Jackson wasn’t at all excited about my plan to invade a party for rock climbers, which he made clear as he drove me to my place, where I intended to prepare for said party.
“Are you out of your mind?”
“How else am I supposed to find out if he’s the right guy?” I asked, miffed. I would’ve thought he’d be eager to capture the guy.
He growled. “I’m more worried that he is. Have you forgotten that he assaulted you once already?”
How could I when I had spent all of Thanksgiving with a black eye?
“And what do you wish to accomplish there anyway that you can’t from the video you took?”
That was a good question. “Maybe I could learn where he lives?”
“The only way that’s going to happen is if he invites you to his place at the end of the night,” he said dryly.
“That could happen.”
He tactfully didn’t comment on that.
“Why would a famous free climber become a burglar anyway?” he asked instead.
“Well, what I learned from Tiffany, these guys don’t have jobs. They rely on sponsors and such, and then spend all their time climbing.”
“In winter?”
“It’s always summer somewhere. Argentina in this case.” It explained Ferguson’s nice tan too. I googled the town Tiffany had mentioned and whistled appreciatively.
“This place looks expensive. A five-star holiday resort instead of a shabby tent village full of hippies and hobos. Maybe the sponsors are only good for the flights and then you have to pay for the rest for yourself. Or they don’t pay for five-star accommodations.”
We’d stopped at traffic lights, so Jackson gave my phone screen a look too. “High-level crime to pay for it is a bit excessive though.”
I gave it a thought. “Maybe it started small. Maybe it gave him the same rush as climbing did, so he kept upping the stakes. I mean, these guys have to be pretty addicted to adrenaline to be doing what they do.”
Jackson nodded. “That’s true. And it would explain his skills in getting into some of those high-rise apartments.”
I could easily see Ferguson rappelling up and down skyscraper walls.
“And he’s recently opened a climbing center here in Brooklyn. That must have taken quite a lot of capital.”
Jackson pulled over outside my house and took a moment to answer. “I guess we could check where the money for that came from.”
It wasn’t much of an admission, but I took it.
I lived in a seven-story apartment building near Brooklyn College, where I shared a two-bedroom rental with my roommate Jarod Fitzpatrick, a grad student in computer science at said college. Not that he studied much, because he also worked as a cyber security expert at Lexton Security. He was away most evenings and nights, which made him a very low maintenance roommate.
He wasn’t home today either, so I entered into a dark apartment and switched on the lights. “Help yourself to anything in the fridge,” I said to Jackson, heading to my bedroom to contemplate the contents of my wardrobe. “If Jarod’s done grocery shopping, there should be Coke at least.”
Instead of answering, Jackson cursed heavily. It wasn’t a normal reaction to the contents of our fridge, even if Jarod could get inventive when his munchies hit, so I pivoted around and went to see what had caused it.
He was standing by the kitchen table, staring at something on it. With an uneasy feeling in my stomach, I went to take a look too. I wasn’t entirely surprised when it turned out to be a small jewelry box.
“Now do you believe it’s Ferguson?” I asked, feeling vindicated.
Ever since Thanksgiving, I’d received an occasional jewel, delivered to or left inside my home, with small taunting messages attached to them. There was no note this time though.
The clean lines of Jackson’s face were tight with worry and anger. “Let’s open it and see what’s inside.”
He took out gloves from the pocket of his jacket and put them on before opening the box, carefully, as if fearing it was boobytrapped. A small, heart-shaped silver locket rested on a velvet pillow.
I blinked. “A bit more modest than his usual offers.”
It was usually diamonds and rubies and such, all stolen.
“Why would he have stolen this?” Jackson asked, lifting the locket up, baffled.
I shrugged. “Perhaps he didn’t have time to be picky when he emptied the safe and it came with the rest.”
“I guess…” He opened the locket and a small, tightly-folded note fell out. He folded it open and showed me the message:
We’re on again.
“I’m coming with you to the party.”
The party was well under way in Ferguson’s newly-opened climbing center when we arrived. It was located at the Brooklyn Navy Yard Industrial Park in north Brooklyn, a former US Navy shipyard that had been converted to a huge manufacturing and office space. It was a modern and fashionable place to have one’s business in and contained businesses as diverse as an organic rooftop farm and a movie studio, co-working spaces and virtual reality labs, coffee roasting companies and distilleries. And it was not cheap.
