Chapter 36

Chaos still reigns at the site where the Goldstone building stood. The golden building, which served as a landmark for Roseboro, unexpectedly collapsed last night shortly after the majority of the workforce thankfully left for the day. Investigations are still ongoing, but early reports are that there were at least seven deaths, including entrepreneur Thomas Goldstone.

The screen on my television switches from the microphone-holding newscaster over to a panoramic shot of the destruction. The voiceover continues the update.

I’m here with Chief of Police, Frank Harris, who is coordinating the investigation. Chief Harris, do you have any evidence of what caused the building’s collapse?

Frank fills the screen, looking right at home in the media spotlight. He’s an excellent upstart, one who has served me well over the years.

Nothing concrete yet, he says with an aw-shucks shrug. Right now, we just count it a miracle that the building was mostly empty. Most of the employees had already left for the day. We’ll conduct a full investigation, dig through the rubble, look for any workmanship flaws, and determine whether there were structural issues with the tower.

He’s planting the idea that this was a symptom of Goldstone’s lack of attention to detail, that he would let his very namesake building be built poorly. The implication that his empire is also built on quicksand is an easy jump.

Could there be something more sinister at work here? Is there evidence that this could be a terrorist act?

The newscaster is a persistent pipsqueak, I’ll give him that. If he were on my payroll, that’d be a boon, but he’s not. I find it annoying and troublesome. The last thing I need is the word ‘terrorism’ being linked to this.

Frank laughs congenially, looking at the newscaster like he’s a young kid who’s a bit big for his britches.

Son, there’s no evidence of that, so don’t go scaring the good people of Roseboro with your inciteful speech. We live in a good, safe city. We’ll find out what happened to this building and you’ll be the first to know. Good day.

Frank walks away, pointing and talking to small groups of officers who are pretty fruitlessly poking through the twisted mess. It gives the effect that he’s the boss, the leader in charge, and knows what he’s talking about.

Well done, Frank.

My phone buzzes at my side, a message from the chief himself.

Did what I could.

The newscaster presses the button at his ear then speaks into the microphone once again. I’m getting word that Jonathan Goldstone, a relative and friend of the late Thomas Goldstone, will be holding a press conference very soon. We’ll send you over to that, live at the courthouse. This is Trevor Olliphant, Channel 5 News.

Interesting. Jonathan Goldstone.

Former military-cum-private investigator, and cousin of the Golden Boy. I wonder what he’s going to do and watch as he takes the steps of the Roseboro courthouse, looking like a rough man who’s tried to slick himself up.

He’s playing the part of businessman, but his worldliness is readily apparent. Oh, you can hide it from the sheep, Jonathan Goldstone, but I can see you. I can see it in your eyes.

I sense a potential enemy. Not on my level. You are swimming in unfamiliar waters. But you are more than one of the sheep.

He takes the microphone.

Roseboro mourns the loss of a great man, a man who only wanted to make this city the best it could be. Not only through his business and charity ventures, but by encouraging each and every citizen to be kind, compassionate, and to care for his fellow man.

We are all responsible for continuing that legacy.

I will be serving as the Interim President of Goldstone Inc, and I vow to continue on as Thomas would. Because Goldstone did not end yesterday with the collapse of a building. It lives on inside each of us.

As for last night’s tragedy, I have seen that investigations are being specifically targeted in a singular direction. He pauses, and Frank’s vehemence that had seemed so perfect a moment ago now seems like a smoking gun of his erroneous ways.

There are those who will try to misdirect you. But this was an act of terrorism, a violent and aggressive move by a coward who is more willing to destroy Roseboro than to share the city we all call home.

This man has stones, bordering dangerously close to calling me out by name. Looking directly into the camera, his eyes narrow and his jaw clenches.

The truth will come out. Justice will be served. Goldstone will go on, as will Roseboro. In Thomas Goldstone’s honor—be good, do good, and leave a legacy of hope for a brighter tomorrow.

Jonathan Goldstone walks away from the makeshift podium, lights flashing and reporters calling out to him.

My response? I laugh. I laugh at his foolish wish for justice and truth, as if this is some comic book from my youth. Yes, I read them as a guilty pleasure, snuck from the library and enjoyed as banal, nutrition-devoid entertainment. But I would quickly and rightfully return to my studies, my music, my work.

Because that is where the true value lies.

Jonathan Goldstone forgets this, or perhaps never learned it, likely a young, silver-spooned boy, much like Thomas. The latest version, I think, but so much weaker than the original, who at least had innovation and charisma on his side.

The good times roll as the news continues on with their morning reports. It seems that Goldstone stock has plummeted to nearly worthless this morning, as there’s simply not much of a business remaining. Regional managers and entities are frozen, chickens with their head cut off.

I have done it, I sank his golden warship, and the city is none the wiser of the monster in their midst.

The only one who knew was Thomas himself, and he took that knowledge to the grave. I do wish I’d been able to hear his fatalistic thoughts as he realized exactly what I had done right under his nose.

I wish I knew what his last thoughts were as he ran for his life.

My phone buzzes again. This time, an incoming call.

