eight
“What the fuck is your problem?”
I pulled out my earbuds and looked up to find a very angry-looking Renata standing over my desk, obviously ready and willing to get much louder than she’d been when my music was still blasting in my ears.
“Ren… can I help you?” I asked, confused about what I’d done to draw such rage, so early in the morning.
Her nostrils flared. “Yes, you sure as hell can, by telling me why in the world you took it upon yourself to tell one of our clients to “never come back”. Who do you think you are?”
“The man who owns a third of this business,” I answered, completely calm. “And I’m guessing you’re talking about Monica Stuart?”
“You’re goddamn right,” she snapped. “As much as that woman has been through in the last week, you cannot tell me she deserves you being an asshole to her.”
I dropped the earbuds onto my desk, and pushed away the hard drive I’d been working on. “What she’s been through? Look, there’s more to this than you know, so—”
“Oh please. You’re talking about you being “NoRestForTheWicked”? I figured that out in two minutes alone with her laptop, did you forget who I am?”
I raised my eyebrows. “Are you taking this personal?”
“Yeah, actually, I kinda am. I told this woman that we would get her back on the path to normalcy, and now that’s out the window. She came to me – to us – for help, and you send her away? Why, so nobody would know your little secret?”
“Because I got arrested for fucking murder behind my association with her. And Ren… you know that I can’t be wrapped up in any bullshit.”
Renata let out a sigh. “Yes, I know. I understand perfectly, Chad. You were fucking CIA, I understand that you need to keep a low profile. But I’ve never known you to be… a fuckboy.”
“Whoa,” I said, raising my hands. “A fuckboy? Seriously?”
She nodded. “Yeah, seriously. I saw how long you and Monica have been friends. Only a fuckboy would be selfish enough to abandon a woman he’s been as intimate with as you and she have. Yeah, you got arrested. I recognize how fucked up that is, but you are not a pussy – far from it. So get over it, and help me help her.”
My jaw tightened as I leaned back in my chair, spotting the obvious passion in Renata’s demeanor. But what I didn’t get was, “Help her with what, Ren? It’s a murder investigation. It’s not like there’s shit we can do about it.”
“Not the murder investigation.” She shook her head. “But the hacking? The break-in?
I frowned. “Wait a minute… break in?”
“Yes, a break in, at her home. Panties scattered all over the place, art and books destroyed, roses smashed on her front doorstep.”
“Was she home when it happened?” I asked.
“For the break-in, no. But the roses were left at the door while she was inside, after discovering it. She called me, and I called Marcus, who called Sam.”
“Marcus didn’t say shit to me about that.”
“That’s something you’ll have to take up with him. But it’s irrelevant. With everything going on, I can’t help thinking it has to be connected.”
“Sounds like the former FBI agent in you coming out,” I said, which drew a smile from her.
“Yeah. And I’m trying to pull the Agent Calloway back out of you. I’ve seen your files, remember? You used to rock with Inez and Savannah back in the day, and those bitches are the toughest women I know besides Mimi. And Quentin is your blood. If they respect you, I know you’re a bad motherfucker, and between us and the rest of the team, we can figure this out.”
I sat back in my seat, shaking my head. “Ren… I left all of that behind me for a reason. For a damned good reason.”
“Which I understand, but—”
“I’m not gonna be dragged back into it. Especially when I have Kay to consider.”
Before Renata could respond, the door to my office swung open again, and I looked up to see Quentin.
“Hey…” he said, looking suspiciously between the two of us. “Y’all good in here? Steven said he saw Renata storm in here upset about something… I don’t need to referee, do I?”
Ren sucked her teeth. “Of course not. Chad loves me.”
“And you love to take that for granted,” I said, grinning as she flipped me off.
“Whatever. Q, your timing is actually perfect. I was just about to remind Chad of the story of how you reacted to finding out I was the mystery girl you’d been chatting online with for all those years.”
Quentin’s face blanked. “Oh, shit. You know what? I think I hear somebody call—”
“Uh-uh,” Ren laughed, pulling him into the doorway. “You bring your butt in here and tell him how much you regretted being mean to me.”
“I wasn’t mean, it was more like—”
“Quentin.”
He pushed out a sigh. “Aiight, cherie. I wasn’t necessarily Prince Charming at first, but you have to understand why I was angry.”
“I do,” she assured him, planting her hands against her chest. “And, I understand why Chad is so upset with the Monica situation. But it’s just that – the situation. Yes, the video was a mistake, but the police would’ve wanted to question you anyway. You’re blaming her, but this isn’t her fault. None of it is.”
“I get that, but it doesn’t change the fact that I don’t want anything to do with the drama of that whole situation.”
