Chapter Three
A phone call marked the beginning of Saffi Mirai Iyer’s descent into madness.
Two days ago, she’d been minding her own business in a café in Paris when the name of an old colleague flashed across her phone screen. She’d been too shocked to react at first, painful nostalgia washing over her. And then dread. And finally, begrudgingly, a touch of warmth.
“An heiress is dead? That’s why you’re calling?” Saffi had finally picked up after the sixth missed call, mistakenly assuming that such an incessant bid for her attention implied there would be something interesting to share.
“The Singhs hired us because we’ve helped out a few people in their circle, but that was with insurance fraud and divorce cases,” Eli Taylor said. “This is our firm’s first murder investigation.”
This alarmed Saffi. Not because of the death—she’d seen plenty of that—but at the fact that it had landed in the laps of Andino and Taylor Private Eye. She felt horrible for it, especially when Taylor sounded so anxious.
“So throw a party,” she deadpanned, taking a sip of bitter coffee. She couldn’t understand for the life of her why this exchange couldn’t have been accomplished via email. It would’ve saved her this turbulent cocktail of emotions that hearing Taylor’s voice again stirred up.
“I think I’m more worried than excited,” Taylor said. “I bet it would be different for you, though. We’ve heard all about the cases you’ve solved abroad—”
“Get to the point, Taylor,” Saffi bit out. She could already see where this was going, and she didn’t like the sound of it.
“Well,” he started. “We were thinking, if you’re interested, that you might want to help us?”
For a moment, there was only static between them.
“You could finally visit the office.” Taylor, who’d never been a fan of silence, continued, “We could show you around Los Angeles. You’ve never been, have you?”
Saffi found herself astonished that Taylor had the gall to ask this of her. “You know why I can’t come back to America.”
In fact, other than her, they were the only people who knew.
It wasn’t just her reputation on the line.
Her father had recently been appointed to his second term as Arizona’s senator.
If word of the last American murder investigation she’d been assigned got out—or worse, if she got herself tangled in another lawsuit—it would be his last term. He’d never forgive her.
The other end of the line had no response for that. So he hadn’t forgotten.
“I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important,” Taylor said solemnly.
“The police have already written this case off as an accident, and Atlas is willing to go with their judgment. But Saffi, you should’ve seen the Singhs’ faces.
They’re convinced their daughter was murdered.
What if they’re right? I want a second opinion before we make a mistake we can’t take back. ”
“There are plenty of private investigators in America,” Saffi said. “Ask one of them.”
There was no reason this needed to be her burden.
Besides, Saffi was finally starting to build an international reputation for the quality of her work.
The days were tedious, sure, but she was much better at her job now than she was five years ago—that was undeniable.
She was in a good place: The botched murder investigation in Arizona was no longer haunting her.
The last thing she needed was to rehash everything in America and risk tarnishing her reputation for good.
Still, she couldn’t deny how gratifying it felt that her old friend was seeking out her help specifically.
“It’ll be different this time. California isn’t like Arizona. There’s a moratorium on the death penalty.” Nothing that Saffi didn’t already know. “You’re the only one I’d trust with this,” Taylor said in that earnest tone of his. That was one thing that hadn’t changed in five years.
And that was how Saffi found herself standing in the Los Angeles International Airport two days later, her every possession packed into the duffel bag strapped across her shoulders.
As she stood over polished white flooring, watching the others rush to baggage claim, she felt no pull toward her destination.
She took in the arched ceilings, the stifling air, the migraine-inducing fluorescent lights.
It couldn’t be more different, and yet this airport felt exactly the same as the one in Phoenix.
This prescribed meaning was nothing more than a trick of her mind, she knew that, but she couldn’t slash through the mental block as easily as usual. Five years ago, standing in such a similar place, she’d had the stupid notion that she’d been about to experience something momentous.
Saffi hadn’t told anyone that she was planning on leaving.
Still, she’d thought that she’d turn around in the TSA line and there would be Andino and Taylor begging her not to go.
Or maybe as the crackling voice at her gate announced the last call for boarding, she would get a coincidental message from her parents to convince her otherwise.
Five years later, Saffi had come to recognize that momentous occasions never occurred when you expected them to.
The only person waiting for Saffi at TSA had been a security officer shouting at her to take her shoes off.
The only person who called her at her gate had been the announcement for boarding.
The feeling she’d been left with afterward was awfully similar to that of someone forgetting her birthday.
Childish and overall inconsequential, yes, but still painful.
It was no different after she left either.
Investigations across the ocean weren’t all murder mysteries and scandal—at least not with the few connections Saffi had started out with.
There was still the same boring paperwork to get through, there just wasn’t anyone to keep her company while she did it.
Her parents had contacted her, but the number of calls quickly diminished when they realized the filial daughter they thought they knew had fled, leaving a shell of a person in her place.
Andino and Taylor had tried calling too, but she’d declined until eventually they stopped trying.
Saffi didn’t know what she’d been expecting—just more.
Then came the first birthday card.
It took several years of maturing to recognize that nobody had betrayed Saffi.
If anything, she’d been the betrayer. But leaving had been good for her.
Saffi never would’ve been able to grow—in her confidence, in her knowledge—had she never left in the first place.
But now that she’d done all she could, it was time to go back.
She hailed a cab and tried not to think too much about where she was going.
“So, where’d you fly in from?” the cabdriver asked in that distinctly West Coast drawl.
She responded in a flurry of French, enough to make him give up on the prospect of a conversation.
When she finally arrived at the PI agency, even though some part of her still expected a grand reunion, fireworks and all, she knew better now than to be disappointed when the building was dark. She paid the driver and stepped out of the cab into the chilly night.
“Are you sure this is the right address?” he asked.
Saffi didn’t bother with a reply, crossing the empty parking lot with the overconfidence of an ignorant tourist. It was after-work hours, which meant there wasn’t a single car in the parking lot.
Double-checking over her shoulder that the cab was gone, she removed a bobby pin from her hair and began picking the lock.
It didn’t take long. She’d have to speak to Andino and Taylor about that.
The security system inside the entryway was a nice touch, though, even if they were using the same code as the one at their old PI agency.
She locked the door behind her, taking a moment to adjust to the dark. Goosebumps prickled under her suit jacket—she’d forgotten how much she missed American air-conditioning.
The office was clean, but cluttered, all warm tones.
A small waiting room with two couches greeted her immediately inside, but she bypassed it for the hallway.
There were two open doors to her right, leading into what looked like a conference room and a break room.
To her left were four doors: three shut and one wide open.
All three seemed to be offices, so Saffi claimed the open one for herself—her new home for however long the investigation would last. There was no use checking in to a hotel if she’d be spending most of her nights here anyway. Besides, Andino and Taylor wouldn’t mind.
She’d spent the entire plane ride poring over the preliminary information she’d been sent, so she was glad to find case files and a silver recording device already waiting for her on the desk.
Saffi shrugged off her suit jacket and draped it over the back of her chair.
Unlike Andino and Taylor, she had made murder investigations her bread and butter.
Saffi almost felt bad for the culprit, who had likely grown used to running circles around the law enforcement here.
But now that Saffi was in America again, this killer’s days were numbered.
It would only be a matter of time before they realized it.