“You could have gotten some sleep, at least. I promise, I won’t bite.” The voice comes from the far end of a narrow living room in an apartment somewhere on the outskirts of the city.
For all intents and purposes, it’s an upgrade from my father’s home. I’m not under lock and key. Theoretically, I can leave whenever I want. Yet, a persistent cold sweat glues my blouse to my body, and I can barely keep my breathing steady.
“Where did you get this?” I’m referring to a set of screenshots displayed on an electronic tablet. There’s a dozen or so, and each one looks like it was taken by a cell phone in a hurry. Every shot is a different section of what must be a larger document. The text is hard to read in places, but after scouring each one multiple times, I’ve gotten the gist of what they spell out.
That doesn’t mean I believe it, though. In some ways, it’s impossible to. And yet, all of the missing pieces regarding Hale’s death finally seem to slot in place.
The sad part is that they point to only one conclusion…
“Coffee?” My companion steps forward, two steaming mugs in hand. Seeing the object on my lap, he frowns. “Don’t tell me you stayed up all night reading that?”
I don’t answer right away. I just flip through the same twelve images as Jamie inches closer and sets the coffee on a small end table beside me. After sipping from his mug, he sighs and sits on the couch next to me.
“I got them directly from the coroner,” he explains, reiterating what he told me last night when he first showed me the device. “Before all trace of the report was purged from his files, that is. Those photos are the only proof it ever existed, and I doubt they’d be enough to stand up in a trial or anything.”
“A trial,” I echo in a faint whisper. “A murder trial.”
Because according to the coroner, Hale’s death hadn’t been a heart attack, or even a normal overdose. He’d been killed. I’d suspected as much—no, I think I’d always been sure of it—but having my worst fears confirmed outright still hurts like hell. My eyes are so sore from crying that they ache whenever I blink. I’m sure they’re bloodshot, too, explaining the pitying way Jamie reaches out to pat my hand.
“I know this is a lot to take in,” he says. “I’m sorry.”
“Why were you even investigating his death?” I ask, pulling my hand away.
“I wasn’t,” he says. “Not at first. May I?”
He reaches for the tablet, and I give it to him. He swipes until he finds a page that he holds up for me to see.
“I was investigating this—the street name is Black Heroin. Unimaginative, I know, but trust me. That stuff is nastier than the name implies. It’s a highly potent, extremely lethal concentration of the drug, trafficked only by a particular cartel. It’s rare, and only recently did it start showing up in Westpoint City—but, suspiciously, just in apparent overdose cases. Each one of those deaths? They can be linked directly to your father’s Salvation community outreach program.”
I try to process that accusation without reacting like some panicked little girl. Rather than deny the allegation outright, I swallow hard. “How can you be sure of that?”
“Hold on… Here.” He angles the tablet toward him and fishes for another file. This one is just a typed list of names and dates.
“I got tipped off by a friend in the vice division that they were finding bodies, all people with few relatives or ties to the city. Men. Women. Under overpasses. In alleyways. Typical places where the homeless congregate, but these seemingly poor, destitute people all had Black Heroin in their system—not the usual street-grade stuff they typically find in vagrants. To give you an idea of how odd that is—the Cortez Cartel is the only one known to deal in that kind of drug, and it isn’t cheap. A single gram can go for a thousand on the black market, and it’s usually cut with something weaker when distributed for recreational use. It’s not the kind of stuff some poor nobody can get their hands on easily, that’s for damn sure.”
“What?” Overwhelmed, I place my head in my hands, rubbing my temples. “Are you saying that my brother was working with the cartel?”
“No. I think it’s far more complicated than that. I think his murder is connected to the same people disposing of those poor victims like garbage every other week. They’ve been careful up until now, ensuring that no one death is suspicious enough to trigger a full investigation. They’ve all been filed as accidental. It’s only when you go looking for the right clues that you can even begin to piece them together.”
He makes it sound so logical, but I don’t follow. “What are you saying? My father gives out heroin with his free clothes and employment packages?”
To his credit, Jamie doesn’t laugh. “Something like that. Black heroin is extremely potent as a murder weapon. The dose is small enough to not seem like an overdose at first glance, unlike the cheaper, street-grade stuff. The only problem? Black Heroin isn’t trafficked in Westpoint City, however, a shipment was caught in the port roughly a year ago. Supposedly the supply has been under lock and key in the police evidence room since then. Do you see what that means?”
I’m starting to, but I can’t bring myself to say it out loud.
