Despite all the worries I had, I’d slept like a rock. When my alarm had gone off at seven, I’d reset it for nine. At nine, I reset it for ten. At ten, true to form, the reset had been for eleven. When I’d finally forced myself to crawl out of the spectacular bed—which I now considered my new best friend—I’d immediately made coffee then sat at the window drinking three cups while gazing out at Lake Michigan. What a view!
I’d also looked several times at the text Beck had sent that morning, smiling each time I read it.
Text Message—Thurs, Jan 13, 5:28 a.m.
Beck: Good morning, sleepyhead. Don’t worry. We’re gonna figure everything out and kick ass while we do. Have a safe flight and I’ll see you tonight. I love you as much as a Levain cinnamon roll <3
When I’d finally been awake enough, I texted him back.
Text Message—Thurs, Jan 13, 11:23 a.m.
Me: Thanks, sweetheart. That’s a lot of love. So as not to be outdone, I’ll see your cinnamon roll and raise you an oatmeal raisin cookie. I love you, Beck <3 See you tonight.
Checkout from the hotel was at noon, two hours before my flight, but with luggage in tow, it wasn’t like I could do any sightseeing; therefore, my only choice was to take a cab to the airport and wait. Well, I could’ve had a spa treatment at the hotel, but I wasn’t really in the mood, so O’Hare departure lounge it was.
At the airport, I praised the Almighty when I saw a Starbucks. Then after making it through security and checking in, coffee and multigrain bagel at the ready, I got as comfortable as one can get in an airport lounge. I ended up linking my laptop to my phone’s hotspot since the airport’s WiFi was only free for the first twenty minutes and kept asking for my credit card information, and remotely accessed Fleishman’s ledgers hoping that something, anything, would jump off the page at me.
And lo and be-freaking-hold, something jumped big time. How I hadn’t noticed before, I had no clue. But looking for the kabillionth time must’ve been the winner because I now saw that every ghost employee had the same four number combination in their social security number just in random places.
Alexander Reid’s number was 094-7x-xxxx. Gretchen Ware’s was xxx-x0-947x. Londell Chaney’s, xx0-94-7xxx, and so on. Those numbers surely had some significance. Maybe they were numbers in the perpetrator’s own SSN or his address. They could even relate to his birthdate. Whatever it was, I was on to something and excited to explore it because the scammer was good but it was time for them to be taken down.
Boarding was called for my flight, so I packed up my laptop and got in line with my boarding group. As the plane took off, I smiled that I was one step closer to cracking the case.
I’d planned on taking a cab to Beck’s and was totally surprised to see him waiting for me at the arrival gate. Without thinking, I dropped my carry-on and ran to him, jumping into his arms.
“Hey, baby,” he said against my neck as we hugged.
Pulling back, I smiled at him before kissing him hard. “I missed you,” I murmured against his lips.
“I missed you too,” he replied, eyes dancing in amusement at my change in demeanor, I was sure. “Let’s go see if we can catch a bad guy,” he said with a chuckle taking my hand, and after getting my suitcase from baggage claims, we took a cab to his apartment.
Once there, we’d gone over to my apartment to check it out and for me to pick up some things. I was prepared for my place to be trashed, knife slashes through my furniture and a rabbit cooking on the stove, but nothing appeared to have been touched.
“And you’re sure the light was on?” I asked as I packed some things.
He cut his eyes at me looking annoyed. “Yes. And your super said he didn’t stop by, in case you want to ask me that again too.”
“Sorry. It just doesn’t look like anyone was here,” I stated as I opened my closet door then let out a gasp.
“What?” he said, jumping up to see what had scared me.
“I know it’s silly, but this shirt?” I touched a gaudy, bright, emerald green, sequined blouse I’d worn exactly once to a party with Mason and that I now used as a prominent divider between my work and casual clothes. “It’s always exactly centered and now it’s three inches to the right.”
“Then someone was here and they were looking for something,” he replied.
“But what?”
“Probably your laptop or something you’d use to record your data from Fleishman.”
I shuddered thinking that an unwelcome asshole had been inside my apartment.
Back at Beck’s, he pulled the blinds on his bedroom window all the way up, and we set up shop, me on his bed sitting cross-legged and on my laptop trying to make sense of the four numbers I’d found, and him reading a Sports Illustrated as he sat in a chair facing the window, watching for the light to turn on in my bedroom.
“I made sure to let everyone know you wouldn’t be back until Monday, hoping whoever broke into your apartment would think you were gone and maybe break in again,” he informed me.
“Clever,” I replied, grinning back at him.
By ten o’clock, we were both worn out because I hadn’t found the link to the numbers and the light hadn’t gone on in my bedroom.
“Damn it,” he mumbled, getting up with a heavy sigh and closing the blinds.
We showered together, me on my knees in front of him at the beginning, making him roar as I took every last inch of him deep to the back of my throat, then swallowing all that he gave me. Then him at the end, hoisting me up to where my legs were over his shoulders, my back against the wall, hands propped against the ceiling, and his mouth on me, making me cry out in ecstasy. Twice.
