gunning to put me in a cell. Not for me, not for anyone tied to me.
She flips her notebook closed with a neat snap.
“Well, Mr. Beathach, you are being detained. You’re coming down to the station with us either on your own or in handcuffs.
” Her eyes cut toward the glass doors. Outside, news vans jockey for curb space, umbrellas bump, and camera lights flare white against rain-slicked pavement.
“I’m fine either way.” I smile, slow, and pull my phone from my back pocket, the case warm against my palm. “You might want to take a look at this.”
“What’s this?” Caldwell asks.
I hadn’t planned on sharing this information. “Cameras. Installed at my personal residence yesterday.”
Fergus’s head snaps up. “You did?”
“Yeah. Didn’t tell anybody.” My tone stays even. “With a body showing up there, I figured it was time.”
Caldwell takes the phone and scrolls, face unreadable except for a twitch at the corner of her mouth. The blue of her suit catches the overheads, and her nails flash a hot pink when her thumb moves.
“As you can see,” I say, “there I am arriving with Ms. Rendale last night. Timestamped. There we are leaving this morning. Plenty of angles. No window for me to kill Sylveria Rendale and stash her in a closet on my own property.”
“These could be doctored.” Caldwell’s gaze lifts.
“Sure.” I take the phone back. “Your email?”
She gives it, and I send the files. “Run them through every analyst you trust. My word stands. It’s real.”
Fergus exhales, shoulders loosening under rain-damp flannel. “Never thought you’d put cameras out there.”
“Didn’t have a choice.” The lobby smells of lemon polish, wet wool, and the faint iron thread of death. “We need to know who is getting onto my property and leaving bodies.” More importantly, I need eyes on Ella at all times.
Caldwell snorts. “You can afford to hire somebody to kill, you know.”
I give her a smile. A real one. “I’d never ask anybody to do my dirty work for me, Detective. That I promise you.”
She swallows and visibly shakes herself before her chin goes up.
Questions keep coming for another half hour.
They cycle the order, poke the same corners, try to catch a flicker.
I give them nothing new. Radios chirp. A tech’s flash pops near the closet.
Evidence markers sprout across the tile like small yellow teeth.
The coroner seals Sylveria into a black bag, zipper rasping, then a cart squeaks away toward freight doors.
Caldwell stands, straightening her slacks. “I want everyone out of this lobby. Our techs need the entire space.”
I stand as well. “Fine by me.”
The front doors push wide. Alexei Solokov strides in with two men tight at his shoulders. Their collars are crooked, hair damp, jackets creased from elbows in the crowd. Rain beads on his coat and rolls down to the floor in neat drops.
“Mr. Sokolov,” Detective Ashner says, stepping forward, trench coat swinging. “We’d like to discuss a couple of matters with you.” He tucks his gum to one side of his mouth and waits.
“Not now.” Alexei doesn’t spare him another look. His gaze finds me across the room and holds. There’s calculation there, and a heat that ignores the chill in the vents. “Justice,” he says, voice even.
“Yes, detectives,” I tell them without taking my eyes off Alexei. “I’ll be in touch.”
Caldwell’s jaw works once. “I want you at the station later today for a formal interview. Don’t make me detain you.” She signals her team. Uniforms start funneling people toward the doors, hands light on elbows, voices clipped but controlled. Outside, a siren winds down.
Yeah, she doesn’t have enough to take me in with my alibi in her email. Not right now, anyway.
Fergus edges closer, boots leaving damp ovals on the marble. “You want Sokolov in the conference room?” he asks under his breath, glancing at Alexei’s guards, then at mine.
“No. We’re going downstairs,” I say. “Sound good?”
Alexei adjusts his cuffs, brushes water from his sleeve, then nods once toward the interior hall.
I don’t give the cops another glance. I turn and head toward the elevator, Fergus tight on my right, Alexei and his two men shadowing me with steps that echo across the marble.
Their boots leave damp streaks on the floor from the storm outside.
The lobby’s air is thick with polish, copper, and the faint sting of rain every time the glass doors open.
“Wait a minute,” Caldwell calls after me. Her voice is sharp enough to crack through the hum of voices behind us.
“Nope.” I put my hand on the plate. The scanner warms under my palm, then the elevator doors slide open with a hiss. She’ll need a warrant for the other floors.
We step into the car. It’s a good-sized box, steel walls reflecting too much tension. The fluorescent strip above buzzes, throwing hard shadows across the men crowding inside. The air grows close, heavy, a mix of aftershave, damp wool, and gun oil. Too much testosterone, too little space.
The doors close.
“What the fuck’s going on?” Alexei asks, his tone clipped, almost casual, though his eyes are sharp. One of his men shifts beside him, adjusting the strap of his shoulder holster.
“Sylveria Rendale was found dead in a lobby closet.” My words drop into the silence.
Alexei stills. For a beat, the only sound is the grinding of the elevator cables as we descend. “No shit?”
I nod once.
“Did you kill her?” he asks.
“No, and I don’t know who did. My cameras are down.” I don’t like that fact. “I can’t find my computer guy. Kaz.”
Alexei shrugs, but the movement’s too loose, too deliberate. “I know all about Kaz and have never found a hint of disloyalty to you. But, maybe he did it.”
The laugh I force out is short and sharp. “Kaz? No. He’s loyal to the bone.”
The doors part with a low chime, spilling us into the server floor.
Cold air hits my face, smelling of ozone, solder, and dust baked into wiring.
Towers of servers hum in tight rows, their blinking lights throwing pulses of green and blue across steel and concrete.
The sound is constant and low, like a growl that never fades.
Kaz’s chair is empty. His console dark. The emptiness there is louder than any alarm.
Alexei’s mouth tightens. “If your guy isn’t here, why am I?”
“I’m not a novice,” I answer, already striding to an isolated machine that isn’t connected to Malice Media or even the internet. I want to get this over with so I can go reassure Ella. At least Wynd got her somewhere safe. “Plug in your damn drive.”
Alexei fishes out a black thumb drive, rolls it across his knuckles, then tosses it to me. I catch it, shove it into a port on the unit that’s safely disconnected from my garnet.
The screen flickers. A video loads showing grainy night footage of a Jeep rolling up in front of Alexei’s place. Two men climb out. Both masked.
The first is clumsy, steps uneven, shoulders hunched like he doesn’t belong in his own skin.
The second rounds the hood with measured purpose. A rocket launcher gleams against his back. “That’s you,” Alexei says. “It’s your watch.”
“It’s not,” I breathe out. “Mine has more garnets.” I watch the man as his arm shifts, wrist turning, and the ink on his skin flashes under a streetlight. I freeze. My pulse thunders in my ears. “Holy fuck,” I murmur. Betrayal feels like knives down my torso. “I know him.”
Alexei leans closer, his men tensing at his sides. “Who?”
My head tips back, rage sliding into place like a blade locking in. “We need to find Ella. Now.”