We’d done some research, but we hadn’t been able to find out who was funding Ferguson’s business. He didn’t come from money or connections, and it wasn’t any of his sponsors, most of which were huge outdoors and sports companies. The public records didn’t name anyone other than Ferguson as the owner, and the publicity articles and Ferguson’s social media didn’t mention anyone else either.
So how could he afford this place unless he funded it with nefarious methods?
I tucked my clothes in a nervous gesture as we approached the door. I’d added some nice clothes to my wardrobe in recent weeks for my dates with Jackson. Tonight I was wearing black leggings of some shiny material that resembled faux leather. They were tight enough to emphasize my curves in a sexy way—Jackson had definitely approved the first time I wore them—but feeling self-conscious, I’d donned a top with a long, flowy hem that covered my butt. It was tight around the chest though, with good cleavage, so I looked appropriately hot. Black boots and a black velvet blazer—new ones, as the old ones hadn’t survived the explosion of the art gallery—completed the look.
Make-up had been easy, but my hair caused a problem. Or the lack of it did. Jackson tried to tell me that the shaven head with the outfit made me look edgy, but I’d wanted a different look. After rummaging through my closets, I’d found an old wig my former roommate Jessica had worn one Halloween. It was hot pink and in a thick braid that reached my waist. It was obviously plastic, but that’s why it worked.
“Relax, you look perfect,” Jackson said as he reached to open the door for me.
“Easy for you to say.”
While I’d prepared for the evening, Jackson had popped to Shane’s precinct to drop off the locket. He’d returned dressed in fresh blue jeans and a white T-shirt that hugged his torso—I didn’t even know he owned a white shirt—and a nice, form-fitting blazer. It was almost a disguise for him. He looked really hot.
He flashed me a grin as he let me in through the door.
The music hit us the moment we entered, the huge space not large enough to contain it. Privacy screens and potted plants divided a reception area off the main climbing area, so I couldn’t see how many people were already there. A small line had formed in the lobby while a bouncer checked everyone’s ages, so the place might fill up. I eyed him with worry, but as long as you were old enough, you were let in. I even got an appreciative once-over, which cheered me up.
There was a full-fledged nightclub on the other side of the screens. A dance floor had been separated from the rest of the vast area by climbing ropes, with a DJ on a platform at the far end and colorful lights flashing in time with the music. A bar was set by the privacy screens nearest us.
“I’ll get us something to drink. Try to see if you can spot Ferguson,” Jackson said, heading to the line at the bar.
I wasn’t holding my breath. The place was dark to begin with and the flashing lights made it more difficult to recognize faces. And the place was surprisingly full, even though we’d come early with the hope that we’d have an easier time to get access to Ferguson.
Then I spotted Tiffany at the side of the room, by the tallest, most difficult climbing walls. Those were well lit with spotlights that highlighted the artificial boulders. She was dressed to kill in a barely-there skirt that hugged her fit body, and knee-high boots, her short blond hair teased into spikes. She was standing at the edge of a small crowd that was gathered to watch someone climb the wall.
Dollars to donuts, that’s where Ferguson was.
Jackson appeared by my side and handed me a solo cup of beer. He’d opted for Coke, as he didn’t drink when he was at work.
“I think Ferguson’s there,” I told him, pointing at the climbing wall. “How do you want to handle this?”
“I have no idea. Let’s just observe and see if there’s anything we can sink our teeth into.”
We’d barely moved when a male voice hailing us made us stop and turn to the entrance. Shane Davis. He was dressed to party, in black slacks and a form-hugging button-down with the top buttons left open. He came to us with a wide smile on his handsome face, his arms spread.
I gave him a baffled look. “What are you doing here?” Did he suspect Ferguson too?
“I could ask the same, you know,” he said with a grin. “But Adam, the owner, is a friend of my brother. Kyle funded this joint, but he couldn’t make it here today, so I’m representing the family.”
There went my theory that Ferguson was robbing safes to fund this place. Disappointment made a foul taste rise to my mouth.
“Are you into climbing?” Shane asked. I was fighting with my upset and couldn’t answer, so Jackson came to my help.
“Tracy saw Ferguson climbing today and was so smitten she had to come here,” he said with a lazy smile, drawing me against his chest. “What could I do but bring her?”
Shane laughed. “You’re a bigger man than I would be in that situation. So do you want to meet him?”
He’d posed the question to me, but Jackson answered. “She’d love to.”