“What about once it’s over?” Quentin asked, apparently surprising both of us, from the way Ren’s lips parted. But then she turned to me too, waiting for me to answer the question.
I shrugged. “What do you mean?”
“I mean… once the drama has passed. Because, it will pass. And then what do you do, when you miss your friend, and the shit that seemed so big in the moment… you realize it wasn’t even worth a damn – let alone worth the loss of that friend.”
“Listen,” I started, shaking my head. “I get what y’all are saying… I do. But it’s really not that simple. Honestly, I’m not even pissed anymore – I just can’t be a part of this.”
For several seconds, neither of them said anything. When Renata did start to speak, Quentin hushed her, kissing her on the forehead.
“Babe… let me talk to Chad alone real quick, aiight?”
“Yeah,” she nodded, then slipped out of the room as Quentin dropped into the chair across from me at the desk.
“Aiight man… not to be on any sappy shit, but… you want to tell me what’s really going on? Because you say you’re not pissed anymore – cool. You say you’re not trying to have unwanted attention or scrutiny on you – understandable. But we both know that you could help Renata help Monica without your name even being involved if you wanted it that way. What I think is that you… don’t want to be involved with Monica at all, and it has nothing to do with this murder shit. So… what’s up?” he asked, propping his hands behind his head.
I shook my head. “There’s nothing up. You pegged it – I just don’t want to be involved.”
“But you were very involved before all this shit went down. I wasn’t trying to be all in your business, but Ren gave a little background. What’s different now vs a week ago?”
“Proximity,” I answered. “A week ago, I thought she was halfway across the country. Now she… hell, she may as well be next door.”
“So?”
My eyes widened. “So? You say that like everything can just flip back to normal.”
“No, I’m saying it like… why does it matter? You care about this woman, right? So, why wouldn’t it be a good thing to learn that instead of being hundreds of miles away, she’s right here where you can see her, touch her, in real life? I don’t get how that’s not a better situation.”
I let out a dry chuckle. “Because you’re thinking like a man who’s been married for five years. Like a man who doesn’t have certain countries he can’t step foot in. A settled man. One who doesn’t need to be able to get up and go at the drop of a dime.”
“You don’t live that life anymore though, bruh. You keep saying how you don’t want to get dragged back into it, but it sounds to me like you’re keeping yourself there. It’s okay to settle in and make a life for yourself. I mean… who, besides all the former law enforcement and government agents that you work with at Five Star, do you even talk to?”
“Kayla.”
He laughed. “Come on, man. She don’t count.”
“Fine. Monica. Well, Sandy.”
“Okay then! So you’re gonna throw away your one – relatively – normal human interaction… for what? Actually… while we’re here, I need you to explain how the fuck your former-CIA ass ended up in a damn anonymous whatever-the-fuck-y’all-call-it in the first place?”
“For exactly the reason you said – normal human interaction. I didn’t know who she was, she didn’t know who I was. I only gave the details I wanted to give, she did the same. We could communicate from anywhere, because she… lived in my computer, as far as I knew, you know? And talking to someone who was just… completely removed from everything… it was refreshing.”
“I don’t get you man,” Quentin laughed. “If you were happy to talk to her then, but now that you know the two of you are in the same place… it’s game over?”
“Yes.”
“But that doesn’t make any sense, unless you’re… afraid of what might develop. That’s it, isn’t it?”
I shook my head. “Man… I’m really not trying to talk about this shit. Really.”
“And that’s cool,” Quentin said, putting up his hands. “But… let me ask you this – and you don’t even have to respond – a year, five years, ten years from now… are you going to be able to live with the fact that someone you cared about needed your help, and you chose not to do it, based on a part of your life you swore you wanted to put behind you?”
True to his word, Quentin stood up and left, not even looking back to see if I would respond. Probably because we both knew I wouldn’t. Still though, the damage was done.
He’d effectively watered the seed of doubt his wife had planted, and the goddamn thing was already blooming.
Maybe I really was thinking about this the wrong way.
When I said I wasn’t pissed at Monica anymore, that was the truth. The whole situation was aggravating, but I understood that she wasn’t the villain. It was just all-around fucked up.
With that said, the last thing I needed was continued interaction with her, bolstering the theory that I’d killed her husband for her, or that we’d cooked up some scheme together. I didn’t need to be hauled into the police station again, didn’t need some local gossip columnist posting my picture online for the whole damned world to see.
I wasn’t trying to accept an invitation for trouble at my front door.
Quentin was right though. I could help with the other stuff right here from the comfort of my office, or at home, and never have my name officially connected to anything. The problem in that was, even if the authorities didn’t know I was helping, Monica would. And she would be grateful, and want to talk, to thank me or something, and that meant being in her face, or hearing her voice, or smelling her scent on the paper if she simply sent a card.
