Chapter 15

Chapter Fifteen

Hudson

A tlas looks up from his phone when I toss the file on the desk in front of him.

"Kenzo's contacts are clearly better than mine. He just sent this over. Says he got a call about the police being dispatched to a scene down in Vegas."

He opens the file and looks at the photo of a pretty redhead with a toothy smile posing in front of the camera.

"She look familiar?"

I scan the photo and shake my head before he flips the page. "I don't think so. Why?"

This page has another photo with the same face is there—only this shot was taken from above. Her eyes are closed, her lips tinted blue, and in the center of her forehead is the number 1.

"No bullseye this time." I point out, wondering about its significance.

Atlas stares down at the photo with a frown. "Her name is Jessica Spears. She's twenty-nine and currently lives and works in Florida as a florist."

"Kenzo says she's not one of ours and never has been. He's run her name through every business you have, and so far, no hits. He's checking her against what he has on his side. Problem is, the Hoffmans were never tight on employee records. They liked to keep most people off the books. He's looking through ledgers now, but it's going to take some time."

"Well it's not like she's going anywhere," he sighs as I sit down in one of the vacant chairs.

There is something there, poking at the back of my brain. "Spears." I run my tongue along my teeth in thought. What is it about that name that gives me pause?

"What?"

"The name Spears. I've heard it before."

He rolls his eyes. "Yeah, me too. As in Britney."

I chuckle. "You a Britney fan, Atlas?"

He ignores me as I pick up the file and turn the page, looking over information on the victim.

"It says here she was married."

"Police will likely look at the ex-first."

I nod, its standard protocol.

"She's been in her house for a year." I put the file back on the desk which Atlas picks up. I pull my cell phone out and fire off a text to Kenzo.

Do we know where she lived before she moved to Vegas?

"I'm just asking Kenzo if he knows where she lived before Vegas."

"Maybe she lived here for a while, and your paths crossed somewhere."

I shrug, "It's possible."

My cell chimes. I open Kenzo's message and read it out loud.

"She's from Ottawa, Canada."

I pause as something clicks. I look up obituaries in that area, going back a year.

"What is it?"

"Maybe nothing. Hold on."

He's quiet while I scroll through all the posts until, finally, my eyes land on a familiar name.

"Her husband. His name Jason Spears?"

He looks at me questioningly. "Yeah, how'd you know that?"

"I don't think the cops will get anything from him. He's dead." I hand him my phone with the guys photo.

"It's not an uncommon name. How do you know this is the husband?"

"Because I met him once."

"What? When?"

"A year ago. When I killed him."

Atlas looks at me sharply. "He was a hit?"

I nod. "Yeah."

"Who ordered it?"

"Don't know. It was done anonymously. Most are. It gives them an extra layer of protection."

"You look into the guy?"

"Only as far as learning his routine, hangouts, and places he frequented. I'm not a bleeding heart or a vigilante with a noble cause. I kill who I'm paid to. I don't care if they're a saint or the devil incarnate, as long as the money is wired into my account."

"You remember anything about him?"

"He was married. Worked in finance. Was screwing his secretary every Tuesday and Thursday at a seedy hotel when he told the wife he was working late. That's where I took him out."

"The secretary? You know anything about her?"

"You think she's involved?"

"I've learned not to write off women as weak," he responds.

"I don't know much about her. She wasn't my target. I know she was fresh out of her internship, and Spears was her mentor, but she wasn't my concern."

"She is now. I'll look into her. She was young, maybe thought she was in love, and then her man was dead. And the only person to blame is the wife."

"How very Dr. Phil of you. She could have killed the wife," I concede. "I don't see it, not a year after her lover's death. If anything, she's moved on by now. but stranger things have happened. I can tell you this: the wife's not the one responsible for the hit on Jason. I saw the car she drove and clothes she wore. Her husband had her on a tight budget. She couldn't afford me, so if the mistress blamed her that was based on feelings not on facts."

"So husband and wife are killed a year apart by two different killers? And I'm not talking about you. You might have pulled the trigger, but someone else was holding the gun. Is there any way for you to find out who hired you?"

I shake my head. "People are anonymous for a reason. Nobody wants a hitman to have their personal details."

"Maybe that's what the scope reticle is about. A nod to you being a hit man with a sniper?"

"But then why not carve one into Jessica's forehead? It was her husband I shot after all."

He sits down and runs his fingers through his hair. "Why is nothing ever simple?"

"Simple would bore you," I point out.

There's a knock, and I close the file as Atlas calls for them to come in. Ivy opens the door, offering Atlas a smile that grows bigger when she spots me.