He’d given me a sweet kiss on the cheek the next morning, leaving me to sleep as he went to work.
I’d gotten up at nine, using jetlag as a lame excuse for sleeping in, and after pouring myself a cup of coffee, sat at his dining table scouring Fleishman’s employee accounts yet again looking for a connection to the numbers but found nothing.
Beck called at lunch to see how I was doing.
“My eyes are crossed and I’m bald from pulling my hair out. What about you?” I asked.
He chuckled. “About the same. We’ll have good-looking kids, huh?”
I laughed and felt a warmness in my belly thinking about having kids with him.
“I saw some pork chops in your freezer. Okay if I thaw them out for dinner?” I questioned.
“Sounds good. Need me to pick up anything on the way home?”
“Mushrooms, asparagus and potatoes?”
“I can do that. I’ll see you in a bit,” he said.
“’Kay. I love you, bye,” I replied and we rang off.
By the time he walked in, I had the pork chops thawed, salads with a homemade vinaigrette dressing waiting and water boiling for the potatoes.
“Hey, babe. Here are your things,” he said setting a bag on the counter then giving me a kiss.
“Thanks,” I responded, as I opened the bag of potatoes and began peeling them into the sink. “How’d work go?”
“Good,” he called from his bedroom where I knew he’d gone to change into jeans. “What can I do?” he inquired as he came back to the kitchen.
“You can cut up that onion and garlic,” I nodded toward the cutting board where I’d placed them.
“On it.”
“Tell me more about this Rance guy. I’ve scoured my brain trying to figure out what 0947 relates to. Maybe it’s how many girls he’s pissed off with his catcalling.”
Beck snorted. “I don’t know a lot about him. He’s worked in finance at Fleishman for probably six years. He dated a girl in payroll for a while, Tammy something or other, a first-class bitch, before she broke up with him and transferred to another branch.”
“Hm. She was in accounting.” I pondered that as I cut up the potatoes then put them in the water I had boiling on the stovetop. “Eh. I got nothing,” I admitted after a few minutes. “What about Black Glasses Dude? You find anything out?”
He shrugged as he cut up the garlic. “Like I said, he talks a lot about Stephen King. Keeps to himself a lot. What now?”
“Sauté the garlic, onion and mushrooms in the canola oil,” I instructed. “What’s his job title?”
“Data analyst.”
That didn’t add anything to the case. “God, I’m going to make a connection soon,” I announced angrily.
“I know you will, babe.”
“Can you spoon some of that on here, please?” I asked watching him stir the pieces around the skillet. I held a bowl out to him and he put a couple spoonsful in it. “Thanks.” I cut pockets in each of the pork chops stuffing them with two tablespoons of the mushroom mixture and securing them with toothpicks before putting them in the oven to roast.
I next prepared the sour cream mushroom gravy and had it simmering on the stove as I mashed the potatoes and Beck sautéed the asparagus.
“We make a pretty good team,” he mentioned as I plated the pork chops covering them with a bit of gravy then he did the same with the potatoes.
“We’re like Martin and Lewis,” I agreed.
“Smith and Wesson,” he added.
“Fey and Poehler.”
“Black and Decker.”
“Laurel and Hardy.”
“Porter-Cable.”
I laughed. “How come mine are all comedy pairs and yours are guns and tools?”
He raised an eyebrow and held his hands up as if presenting himself. “Uh, guy, Duh.”
This made me laugh harder and I thanked him before kissing him.
“Why the thanks?”
“You made my shitty day so much better,” I called as I took our plates to the table. When I walked back to the kitchen, he was staring at me. “What?”
“Griffin and Chapman.”
“Yeah,” I said with a nod. “I like it.” I picked up the salad bowl and he grabbed the asparagus and as we walked into the dining room, I amended, “Of course, Chapman and Griffin sounds a little bit better.”
He laughed as we sat down to eat. “I was thinking they both kind of sucked. We’ll just stick with Beck and Birdie then.”
I nodded. “Birdie and Beck it is.”
“That was great,” Beck said when we finished dinner.
“It was. What’d you make for dessert?” At his confused face, I sniggered. “Just kidding. I made brownies.” We cleared the table and I asked him, “What’s Black Glasses Dude’s name?”
“Well, this is where it gets even weirder,” he began as he started loading the dishwasher. “He tells everyone to call him Frank Dodd, but his real name is Francis Baker.”
I cut the brownies and made two plates. After warming them in the microwave, I added vanilla ice cream, and carrying them to the table called, “Come eat dessert. I’ll take care of the dishes afterward.” Sitting at the table, I repeated the name he’d said. “Frank Dodd. Why does that sound familiar?”
He pulled his phone from his shirt pocket and looked it up. “Frank Dodd is a character from Stephen King’s The Dead Zone who raped and murdered women and a nine-year-old girl. He killed himself wearing a raincoat in the bathtub by ramming his mouth down onto a pair of scissors.” He looked up at me. “Fuck.”
“If he’s the one who made copies of my keys…”
“You’re not going back to that apartment until the locks are changed.”