I didn’t need that.
But I wanted it, bad.
Which was exactly why I needed to let the shit go.
Things were perfect when she was outside of my reach. When all I could do was imagine her face, or pretend smelling her perfume was like having her actual aroma in my nose. Before she was close enough to touch… or taste.
Yes, we were friends, but it served no one’s interests to pretend that there wasn’t more to the story – a story I knew better than to start in the first place. Monica was… an attachment.
I’d spent half my adult life in a career that considered attachments grounds for dismissal. Don’t develop personal relationships was damn near part of the job description.
It wasn’t an easy thing to let go of.
Family were the first ones I relaxed that rule for, once I hung up that particular hat for good. Their number was limited enough that it was easy, eventually, to justify friends – a few from my days at Blakewood State, but mostly fellow government agents or law enforcement – people I met during my stint as a Tech Analyst with the FBI, before I stepped away completely.
Women… were a whole other animal.
Of course I had flings – I was a man with certain needs, so that had been a constant. And it wasn’t as if I didn’t see the value of women beyond sex. Being a friend was the type of thing I could handle – I was actually pretty damned good at it, I thought. But once other shit got involved – other shit being romantic feelings – that was where it tended to fall apart. And with Kay having been such a large part of my life, for years…I couldn’t say that I felt a particular inclination to change that.
I didn’t feel incomplete. There was no deep, underlying sense that something was missing, no craving for long walks or cuddling in front of the fire. Between Kay, my Five Star family, friends, and work, my life was full.
Not if you leave Monica hanging though.
“Fuck,” I said out loud, scrubbing a hand over my face. Whether or not I wanted to admit it, Monica, as Sandy, had developed a certain importance in my life. When she told me vague details about a great deal she’d closed for her business, I was genuinely happy for her. When she hit me up randomly to ask about my day or see if I’d managed restful sleep, it made me feel cared for. And when the clown ass motherfucker she’d married hurt her… I wanted to do exactly what the police had accused me of.
So, to answer Quentin’s question… no.
I wouldn’t be able to live with myself knowing that she’d needed something I could provide, and I’d done nothing to help.
Closing my eyes, I heaved out yet another one of those hard sighs, then opened my desk drawer to pull out my cell phone. Before I could overthink it, I dialed a number, chuckling when the woman on the other end answered with a long, drawn out, “Hellllooooo?”
“Ren…”
“Yes, Chad. How can I help you?”
I drummed my fingertips on the cool surface of my desk, glancing at the forgotten hard drive I’d been working on as I contemplated my answer.
“Monica Stuart. I need her laptop, and have her bring in her home desktop too. If I’m going to figure this out for her… I need all of it.”
“You’re not as smart as you think you are, motherfucker,” I muttered as my fingers flew over the keys, easily bypassing the attempt that had been made to keep me from seeing the exact method that had been used to breach Monica’s computers. I wouldn’t call it amateur work by any means, but the hacker – probably someone hired from more obscure, less than legal reaches of the internet – definitely wasn’t elite.
That made my job a little easier.
I’d taken Monica’s things to my home office with me and gotten comfortable, knowing that there was little chance of me getting any sleep – my default setting these days. Instead of setting myself up for frustration, I’d made my way straight here after my workout and shower, and settled in. The room was dark, my music was cranked up loud in my ears, and I was making progress.
Whoever hacked her was all the way up and through Monica’s business.
The corrupted files were hidden in innocuous places, and all had innocuous names, so the chances that a typical user, or even the typical computer repair guy, would have found them, were slim. What they lacked in sophistication, they made up for by not being messy. I still had no idea who inserted the flash drive that did all the heavy lifting, but I did have my doubts that the hacking was personal.
As I navigated through everything in front of me, I realized that even her company’s cloud server had been infected, and I had a suspicion that it had been the target in the first place. Production schedules had been downloaded, and in some cases, changed, so that they’d been over- or under – producing certain products, leading to shortages or surpluses, both of which could affect company goodwill and bottom line. And from what I could tell, more than one formula from her skin care products had been changed – by the system, not by one of her scientists – which meant that some products weren’t even being produced as intended.
“But quality control should be catching that,” I mumbled to myself. That thought was barely out of my mind before I found the bundle of quality reports that had been suppressed from view by anyone other than the System Administrator. Someone, somewhere, had been giving those products the go-ahead to be sent to select clientele – online beauty influencers, celebrity spokespeople, and a few specific salons.
No wonder Vivid Vixen was getting trashed on social media. Monica thought the beauty vloggers or whoever were being paid to lie about the products, and say bad things. But… they weren’t lying. The problem was in the production chain itself.
I backed out of that without touching anything, to avoid tipping anyone off. Eventually, I would take over the system and add better security measures, but for now, gathering information was key.