Jamie doesn’t appear to have the same hang up, “Either a gang in Westpoint City has gotten their hands on the most premium, sought-after drug on the market and decided not to traffic it, or… They have a mole in the police department who can supply them with enough doses to take out their enemies and make it seem like an accident. All while keeping their hands clean and preventing the finger from being pointed at any local outfit. After all, every drug has a signature. A calling card, so to speak, that can be traced directly to the main supplier. Now, can you tell me which gang would be powerful enough—and desperate enough—to carry out murders without wanting to take credit for them? You want my opinion?” He sets the tablet aside and crosses his arms, his expression thoughtful.
“I think you’d only take those risks if you had something to protect. These murders weren’t done for clout or for the hell of it. They were purposefully carried out, and extra care was taken to have them swept under the radar, especially in a time when crime has been running rampant. The Saints, the cartel, and the other gangs aren’t usually that damn humble. Not unless someone bigger is calling the shots. Someone big enough to have a mole planted in the heart of the Westpoint PD who can help themselves to a drug that can’t be traced to any entity.”
I squirm, coming to the same conclusion he already has. “Do you think my father is involved?”
“I don’t think that. I know it for a fact.”
I sit forward, unable to disguise my shock. “How?”
“Because I know how to follow the money. Nothing in this city comes cheap. If you want something done, you have to grease the right palms—” He holds up his hand for emphasis. “For the past year, every month, a prominent investigator in the Westpoint PD has been receiving a substantial sum of money in a brand-new, unreported account. Those payments correspond with the earliest known Black Heroin deaths. A coincidence?”
“I don’t understand. What does that have to do with my father?”
“I’m getting to that,” he says. “But first… How do I know that I can trust you? Not to be frank, Ms. Heywood, but what’s to stop you from waltzing up to your father and telling him everything. Then I wind up on the hit list. I need assurances that you aren’t as naïve as you’ve pretended to be.”
I bite my bottom lip, weighing the potential options. There aren’t that many. He’s right. I could run home and tell my father—but this man doesn’t strike me as the naïve type, either. If he had doubts, he wouldn’t have casually spilled every detail of his hard-hitting story to a stranger, no matter who she was. Which means that he’s either been lying this whole time, or…
“There’s something you’ve left out,” I tell him, meeting his gaze squarely.
He nods, impressed. “Now you’re catching on.”
Of course, he wouldn’t tell me everything. He’s held back whatever key piece of information he believes makes my father the lynchpin of this whole crazy scheme.
It’s funny. I asked Daze to teach me how to fight when I should have asked him to show me how to bluff. How to talk my way out of any situation and convince my target that I’m on their side. Without his instruction, I’ll have to make things up as I go along.
To his credit, he’s given me a fairly good blueprint to follow. Lie.
“Let’s say that everything you’ve told me is true,” I begin, clearing my throat. “Why talk to me? For all you know, my father keeps me in the dark. I have no idea what he’s up to or what Salvation has to do with any of it.”
“Maybe,” he says. “But I know that you’ve been around someone who does. One might deem him a key player in this whole mess.”
An uneasy feeling washes over me. “Who?”
“Daze Keaton, former president of the Westpoint Saints. He isn’t known for his undying love for your father, so the fact that you stayed with him for several days must mean that he told you a thing or two that piqued your interest.”
I lurch to my feet. “How do you know that?” A horrifying possibility comes to mind. “Were you stalking me?”
“Stalking makes it sound so dirty, don’t you think? Let’s just say I’ve had my eye on Daze Keaton and his associates for a while. You can thank your brother for that.”
“Hale?” I sway, pressing a hand to my chest as agonizing pain rips through my heart. I feel like I’ve been punched.
“Please. Have a seat.” He nods to the couch. Only when I’ve collapsed onto it does he continue, “What do you know about him, your brother?”
I choose my words carefully. “To hear my father tell it, he was the troubled black sheep of the family.”
“But what do you think?”
“I don’t know,” I admit. “I’m starting to realize that there is a whole side to him that I didn’t understand, and he didn’t trust me enough to tell me what he was afraid of.”
“But he did tell someone,” the man says. “Several someones, in fact. You want to know how I got my intel on where to look and for what? I’ll give you three guesses.”
I frown as only one option comes to mind. Should I be so surprised? “Hale?”
“Bingo. Believe me, I was skeptical when the son of the city’s most prominent and pious politician sends a cryptic message to my email alleging a scheme involving the criminal underbelly’s most powerful players. I didn’t believe him at first. To be honest, I thought he was fucking nuts.”
He wasn’t the only one. “What changed your mind?”
Darkness falls over his expression. “I followed the money. Though, I will admit that I didn’t think you played any role in it, not at first. Hale made it seem like you were just an innocent bystander—”
“He talked about me with you?”