"Hey, Pete. I didn't know you were going to be here."

She walks toward Atlas as he stands. She reaches up onto her tiptoes to kiss him as his hands slide around her hips, dragging her closer. She chuckles and pulls back a little.

"Where's Iris?"

"Crap, I knew I forgot something."

Atlas tenses, but Ivy cracks up. "She's with the nanny. I wanted to surprise you and see if you wanted to grab a late lunch together. I didn't realize Pete was with you, though."

I stand up and take the file. "Don't worry about me. I'm heading out anyway."

"Are you sure? You could come with us."

"No, he can't," Atlas growls, making me laugh when Ivy hits his chest.

"Don't be mean. Why can't he come?"

"Because I want to eat you for dessert, and if Pete sees you naked and coming all over my tongue, I'd have to kill him."

"And that's my cue to leave." I grin at Ivy as she covers her face with her hands.

"I can't believe you just said that," she exclaims, making Atlas look confused for a second.

"Really?"

She looks up, frowning, before she sighs. "No. You'd think I'd be used to it by now."

"I hope you never are. I like it when you blush. I enjoy seeing how far down?—"

I leave, closing the door behind me, shutting out the rest of what he was going to say. I chuckle. I have a funny feeling they won't be making it to lunch. I jog down to my car and toss the file on the passenger seat before heading home.

This Jessica woman's death is a mystery. I might not have killed her, but I don't like having any connections that tie her back to me, even if no one knows that I'm involved. The last thing I want is for the cops to start paying special attention to me.

I frown, thinking about Emma. I still don't remember her. I only have Kelly's word that I even slept with her. As callous as it sounds, I clearly forgot all about her the second I pulled the condom off.

Now I'm wondering if this has less to do with Atlas and more to do with me. If I did sleep with Emma, then I'm a potential link between both these cases. But why? Sure, I did the hit on Jessica's husband, but I'd never met or spoken to the woman. My only information about her was what I picked up during recon of her husband. I saw her car leaving for work each day, and her clothes hanging in her closet when I broke into the family home, but I never saw her in person. Hell, I didn't know who she was when I was staring down at the photos of her in my hand. The only time I touched her life was when I took her husband from her. And Emma—assuming I slept with her—left my life the same way she entered: alive and well.

I'm still thinking about the possible connection when I pull up to the house. I leave the file on the passenger seat and start to climb out when my cell chimes. I pull it out and see it's a message from Abbott.

Surprised, I open it.

I have football practice after school. Then I'm going out with the guys. Can you pick up Starling?

I type back as I sit back down. No problem.

I shove my phone back into my pocket and grab the file, running it into the house, before getting back into the car and starting it again, this time heading for their high school. It's not the closest school, but neither of them wanted to change in their senior year. With Abbot able to drive, it's not a big deal.

Forty-five minutes later, I pull up outside the school and climb out, leaning against the car as I wait. Dozens of students are exiting, some are leaving while others are hanging around in small groups. The ones that notice me don't bother trying to hide that they're staring. I cross my arms over my chest and keep my face neutral. The last thing I need is for someone to report to the principal's office that a strange guy's hanging around in the parking lot.

Though judging by the looks I'm getting from the approaching cheerleaders, I'd say I'm more welcome than I first thought.

"Hi, can we help you with something?" the blonde in front asks, tossing her hair as she gives me a look that's pure sex.

I let my eyes roam over her tall frame and tight body, dressed in a skimpy cheer outfit branded with the school's logo, and feel nothing. I guess there's only one flavor of temptation I'm interested in.

"No thanks. I'm just waiting for someone."

She twirls a strand of her hair as she blows a bubble with her gum. I look away, uninterested in her and her group.

I spot Starling as she comes out the main doors. She stops and looks around before her eyes meet mine. She freezes, looking like she might try and make a run for it. I narrow my eyes at her and shake my head slightly. Her shoulders drop, and she starts walking toward me.

"Whoa, dude. Is that a 1956 Aston Martin Dbr1?"

I turn to see two boys standing a few feet away, both of them tall and lean. If I had to guess, I'd say they were either swimmers or on the basketball team.

"Yeah," I say, giving him a look, but he's staring at my car like he's in love.

"My dad will be so jealous I got to see this, and he didn't," he says, laughing and looking back at me. "He's obsessed with classic cars. He owns the garage down on Sixth Street."

"Galileo's? Yeah, I know it. He does good work."

The kid beams at me. "I'll tell him you said so."

