When the wheels touch down at a small private airport outside of Raleigh, North Carolina, a black SUV with dark tinted windows waits, idling. My driver gets out to greet me. “Good afternoon, sir.”
The petite brunette is dressed in a pencil skirt and cream blouse with her hair secured in a tight bun at her nape. Her cheerful smile is deceptive, not your typical run-of-the-mill chauffeur. She’s part of an elite team I’ve hired across the country to do any number of investigative services. Background checks. Surveillance. All veterans. All cleared with advanced accesses. And all lethal and proficient in a wide array of weapons.
I greet her with a nod. Her name is Denise Daniels, though she goes by Deedee. Deedee prefers vodka to gin, rocket launchers to firearms, and men to women, though she often indulges in both. She also prefers to let her blown ACL heal in the comfort of her hometown before she goes back into the field. Fair enough.
She opens the back door, but I wave her hospitable pleasantries. Instead, I climb into the front passenger seat and wait until she’s behind the wheel to discuss the agenda. “You know where we're going?” I ask.
Her nod is no-nonsense. “I’ve got the itinerary. Three stops today. Sheriff Everly is expecting us first followed by a visit to medical records at the hospital Miss Palmer was born. And finally, a trip to Sparrow Assisted Living facility.”
“I'd like to get back before midnight.”
Her mouth twists, amused. “If you’re in a hurry, you’ve come to the wrong state. We’re a little more laid-back in these parts.”
“Be laid-back on your time.”
“Yes, sir.” Her foot slams the pedal. I nod in approval.
Our first stop. Sheriff Wade Everly. Stepping into his office feels like I’m the one under investigation. Small talk lasts as long as it takes him to pour me a cup of coffee. “What’s this investigation about?” he asks, handing me the mug.
That’s North Carolina for you. Hospitality with a stiff dose of cut the crap. “The usual background investigation.”
“That so? Well, city boys aren’t the only ones good at investigating.” He smirks and opens a folder. “Leo ‘Z’ Zamparelli. Decorated vet. Honorable discharge.” His fingers air quote. “Chief of Security for D’Angelo Holdings.”
I sip my coffee, peering over the rim in interest.
He narrows his eyes as his hands clasp tightly on his desk. “I’ve got a question. Why is a Chicago syndicate interested in Ivy Palmer?”
I could lie. Or tell a half truth. The problem with law enforcement is that pissing them off isn’t smart. All he has to do is breathe the words mob investigation to the FBI, and half our funds will be frozen overnight.
Not all our funds, mind you. Just the half that the public is privy to.
I cradle the mug in both hands and level with him. As much as I level with anyone. “Ivy’s important to the D’Angelos. I understand she’s been trying to track down her father. We’d like to help.”
He squares me up for a long moment, and I’m reminded of how I should never be in a hurry in North Carolina. Instead of checking my watch, I sit back and sink into another mouthful of the diesel he calls coffee. It’s actually pretty good.
“There’s someone you should talk to,” he offers.
I already know where he’s going. “I’ve spoken with your sister.”
“You did?”
“Apple pie, palm reading, and all.”
With a chuckle, his shoulders relax. “She told me I’d have five children.” He waves all five fingers at me. “It wasn’t until we adopted our youngest, Nathan, that I realized she was right. Which is nutso, considering she told me this when I was eighteen. Trust these words.” He pounds his finger to the desk. “Best birth control ever.”
We both laugh at that one, and he opens up, sharing the contents of a folder hidden in the bottom of his cabinet drawer. “We searched for years.”
I flip through the notes and printouts, focusing on a deposit slip. “What’s this?”
He shook his head. “No idea. When Ivy’s mom passed away, it was tucked inside her purse. I checked the bank. She’d been making large deposits every year. Never less than ten thousand dollars, never more than twenty. Always in cash.”
There’s no name, and nothing distinguishing on the bank slip. I inspect it, confused. “So, why’d you keep it?” He points to the date. I recognize it. “Ivy’s birthday.”
“Bingo.”
