CHAPTER 5
“That’s great news, Cowboy. I’m glad to hear everything worked out. Let Bruiser know he won’t have to worry about the fallout. I’ve already scrubbed the data. The team wasn’t anywhere near that place.”
“I’ve said it before; you’re scary, Digger,” Cowboy laughed.
“You haven’t seen me yet. I’m much worse in person.” Digger chuckled wryly. “I’m already tracking the guests. They are going to have a lot of misfortune in the coming weeks. Don’t worry; they aren’t getting out of this unscathed. I’m going to make sure every one of those slimy bastards pays for his crimes.”
“Good. Olivia was worried about the other women. It’ll ease her mind to know they won’t disappear again.”
“I’m going to do everything in my power to get them home again.” He hesitated a minute. “Speaking of home, do you ever get back home to Wyoming?”
Cowboy chuckled. “Not as much as I would like. With our schedules, it’s hard to make any plans, you know? Why?”
Digger ran his finger over the display of his telephone. “No reason. I was just thinking about the family. Sometimes I think I take them for granted. You know what I mean? They are always there, and I forget they won’t always be. This whole thing with Olivia and Bruiser reminded me how quickly things could change. I don’t know what would happen if I couldn’t see them anymore.”
“Then get your butt on a plane and go see them. Nothing between you but air and opportunity,” Cowboy chided him.
“Yeah, maybe I will. Thanks. Listen, I have to go. If the team needs anything, call. Digger out.” He pushed the disconnect button and sat back. Wiping his face with one hand, he drew it through his hair and down the nape of his neck. Squeezing gently, he thought about Demma and her family. Hearing her talk last week about not being able to go home reminded him how long it had been since he last saw his parents and brothers. Before the accident two years ago, he returned home on every leave to spend time with them. Once he’d been released from Walter Reed and given his medical discharge from the Marines, he’d moved to Los Angeles and hardly returned home. For the most part, he loved his job at Starpower, Inc. because it allowed him to keep helping people without getting out into the public. He laughed at the irony of it. Demma St. John had upset his whole world, and it didn’t even bother him.
He leaned in and punched the keyboard on his computer. The picture that filled the screen looked nothing like the beautiful starlet who had graced his office. Once she left, he had immediately started working through the labyrinth of information to find out all he could about her, being extremely careful to hide his inquiries behind layers of anonymous proxy servers, roaming bounces and protocol masks. Each inquiry was carefully scrubbed leaving nothing of his visit in its wake. This was one thing where he excelled. There were others, better than him, but not many.
The young face staring out of the screen had dark brown hair, brown eyes, and a round face. Digger leaned in and stared at the image, trying to see any resemblance to Demma but found none. There wasn’t even any suggestion that Beatrice Greenwood and Demma St. John were remotely related. Demma’s face was longer, with sharper cheeks and a square chin. Her eyes looked more spaced apart and her nose smaller. Even her lips were shaped differently. The ones she had now were a fuller pout with the top being slightly larger.
“Beatrice Ramona Greenwood, 18, passed from this life on Wednesday, April 17, 2013, as the result of a tragic accident. She leaves behind her parents, Ramona and Charles ‘Charlie’ Greenwood of Chicago and one sister, Alicia Greenwood also of Chicago.” Digger read the words out loud. They echoed off the bare walls of his apartment and sounded mocking and empty.
He clicked another link and pulled up the newspaper story of the explosion in the meth house which had ended her cousin’s life. Fourteen dead and three structures destroyed with damage to a dozen more. Windows had been blown out for a block. He read over the names of the dead. The list included Dennis "Slater" Slayton, Michael "Ellis" Ellsworth, and Zachary Greenwood along with Beatrice. He had run a check on every name on that list. They were all deceased, and he hadn’t found anything to refute it.
Normally Digger would capture images of a client he was working with, but he wanted no evidence he had ever looked into the incident. Quickly, he left the website, taking care to scour his exit. Satisfied Demma’s identity was still safe, he turned his attention to the list he was compiling of everyone who could have discovered her secret. Considering she was dead to the world, the list was incredibly short. According to Demma, nobody had seen her new face except for her handlers at the DEA. Her new name was chosen just before her exit from their custody. All evidence pointed at the mole being someone in the agency. The question was who? Already, he had triple checked every person who had come in contact with Demma during and after the investigation. There wasn’t a single red flag anywhere. He huffed out a breath. Things had become a lot more difficult.
His cell phone rattled as it danced across the desktop. He caught it as it was about to leap over the edge. He glanced at the caller ID and felt his heart clench. “Demma? Are you alright?”
The sound of terrified whispers filled his ears. “Somebody is here, Ryker. There’s someone in my house.”
He shot to his feet and grabbed his keys. “Call the police.”
“What if it’s the blackmailer? They’ll find out.”
Digger hissed as his fingers flew over the combination to his gun safe. “Call the police, Demma.” He pulled out his Colt 1911 and the extra magazines. “Do it now. I’m on my way.”
“I’m scared, Ryker.”
“I know honey, just calm down. Where are you?”
She gulped, and he heard the sounds of her moving. “In my shoe closet,” she whispered.
“Can anyone see you?” he ran down the steps of his apartment and to his truck parked nearby. Hopping in, he flew out of the lot.
“No, you have to know it’s here. It’s hidden. I think it used to be a safe room. I don’t think anyone can get in here.”
“Okay, stay quiet. Did you call the police?”
“No.”
He cursed and slammed his fist into the steering wheel. “Hang up and call them right now. I’m on my way. Hold on and stay calm.”
“Okay.” Her voice squeaked with the terror he knew she was feeling.
The connection ended, and for a split second, he was afraid the intruder had found her. He forced himself to calm. The drive from Brentwood to her house in Sherman Oaks took most of an hour due to the Saturday night clubbing traffic snarling the roads. When he arrived, relief washed over him to see the gate open and the yard covered in blue and red flashing lights. He slid his gun into the center console and exited his truck. Jogging to the door, he was stopped by an officer.
“This is a crime scene. Please step back.”
Ryker dug his ID from his wallet and showed it to the officer. “Ryker McMillan of Starpower. Ms. St. John is our client. She called me and asked me to come over.”
The cop took the ID and studied it. He snorted. “Publicists.” Thrusting it back into Ryker’s hand, he waved him into the door. “Don’t touch anything.”
Ryker entered the foyer and paid no attention to the other officers milling about the space. Following the sound of voices, he found Demma in a den talking to a detective. Her face turned toward him, and she gasped then lurched into his arms. He held her tightly as she trembled.
“Shhh. I’ve got you, Demma. It’s alright. Shhh.”
“What did I tell you, Jim?” A voice behind him muttered conspiratorially. “Beauty and the Beast. Mick and Jerry, Paulina and Ric, Catherine and Michael. It never fails. The beautiful girls always end up with the ugly guys.”
A guffaw followed. “If that were true, you wouldn’t still be single. And for the record, Michael Douglas isn’t ugly. I met him once a few years ago at a restaurant. Nice guy.”
Ryker ignored them. He was used to rude comments. He didn’t have time to worry about them. Instead, he glanced around the room. There were words sprayed on the walls, the floor and even on her furniture. The same word over and over in bright red paint with rivers of drips looking like blood.
Beatrice.
“Didn’t the alarm sound?” Ryker asked.
“They cut the power,” one of the officers answered. “There’s graffiti everywhere. It looks to me like some kids got the wrong house. They didn’t even take anything.”
He didn’t correct the detective. They had gotten the right house, and they did steal something vital. Demma’s sense of security was gone, and he doubted it would return. At least, not until this insane nightmare was over.