As Starling gets closer, the blonde cheerleader notices her and steps in front of her. "What are you doing here? Shouldn't you be at work? The street corners will weep without your presence."

"Looks like your English lit classes are paying off, Claire. You made calling me a whore sound almost poetic."

The two guys laugh, but the girl's cheer squad steps forward to back her up. I watch to see what Starling will do. I have no doubt she can handle them. She somehow deals with me, after all.

"Shoo, nobody wants you here." Claire gestures dismissively with her fingers.

"He does." She nods at me, stepping around the group.

"Bullshit. We know your dad is dead, so don't pretend he's here for you."

Starling reaches the passenger side and pulls the door open, looking at the growing crowd. They look between us and start to murmur when they realize I'm not stopping her.

"Like you said, I have work, and he's my next client." She grins as she climbs in. "He might not be my father, Claire, but he sure likes it when I call him daddy," she yells before closing the door.

The two guys are cracking up now. But Claire looks furious. She steps toward me, reaching out a hand, but I grab her wrist and stop her.

"Don't touch what isn't yours, little girl."

I shove her back, making her stumble, before I climb into the car and starting it up. Putting the car in reverse, I reach behind the headrest of Starling's seat and look out the back window as I back out.

"Fasten your seat belt."

For once, she does what I ask. Once I hear the seat belt click into place, I rev the engine and peel out of the parking lot much faster than necessary.

"I'm guessing those airheads aren't friends of yours."

"Wow, you missed your calling as a detective," she mutters, looking out the side window.

"They always like that?"

"Not when Abbot's around," she says before her eyes dart to mine, like she's surprised herself by admitting that out loud.

She's silent for a moment as she fiddles with the strap of the bag on her lap.

"How come you picked me up?"

"Abbot texted me to say he had practice, and then he's going out with the guys. He asked if I could pick you up. I think the more important question is, why didn't you text me? I bought you a brand-new phone, after all."

"Why would I? I was just going to take the train."

"No." I grip the steering wheel hard.

"What do you mean, no? Abbot has practice, and you have work. The train is fine. I took it most days last week," she says, dismissively.

We're a few miles from downtown. I do a U-turn and head for the train station.

"I don't want you on the train, especially not in this part of the city. Besides, I thought you didn't like crowds."

"I've been taking buses and trains my whole life, and nothing's ever happened to me. And I don't mind crowds on trains because nobody's paying attention to me. Everyone just wants to get where they're going."

"That doesn't mean you won't be targeted. When people realize you're with me, you'll become more of a target."

"Great, something else to look forward to. Can we just agree to disagree? I know you don't like it, but I'm not going to stop taking the train."

I don't answer, but I feel my anger pulse under my skin at her inability to bend.

When we pull up at the station, Starling frowns. "What are we doing here? I thought we were going home?"

"We are. Leave your bag in the car."

She looks confused, but does as I ask and climbs out, leaving her bag on the floor. I text one of Atlas's minions to come get the car before I walk around and grab her hand. She looks around, unsure, trying to pull free, but I hold on tightly. I drag her into the station and purchase tickets for the both of us before dragging Starling down to the platform.

"Hudson, why are we here?"

"You want to ride the train? Fine, show me how safe it is, and I might consider it."

"Consider it? You are not my—" She cuts herself off and takes a deep breath, blowing it out before continuing, reining in her anger. "Fine. But this was the worst train to pick. It's always full and stops at every stop."

I shrug, looking and waiting for the train to arrive as the crowd of people swells around us.

A gust of wind blows, catching Starling's hair and skirt. She holds her skirt down as her hair whips around her face. "Ugh," she huffs, and I reach up to smooth it away. She looks at me warily as the train pulls in.

"Don't let go of my hand," I tell her as I lead her closer to the open doors near the end of the platform.

"I couldn't if I tried," she complains.

I tighten my grip, not wanting to lose her as people push and shove against us. When the doors open, we follow the flow of people, and once we're on board, I maneuver us to the back of the train. There are no free seats, so people squeeze in like sardines.

I turn so we're facing the front of the train, positioning Starling so her back is to my front, and reach up to grab one of the handles. "Yeah, this seems real safe," I mutter in her ear.

She looks back at me and scowls. "I can't get much safer than this. Seriously, there are hundreds of people here. Nothing's going to happen to me."

"You think these people, these strangers that are so wrapped up in their own lives that they haven't even noticed you, are going to help you if you need it?"

"Of course."

"Well, let's test that theory, shall we?" I whisper in her ear before I slide my hand underneath the hem of her skirt.