22. Diem

22

Diem

“ I don’t get it. What am I missing?”

A low growl resonated in my chest. “Look. Closer. Hilty singled out these twenty-six people for a reason. Why?”

I didn’t want to spell it out. Tallus was smart. If he used his brain, he’d see what I saw. It was right in front of him.

He’d raced to the office from Doyle’s, announcing that we could view the autopsy reports the following day. Although impressed at how quickly and efficiently he’d completed the task, I wasn’t keen on waltzing through headquarters—nor was I allowed. Instead of berating him for not talking Doyle into a better location, I bit my tongue and let it go.

Tallus leaned over the desk, hands braced on the surface as he scoured at various pages through his come-fuck-me glasses. His auburn hair was windblown and tousled, the delectable just-been-fucked style he wore daily. His wardrobe consisted of tan cargo shorts, a collared Lacoste shirt in a soft mustard color, and no loafers. He wore bare feet in leather sandals instead.

Tallus’s trim body was on full display, and I struggled to focus. The scent of coffee and cologne crossed the expanse between us. Tallus belonged on a beach, not in a stuffy, rundown office. I had an image of him wearing Ray-Bans and boardshorts, his flat stomach and smooth chest beading water as he walked the shoreline of some lake, the hot August sun bronzing his skin.

Then, we were back in my bed, his hazel eyes taking me in as he rode my cock, pinning my hands above my head. Lush lips descended toward mine and…

“Diem!”

I snapped out of the daydream with a start and focused on Tallus, who had clearly said something I’d missed.

“What?”

“Help me out here.”

“No. Do you want to be a detective? You have to start thinking like one.” I motioned to the papers. “You have eleven dead bodies. Twenty-six potential targets. Ask yourself, what do they have in common?”

Tallus frowned. “They’re all easily manipulated. We already figured that out.”

“What else?”

He heaved a frustrated sigh and flipped through the stack again.

“Ask yourself how the victims came in contact with the perpetrator. At some point, their lives crossed paths, or they wouldn’t have become victims. Where is the connection?”

“They were all Hilty’s patients. We already assumed that.”

I rolled a hand. “And why were they Hilty’s patients?”

Confidence seemingly bolstered, Tallus’s examination became more focused. “Because they were all suffering from an ailment that seemed incurable by any other means.”

“Bingo.”

Tallus hit me with a wide, beaming smile.

“List them.”

He returned his attention to the desk, poking each paper as he rhymed them off. “Arthritis, migraine, diabetic neuropathy and then some, inflammatory bowel disease, optic nerve injury, back pain, fibromyalgia, sciatica, withdrawal… Wait. Withdrawal? Really?”

“Half the reason addicts don’t quit is because they can’t make it through withdrawal. It’s the most horrendous thing you’ve ever felt in your life. Trust me.”

Worry pinched Tallus’s brow. I’d said too much. “Sounds like you have intimate knowledge. Quitting smoking?”

“Is brutal, but that’s not what I’m talking about. Alcohol and cigarettes are not my only vices.” I shifted my weight and mumbled, “I told you I dabbled in drugs. I was a heavy user in high school and immediately after. I had to come clean before I could apply to the academy.”

“It was that bad?”

“Worse.”

Nana had put me in rehab after the devastating bar fight where I’d nearly killed a man. There, I met Dr. Kembrook, the therapist I’d had before Peterson. It was in rehab that I decided I didn’t want to turn out like my father or wind up in prison, and I started getting help.

My road to fucking recovery. La-di-fucking-da. Look how far I’d come. Maybe I’d kicked the drugs, maybe I didn’t get into fights anymore, maybe I’d learned to hold my tongue and walk away, but my temper was as touchy as the wiring on a bomb, and my social skills were nonexistent.

It was what I’d been trying to relay to Tallus the other day, but he hadn’t listened.

Tallus seemed to take a second to absorb my confession before glancing back at the pages of information sprawled on the desk. “So not only were these people vulnerable and easily manipulated, but they were also desperate.”

“Yes.”

“Desperate enough to go along with anything these quack doctors prescribed.”

“Yes.”

Tallus tilted his head to the side like he was struck with a thought. “D?”

I grunted, encouraging him to speak.

“What if… What if Hilty did prescribe something? Can he do that as a psychologist?”

No, but Tallus was thinking. He’d joined me on the right track. I let him roll with it and watched his wheels spin, figuratively reaching out a hand and encouraging him to follow me toward discovery.

Tallus clucked his tongue as he sometimes did when he thought hard, gaze shifting back and forth as though reading an invisible script. “Amber and Allan were described by family and friends as acting weird before their deaths. Acting out of character.” He frowned, his gaze lifting to mine. “But we looked at Amber’s autopsy, and—”

“I know.”