“But then,” the man continues as if I’d never spoken. “I saw the news and noticed how you looked at me the other day when I mentioned who I was. You know something. Hale gave me most of the puzzle pieces, but some are still missing, and I can’t even think of going forward with this story until I have the full picture. Hopefully, we can help each other.”
It’s my turn to be skeptical. “How do I know that I can trust you?”
“Because I know the answer to the question you’re dying to ask. I insinuated that Hale had been murdered, but you didn’t even bat an eyelash. You suspected something, I’m sure, but you don’t know the whole picture. If you did, I don’t think you’d be willing to let your father parade you around the city for a photo op. I heard he has a big press conference this morning—” He makes a show of eyeing his wristwatch. “I think you’re going to miss it.”
“So, what is the full picture?” I’m ready for him to just talk in circles and give more cryptic warnings, but his expression changes as he sits forward, stroking his chin.
“I’m not a lawyer, so pardon me if I get this wrong, but they say the three things you need to solve a murder are, motive, means, and opportunity. When it comes to who would want to get rid of Hale, I can think of one glaring motive—keeping him quiet. As far as means and opportunity, I think we both know who fits those two criteria.”
“Okay. Keep talking,” I demand, playing along.
“Hale shared a lot of what he knew with me, but he kept other details close to the vest. It’s only recently that I’ve been able to figure out some of those tidbits for myself, but I know one thing. As a journalist with standards to uphold, I’ve been restrained from going public with anything concrete until I have all my bases covered. Hale, on the other hand, was impatient, and I know for a fact that he was planning on confronting your father with what he knew. Not long after that, he winds up dead from the same drug that killed the very people he’d been investigating. Tell me you can see the connection there.”
I can’t see anything as my eyes well with fresh tears, but I blink them back, fighting for composure. “You still haven’t said how my father is involved or why exactly Salvation is connected to those deaths,” I point out.
“Come on, Frances. May I call you Frances? In any case, now that I’ve met you, you don’t strike me as the quiet, obedient type. At least not fully. Think.”
I take a page out of Daze’s playbook and devise a solution he might have were he here. “You think my father made a deal to use Salvation somehow. He trades some of the homeless people to the gangs who run the city. But for what and why?”
“Now we’re getting somewhere,” Jamie says. “The answers to those questions are important, but the main one is what does Michael Heywood stand to gain? And how far was he willing to go to achieve that goal? That’s one of the biggest missing pieces of this puzzle, and I think you can help me fill in the gaps.”
“How?”
“I need you to get close to your father and find out who his real contact is—and I’m not talking about Silas Rotteridge or any other criminal punk in the city. This has to be something far bigger. I need a name. A real boogeyman to point to.”
“Why do you think I can find that out when Hale couldn’t?”
He sits back, eyeing me from head to toe. “Honestly? I’m not sure you can, but I can’t go public with this story without a clear connection. I need to find it and fast. The second your father is elected, it might be too late to do anything to stop what’s already set in place.”
“What does that mean?” For the life of me, I can’t come up with an explanation. At least, not one grim enough to explain his worried expression.
“Look, trustworthiness isn’t something a lot of reporters these days are known for, but I’m willing to go out on a limb to prove to you that I can make this story public and get justice for your brother. To do that, I’m going to need your help. Time is running out. I have just three days before my editor pulls the plug on this story and sends me to some backwater town to cover PTA meetings.”
“How will I even know what to look for?” I doubt Father would have his evil manifesto lying around for me to find.
“To be fair, I don’t really know. But I’ll give you whatever I can to help you figure that out, starting with everything Hale gave me. It’s all on there.” He nods to the tablet and returns it to me. “Every email. Every note, and every clue that I’ve pieced together. Maybe you can see something in it all that I missed. In any case, I think he’d want you to have it.”
I consider mentioning the notebooks of his I have, but who knows if there’s anything useful in them at all?
“You’re welcome to stay here for as long as you want,” Jamie adds, rising to his feet, “but I have to head out. These leads won’t track down themselves. In the meantime, if you ever need to get ahold of me, use the number on my business card. Ring once. Then hang up and ring again, and I’ll pick up right away. Otherwise, I’ll come to you if I learn anything of interest.”
“Why can’t I just come back here?”