I navigated back to the laptop itself, and into the last folder I hadn’t checked – labeled Recipes. A love of cooking was something Sandy… no, Monica… had mentioned to me on many occasions, but having such a folder on her work laptop rang an alarm bell for me. And sure enough, once I had clicked a few levels deep into the folder, I found something that made me frown, and lean a little closer to my screen.
A gateway for surveillance feeds.
The first one didn’t surprise me very much – it was Monica’s house. The front and back doors, her kitchen, her living room, and office – two angles of all points that could be used for entry. She’d probably turned them back on after the break-in.
Next was the Vivid Vixen building, which was full of security cameras. The building was dark now, and quiet, but I could easily imagine those screens filled with action. It wouldn’t be any trouble at all for someone to watch every single detail of a day at Vivid Vixen, from the comfort of their computer screen.
The last one though… I didn’t understand it. It was a single camera, aimed at an empty, unfamiliar living room. From the angle, it had to be up in a corner or something, and the view was partially obstructed. But everything that was visible was crystal clear. As I watched though, brow furrowed in confusion, it slowly became clear that I wasn’t looking into someone’s home… I was looking into a hotel suite.
A chill crawled up my spine as Monica came into view, illuminated by the glow of the TV. Her nose was red, and her glossy eyes were rimmed in a similar hue – obvious signs that she’d been crying, which pained me. Hearing it had always made me want to punch a hole in something, but seeing her pretty face so clearly distraught made my chest feel tight. She dropped brusquely onto the couch, an action that pulled her barely-tied robe open even more, almost revealing her obvious nudity underneath. My eyes narrowed as I thought about someone else – someone sinister – watching her in this state.
I can’t just ignore this.
As I wracked my brain trying to remember what hotel Renata had said Monica was in, the subject of the surveillance lifted a wine bottle from the coffee table to her mouth, tipping it back. Once she’d gulped down whatever she determined was enough, she practically tossed the bottle down, then dropped her face into her open hands.
There was no audio, but it was obvious that she was sobbing.
Fuck.
I got up from my desk, searching for the client card Renata had given me, with all of Monica’s contact information. I frowned when I saw, in neatly printed letters, that Monica was staying at Veil.
They were supposed to be known for going the extra mile in discretion.
Back at the desk, I used my own laptop to open a private chat window to send a message. I wanted to protect Monica’s privacy, but in her current state, alarming her didn’t seem like a good idea. I didn’t have the firepower here at home to do anything about a camera in a hotel room across town. But, I knew someone who might.
[open secured chat with user_ grimreapher]
[norestforthewicked: yo. u around?
grimreapher: only if your big sexy chocolate ass has something good for me.]
I chuckled, shaking my head as I typed back a response.
[norestforthewicked: stop playing. heard you’re laid up with a hotel magnate now.
grimreapher: nah. that nigga is laid up with *me*.
norestforthewicked: well wake him up. unauthorized eyes on my client under the shroud.
grimreapher: not possible. no cameras in the rooms.
norestforthewicked: C33.]
A few minutes passed without a response, and I could imagine Willow – who’d appropriately dubbed herself the “Grim ReapHer” in the hacking world – cursing to herself as she realized I was right.
[grimreapher: nigga. is this monica stuart?
norestforthewicked: focus.
grimreapher: which means yes, it is. how the fuck is she this fine while she’s a weepy drunk? impressive. goddamn she’s fine.
norestforthewicked: agreed. but, focus please.
grimreapher: fine. i’ll suppress the signal for now, and then get someone in there to get the actual camera while she’s not in her room. who did she piss off? veil is impossible to break into – somebody wanted eyes on her *bad* to pull this off.
norestforthewicked: yeah. that’s what concerns me. thanks will.
grimreapher: anything for the man that caught me but didn’t keep me. ?? you hitting that?
norestforthewicked: goodbye.
grimreapher: which means yes, you are. good for you. i’ll have the camera delivered to the store so you can check it out, but keep me in the loop. the twins will want blood over this.
norestforthewicked: I would expect nothing less.]
[/secure chat closed]
Just as she said, I watched the feed from inside Monica’s hotel room go black, and pushed out a sigh of relief. My agitation with getting arrested and shit aside, the fact that she was being consistently violated in one way or another was pissing me off.
Fuck it.
I wasn’t waiting anymore.
It was probably going to take me the rest of the night to complete, but I cared very, very little about that as I started the process of sanitizing everything. I inlaid new security protocols as I went, so there was no chance of her network getting infected again. When I finished everything, I would put together a report she could use to at least repair the damage done to her business while we found the culprit.
Between me, the Drake family, and the police… whoever did this had a problem on their hands.
I couldn’t wait to figure this out.