“Hello.”

“What the fuck, man? I didn’t know you were going to do something like that! I liked Charlotte. She was good to me. You never said this was going to happen!”

Trixie Reynolds. Her twang comes out when she’s angry, like pencils being jammed into my eardrums, highlighting her lack of education in proper enunciation. And people do not speak to me this way. Ever.

“Watch your tongue, Miss. Reynolds. I take it you were unhappy with yesterday’s events?”

I’m baiting her, more curious than anything. She’s been useful along the way as a low-level resource, stirring up trouble without causing dissention in the ranks of Goldstone’s friendly fools.

“Unhappy? Yeah, you could say that,” she snarls. “I want to meet, finish our business, and get the hell outta dodge.”

I grin, pursing my lips. She is a ballsy one. Though stupid courage has next to nothing to do with intelligence. Because if she were smart, she’d already be on her way out of the city, running like a scared country mouse. That she delays to get payment she feels entitled to is laughable. Survival of the fittest, I’d say, and she’s showing her lack of longevity. “I thought your desire was to take over the bakery yourself?”

It is something she mentioned in passing after having been placed in position, and it’d seemed a rather easy payout at the time, less liquid funds and more endorsement of her wares as she began a new business. And potentially another ally in reserve, should her usefulness be needed.

“Nope,” she says, popping the P. “Those days are past. I want out. Cash money and I’m gone. You and Roseboro will just be a cloud of dust in my rearview mirror.”

“Very well,” I say, sounding amenable. “I will send a car to pick you up. Be ready in ten minutes.”

Ordering a car for her is a simple matter of texting my driver. I don’t bother going to my safe to pull out money to pay her off. She won’t be leaving with cash in hand. Nor her life. She has run her course of usefulness and dares to have such a demanding demeanor with me, so a loose end is all she’s become. How efficient of her to expedite her own demise.

I consider whether I should offer a choice, a game of sorts, as I did with my previous resource when he became a liability. But where that one had held some element of amusement for me, a man who truly believed himself at rock-bottom being forced to dig even deeper for his own grave, Trixie Reynolds doesn’t intrigue me the same. She’s merely . . . forgettable.

So her death need not be orchestrated and engineered. A quick shot should suffice.

Minutes later, my private elevator dings, announcing the arrival of my guest.

“Come in, dear,” I say, guiding her to a chair in front of my desk. She is hesitant, perhaps sensing that this meeting is not as wise as she thought, but she does sit. Her back is straight, both feet on the floor like she could run at any moment. But we know she’s not going anywhere.

She thinks she’s waiting for the money.

I know she’s waiting for a bullet.

I move to the bar, pouring a healthy dose of tequila into a tumbler as her eyes follow me closely. I take a sip, not offering her one. It matters not. The move was merely calculated to place me between her and the door, which she foolishly allowed.

“Well?” she asks, her fear making her bark like a scared puppy.

“Miss Reynolds, have you said anything to the investigating teams looking into the bakery or the Goldstone building?” It is a test of sorts. Frank would’ve told me if she’d spoken out of turn, but she doesn’t know that.

She shakes her head, unruly waves brushing her shoulders. “No, the police asked some questions at the bakery and took Lance away for it. I comforted Charlotte and laid the breadcrumb trail for her to gather her troops. I didn’t know what you were planning in getting them all together.”

The accusation is meant to be biting, but it’s merely a nip on my rough armor. I sip my tequila, saying sagely, “You know what you are meant to know.”

“No one said anything to me about the building,” she sneers. “Though that Jonathan guy from the news called me to give me condolences on losing Charlotte. Well, he asked if I thought the two incidents were connected, but I told him I’m just a cake maker. I didn’t know anything about Charlotte’s friends. He seemed to believe that.”

Ah, now that is interesting. Perhaps young Goldstone is adept enough to put pieces together, although the two incidents on the same day would be obvious to even the stupidest of people. And Frank says that Jonathan Goldstone isn’t dumb, just unaware of how this city works.

“It seems you’ve done well enough at covering your tracks,” I falsely compliment her. “And now you want to simply skip town and start fresh somewhere else?”

She stands, jumpy as the conversation lengthens more than she wanted. “Look, just pay me what you owe me and you’ll never see me again.”

She holds her hands out, palms facing me as if I need to calm down.

But I am calm, for this is nothing other than business. And I am utterly in control of my destiny where my business is concerned.

I pick up the gun from beneath the bar towel, pointing it at her. “Indeed, I will never see you again, Miss Reynolds. But I’m afraid it won’t be because you’ve left town. At least, not the way you expected.”

Her eyes widen, looking comically large with the massive amounts of eyeliner and mascara she has on. Young women these days don’t seem to understand that men prefer to see them, not some cartoonishly fake version created with layers of spackle and paint. Her pink lips round into an O, which would be prettier if it weren’t covered in sticky gloss. I will need to be careful that her body doesn’t leave any trace evidence.

“Blackwell . . . wait . . . let’s talk about this, please,” she begs, her twang coming on stronger as she pleads for her life.

But the decision has been made.

Mywill, be done.