“Nothing unusual showed up.”

“I know.”

I’d said drugs from the start, and I wasn’t ready to dismiss the possibility. Medical professionals were trained to test for medically known substances in autopsies. A preliminary toxicology scan looked for the big hitters: coke, meth, heroin, oxy, and all the prescription drugs under the rainbow. It didn’t mean there wasn’t a lesser-known substance at work. One they hadn’t tested for. One that hid in the background, unobserved.

Then, it happened.

Tallus sharply inhaled, eyes widening. He took the final leap, connecting the invisible dots. “Amber’s brother said she’d been experimenting with herbal remedies. Allan’s neighbor claimed he’d been doing the same… except the bottles in his cupboard weren’t open. Dammit, I thought… But what if…” He looked up, radiating uncertainty.

“Say it. What’s our next step?”

Tallus pondered, seeming unsure.

“Come on, Tallus. Give me instructions.”

He chuckled. “Okay. Since we can’t view the autopsies until tomorrow, we could contact some of the families and see if their loved ones were taking some sort of faux herbal drug remedy prescribed by the witch doctor duo before they died. Herbal drugs are not regulated the same as prescription drugs, nor are they properly tested, are they? Shit, D. This could be it. What if Madame Mind-Control whipped up some weird witchy concoction and ended up poisoning her patients? What if it was on purpose? What if Hypno-Hoodoo-Man was involved? I think we’re onto something.”

I stared at the gorgeous man in front of me, the one who made me want to both run and surrender at the same time. Beauty and brains. No matter how many times I fucked up intimacy and proved myself useless in the bedroom, Tallus stuck around, patiently waiting for me to figure my shit out.

Emotions strangled my throat, so my words came out quiet and choked. “You’d have made a great detective.”

And he beamed like the noonday sun.

***

Phone calls to families was sensitive work and far outside my skill set. I suggested grabbing food while Tallus got to work. He didn’t object.

With instructions to find Mexican food—not just any Mexican food, but a specific restaurant on the east end that Tallus claimed was the only authentic place in the city—I left him at the office and headed out.

Traffic was thick, so as I made my way along the congested Gardiner Express, I called one of my contacts, a guy I knew only as Scooter. A guy I used often when I needed to fish around in someone’s financial backyard and uncover secrets. Scooter had apparently worked on a sketchy undercover government tech project in the States before cutting ties with his employers and fleeing to Canada. His immigration papers had so many holes that he tended to fly under the radar so he didn’t risk deportation.

I’d never met the guy in person—it was how he operated—but apart from Tallus’s cousin, Scooter was the only guy I knew capable of performing deep illegal searches or tiptoeing through the dark web. He was scary smart but annoying as fuck.

“I need a financial audit on a Dr. William Hilty and a Ms. Rowena Fitspatrick,” I said when he answered.

“Krause?”

“Yeah.”

“How soon?”

“ASAP.”

The clicking of a keyboard came through the line, and I envisioned Scooter stowed away in the man cave of a mansion with blackout shades on the windows and empty cans of Monster surrounding him. I didn’t know the guy’s age, ethnicity, or if he preferred boxers or briefs, but I did know he was fucking rich off his ass and expensive as hell to hire. Obtaining illegal information, however, cost far less than some of the more questionable shit he did.

“I’ll do it for three hundred.”

I cursed under my breath. “Are you fucking kidding?”

“Nope. Two people. Higher price. Take it or leave it. You’re paying for information and a speedy delivery. Inflation, man. Don’t blame me. Blame your fucking government. A guy’s gotta eat.”

“What the fuck are you eating? Caviar?”

“Three hundred, and I can have it to you in an hour.”

“Two.”

More keyboard clicking. Scooter was barely paying attention. I was an annoying fly with a low-grade job offer. He didn’t need me. “Tell you what. I can go as low as two fifty because I like you, but that’s the best I can do.”

“Two twenty-five.”

“Two fifty. What part of take it or leave it don’t you get?”

I cursed again, scrubbing a hand over my face as I steered around a slow-moving van. “Fine. Fucking rip off.”

“You could find someone else.”

“I could have you deported.”

Scooter laughed. “Try it.”

Usually, my client would foot the bill for added expenses, but since my client was Tallus, who couldn’t afford his favorite Mexican food unless someone else was paying, never mind two fifty for potentially useless financial audits, I said, “I’ll transfer it now.”

“And I’ll send you an email in an hour.”

I hung up, taking out my aggression on the steering wheel.