He winks and heads for the door. “Because this isn’t my apartment. The real owners won’t be back for at least another night, given their flight schedule, but I suggest you find a new place to lie low if you don’t intend to go home just yet. Though, I kind of hope you reconsider. I just need one piece of evidence to tie your father to potentially the biggest scandal to hit Westpoint City. You may be the only one who can find it, so please keep that in mind. I’ll be in touch. Oh, and there is one more thing…”
He shoots me a probing glance from over his shoulder. “I don’t know what your relationship is with Daze Keaton or what you know about his past, but if I were you, I’d learn everything I could. There’s enough to give you a basic crash course on that tablet. If you learn anything, you know how to find me. See ya around.”
He’s gone before I’ve fully processed everything he said. The first part to sink in is that I’m an accomplice in a break-in. I bolt to my feet, prepared to leave—but surprisingly, another realization takes precedence over even the prospect of trespassing.
Hale wasn’t crazy. He wasn’t a defiant black sheep and didn’t kill himself. Some of those things I’d already begun to suspect but having them confirmed outright hurts like hell. I can’t deny that.
I sink to the floor and wind up staring blankly ahead, trying to see some way out of this chaos. The first thing I should do, of course, is leave this stolen apartment—then find Daze. After that…
My father is probably on the warpath, searching the city high and low for me. If I return, a belt lashing will be the least of my worries. He’ll lock me away forever or marry me to Colton on the spot.
But do I owe it to Hale to at least try and uncover the truth, for him?
For now, I push everything from my mind but the most pressing concern—footsteps. They march down the hall, loud enough to be heard inside. Warily, I creep to the door. A glance out of the peephole makes my heart sink. I see at least three men in dark uniforms marching around the corner. Police? Or perhaps part of my father’s private security team.
Shit. I tiptoe deeper into the apartment and try to come up with a plan. After spotting myself in a decorative mirror, I decide that my clothing is the first thing I should tackle—walking around in a designer coat and dress will definitely draw notice.
Down a narrow hallway, I find the first of two bedrooms. It alone might have betrayed that this place couldn’t possibly be owned by the reporter—unless, of course, he preferred shades of pink and a closet stocked with feminine clothing. I find a pair of jeans and a gray sweater and leave my dress on a hanger as a gift for the woman who seems to be my size. I make sure to move Daze’s knife from the dress pocket to the jeans. Then I grab a hooded jacket hanging on a hook near the front door. Hopefully, the change in attire will help me blend in.
Then I gather up my stuff and try to think. If I want to locate Daze as my next task, there is the question of where I’d find him? I doubt he’d stay at his apartment after Silas’ attack.
Besides, Father will have his men looking for me, and I’m sure that’s the first place they’ll check. The thought of him makes me glance at a clock on the wall, numb with dread. It’s just past ten a.m. Ironically, as Jamie pointed out, his press conference should be airing now.
I fumble around until I find a remote and flip through the television channels. As if through divine intervention of the cruelest kind, within three tries, my father’s face fills the screen.
“…time to forge a battle against crime for the welfare of my family, and that of every family in this city. If elected, I will enact a joint crime-fighting task force able to strike at the heart of every major syndicate in and around our city. We will destroy this scourge,” he declares, staring dead into the camera. I swear he’s looking right at me. “We will win.”
I turn the TV off and rake my hands through my hair, trying not to panic. A joint crime-fighting task force? It sounds…destructive.
If Daze catches wind of this, only God knows what he might do to find me. Go directly to my father’s mansion and waltz inside?
I inhale and try to keep my breathing steady. I can’t panic just yet. But where can I go?
With those strange men in the hallway, trespassing doesn’t seem so bad at the moment, so I hunker down with a view of the door and strain my ears, waiting for them to leave. It’s silent for a few excruciatingly long minutes. Then I think I hear a door slam somewhere below. Hopefully, they’ve exited the building for good, though why they were here in the first place? I don’t even want to know.
In any case, lingering in a stranger’s apartment won’t do much good in the long run. I stand and gather my things again. The last thing I grab is the tablet the reporter left, and my heart pangs as I start to tuck it into my purse.
Jamie’s last warning creeps into my mind before I can help it, and I find myself powering on the device and searching for a single name—Daze Keaton. Two files pop up. One is a rather colorful rap sheet dating back to when he must have been a teenager. Breaking and entering, larceny, petty theft, burglary, assault, assault, assault. I don’t think I’m surprised, but it’s still startling to see it all listed with concrete dates.
But that isn’t the revelation that makes me shiver. No, that tidbit of information I discover in the second file, which consists of an old newspaper clipping. LOCAL WOMAN FOUND DEAD—FOUL PLAY SUSPECTED.
Authorities have identified a body found in an abandoned building on Cherry Lane as Carenna Rotteridge, twenty-two…
According to the article, only one suspect was questioned in relation to her death. A past boyfriend and the father of her only child, Daze Keaton of Westpoint City.