We chat on and on about Ivy, exchanging a mishmash of stories from her trying to split her first tooth fairy quarter with her best friend Brooke to me witnessing her encounter with a fishing pole. I do what I always do: Chat him up to win his trust. But with each page of Ivy’s history he shares, she’s winning mine. My trust. My loyalty. My heart.
My fist wraps around that damned love line. I’m falling more for the girl by the minute. If I don’t get out of here before he shares one more whimsical anecdote from her childhood, I’ll be shutting down Hunter and going ring shopping.
I stand, ready to end our meeting and get some fucking air. “Thanks for your time.”
Instead of taking my hand, he hands me the folder. His Ivy File. “Use it for as long as you need.”
I thank him and promise to keep in touch. “I’m heading to the hospital next,” I say as we exchange numbers.
He nods. Another smirk. “Good luck with Vera.”
Vera, the records manager at the hospital Ivy was born, is a ball of warm hospitality behind a curtain of steel. Vera’s friendly and polite as she reminds me that no record would be released without a fully executed subpoena. But she did it with a smile and offered me my pick at her bowl of saltwater taffy. My consolation prize.
I took three in vindication. “You’re very hospitable to the men you boot out the door.”
The elderly woman smiled endearingly. “At least you have manners. I hid my candy from the last guy.”
I unwrapped a chocolate one. “I’m honored. This last guy … what did he look like?”
I chewed the delicious morsel as she thought it over. “Your height. Older. Had a fancy, black car. Chauffeur, too.”
“When was that?”
She thinks it through. “A few weeks back. I remember because I was running a double shift and was way over my hours. Thought the man was with corporate and was about to write me up.”
On a hunch, I show her a picture of Andre. Vera studied it closely, zooming in on his face. “Right age. Wrong guy. The man I saw was a stone-cold fox. This guy?” Her face contorts with disgust. “Straight up serial killer if you ask me.”
“They say that the eyes are the windows to the soul…” I mutter.
“Well, his must be filled with tar.” Vera shivers and finds relief in a cherry taffy. She offers me more for the road, and I’m on my way.
I’m left with a file of mostly nothing, a pocketful of candy, and the disconcerting feeling that another man is trying to find Ivy. For all I know, the guy could be her real father.
I shouldn't be this invested in what comes out of my investigation, but I am. There's no denying it—Ivy Palmer is important to me.
I don’t expect too much from our final stop. We round a corner of bright yellow birch trees and roll up to a single-story building surrounded by patches of flowers and native pines. I picture Ivy here and wonder how happy she was.
Her mother was here for a year and a half, shackling Ivy to her debt. Had she paid it off? Is that why she left?
If it weren't for the large sign that read, Sparrow Assisted Living, I would have thought this was a small hotel or large bed-and-breakfast. The landscapes are trimmed and maintained with small, pink primrose shrubs and vibrant yellow lilies scattered throughout. From every angle, it’s inviting.
I enter. Notes of lemons and vanilla float through the air. The furnishings are warm and cozy with rich drapes and tasteful area rugs. There’s a grand bookshelf just beyond the concierge desk, and the magazines on the counter are new. It feels well-kept. Homey. So different than the cold tiles and sterile atmosphere I imagined.
An older woman in a pale pink dress and knit sweater comes to greet me, extending her hand. “Welcome. I’m Daisy.”
“Leo,” I say, taking her delicate hand for a quick shake. With the sheriff and the hospital, I’m above board, giving them my identity as chief of security for a multi-billion-dollar firm. Here, I'm just Leo. Being less forthright means fewer speedbumps and quicker access to information. “I appreciate you taking my last-minute request for a tour.”
“Of course,” she says enthusiastically and nudges me down the hall. “Right this way.” We meander through the facility as she leads me through a vacant bedroom, the dining room, the rec center that doubles as a gym, and finally, to a courtyard where several people are enjoying the sun.
A frail woman struggles to take down her canvas and easel. I give her a hand and notice the mocha-skinned beauty centered in the frame. Her hair is soft, wavy, and raven black with a single silver strand that graces her face. My heart squeezes in an instant. “Ivy,” I whisper.
The painter nods, and Daisy tilts her head in question. “Do you know Ivy?”
“No,” I lie, shifting my gaze. I point to the corner. “That small gold leaf. Ivy, right?”
The artist nods, then struggles for a moment to speak. I smile patiently. Finally, she strings together several stutters until the words finally form. “I mmmm-miss h-h-her,” she says, her lips twisting in sadness.
I stare at the big, beautiful dark eyes of the woman in the frame. God, I miss her, too. “Can I buy it?” I ask from out of nowhere, not really sure what the hell I'm doing.
The artist ponders it for a moment, opening her mouth, then closing it again.
Daisy steps in, speaking on her behalf. “I think she was hoping that Ivy would be back. It was meant to be a birthday gift, but it wasn't quite ready on her birthday.”
“Her birthday?” What was it about Ivy’s birthday? It spins around over and over again, like the prettiest horse on a carousel, begging for attention.
Daisy nods. “Her twenty-fourth. Oh, to be twenty-four again,” she says, romanticizing the thought.
Twenty-four. Why is that familiar? Hmmm. When I was twenty-four, I was dumb, broke, and too young to care. Thank God for the military.
“Y-y-yes,” the artist says, definitively.
I stare at her blankly.
“H-h-how m-m-m-much?” she asks, suddenly eager to hear my offer. I look it over. The dimensions are large, and the details are exquisite.
I scrutinize it carefully. I know diddly-squat about art. Monet and Michelangelo are as familiar as Playtex and Pampers. Seen them around but never had a need.
As Ivy’s painted eyes gaze into mine, the piece speaks to me. And I’m not letting it go. “Five hundred dollars?” I offer.
“Five?” the artist repeats without a single stammer. “Higher,” she says, clear as a bell. Her eyes light up, and I imagine Ivy’s bright smile if she ever discovers how her sweet friend haggled over the sale. I smile, amused. She's got me by the balls, and she knows it.
“You drive a hard bargain. One thousand dollars. Take it or leave it.” Please take it.
She nods. I pay.
I take Ivy off her hands, careful not to smudge the fresher strokes of paint. Now that I have it, I scratch my head, wondering what I should do with it.
I check my watch. It’s getting late. “Where’s your bathroom?” There's one more stop I need to make before I go. But I need to ditch Daisy.
She points in the direction of the bathrooms. I walk that way and make a detour to the one person I can’t wait to meet.
Derrick. The cheating lowlife that once referred to Ivy as his girlfriend.
He also happened to be her boss. And the fuckhead who’d been skimming off the books for years, driving Sparrow Assisted Living straight into the ground.
A demented thrill runs through me as I step up to his door and knock. I don't wait for his response and enter.
He jumps from behind his desk, scrambling with his keyboard as he hurries to zip up his pants. I'm pretty sure I interrupted the douchebag during his afternoon porn surf. Note to self: Do not shake his hand.
“Excuse me,” he says with a half-inch of authority. “You can’t barge in here.”
I close the door behind me and lock it, careful as I lean the painting against the wall.
“Who are you?” He notices the portrait. “And what the hell do you think you're doing with that?”
I unbutton my blazer and take a seat. “That?” Casually, I point to the painting. “I just purchased it from a resident. It will look amazing in the grand entry, don’t you think?”
“What?” He grabs the phone. “I'm calling the cops.”
Before the receiver makes contact with his ear, the barrel of my Glock lodges at the base of his throat. He frowns, shaking as he drops the receiver. I give his cheek two baby smacks. “Very good.”
The asshole cheated on Ivy for nearly a year. The alarmed expression on his face is remarkably satisfying, filling me with a sick sense of glee.
Instantly, his hands raise in surrender. “Fine. Keep the damn painting. I swear to God that bitch is more trouble than she's worth.”
Rage boils over. I sock him square in the jaw so hard it sends him flying across the room. He lands on the floor; all his pathetic begging falls on deaf ears. I set my foot just above his throat as I train my weapon straight at his head.
“You weren’t taking Ms. Palmer’s name in vain, were you?”
He trembles and shakes his head. “I didn’t think so. Now, get up.” I wave the gun over to his desk, directing him behind it. He scrambles to his feet. “Pull up everything you have on her. Including what’s on your phone. You're gonna tell me everything you know about Ivy Palmer.”
He rushes to a drawer and produces a folder. Dismayed, I stare at the two sheets of paper in it. Her original application along with a copy of a certificate. “Art Therapy?” I question Derrick. “She’s an artist?”
His head shakes. “It’s some special type of counselor that uses anything available to help work with people who can’t speak. Whatever interests them. Drawing. Sculpting. Poetry. She’s tried to take college courses here and there, but the costs were high, and her hours here didn’t help. That certificate is as close as she got to a degree. Personally, I thought the whole damn thing was a bunch of mumbo jumbo horseshit.”
I flick his face with a pamphlet. “And yet it’s on your brochure.” He looks away. “Let me guess. Your clients pay big bucks for all that mumbo jumbo horseshit, right? Is that why you were paying Ivy pennies while charging your residents a premium for her services?”
Derrick’s eyes widen in fear. “How do you know that?”
“Because I know everything about you, Derrick. I know about your parents living in a small apartment about two hours from here. I know your credit score ranks in the mid-five hundreds. I know your computer sees more porn than a Hustler Hollywood. And I know the corporate credit card you’ve been using includes charges for car maintenance, booze, and whores.”
He recoils, stunned.
“Oh, and I also know more than I want to about your fascination with ferrets.” I shake my head in disgust. “Seriously, knitting them sweaters crosses some weird fucking line.”
“What are you? CIA?”
“Because the CIA has a vested interest in Derrick the dick fiddler?”
I fold Ivy’s paperwork and slip it into my pocket. “What else?”
“There is nothing else.”
There has to be something else. “Show me your financials.”
“Why?”
His idiocy astounds me. “Because I have the fucking gun.” I wave it around for effect.
Derrick nearly shits his pants and manages to retrieve every last transaction for the past two years. What do you know? The man does have a working brain cell.
Profit and loss statements. Balance sheets. Annual reports. Derrick’s outdone himself. Skimming off the top was just the start. He's shorted the wages of every member of the staff while simultaneously up-charging all the residents. He’s damn near added surcharges for Q-tips and squares of toilet paper.
Even then, he’s managed to keep his job despite Sparrow Assisted Living swapping owners at a rate of once a year. Even now, the current owners are ready to dump the place at fire sale prices. Which means more of the same for dumbass Derrick, and prompt evictions for some of the residents, including Angie, but gets me no closer to what I came here for. I’ve got more information on Derrick Landon, this place, the owners, and every resident past and present...
But nothing more on Ivy.
I drop the aim of my Glock to his pants. “This is everything?”
His hands fly to his crotch. “Yes. Yes! I swear to God, that's everything. Ask your friend if you don’t believe me?”
I narrow my eyes. “What friend?”
“The guy. He showed up just like you. Fancy car. Nice suit. Not from around here. Handed Ivy an envelope and got grabby with her shoulder before he disappeared.”
“When?”
“The day she quit.”
With my free hand, I flip through a few images on my cell, then hold it up. “This guy?”
Derrick takes a good, long look. “Maybe.”
“Look. Harder.”
He shrugs, waving his hands wildly. “I don't know. It could’ve been. I remember thinking he’s too old to be hitting on her.”
“How old?”
“I can’t be sure. Maybe sixty. They were outside. I was in my office. I wasn't paying much attention.”
The more Derrick talks, the more I realize the guy’s fucking useless on every level, and putting him out of his misery might be best for all involved. Except that Derrick the douchebag might come in handy down the road.
Fine. He lives. I check my watch and holster my weapon. “I was never here. Our little talk never happened. Got it?”
Eyes closed, he nods.
I straighten my jacket and head for the door. “And one other thing. Let the staff know Sparrow Assisted Living has just been sold.”
The hour-long drive to the airport gives me time to think, so I type a note to Smoke.
Ivy and Andre know each other
Then, I delete and rewrite it.
There’s a chance Ivy may be working with Andre.
Fuck, no.
Delete. Delete. Delete.
I can’t say anything. Not without proof.
Frustrated, I blow out a breath as my head sinks back on the seat. I stare out into the darkness. It’s pitch black. Like the world is at peace.
Or the calm before the storm.