Chapter 40
Raphael
Daniel Trotten really is as good as they say he is.
It’s been a month since that showdown in my Reyfield hotel room and the FBI still hasn’t indicted me. They haven’t even arrested me. Oh, they were going to but then Daniel showed up in his suit and tie, quoting obscure legal precedents and articles of law. They switched up their strategy quick-fast.
After all, the feds are really only interested in my cooperation. They’re not interested in tossing me in jail. That wouldn’t make the kind of splash they’re looking to make. I’m only a means to an end. They’re after the big fish – Club Audace – and I’m the only real lead they have.
Because I’m the only idiot who paid with a check.
Gwendolyn Spiers is a Versace-wearing, sex-trafficking kingpin. The FBI had been surreptitiously monitoring Club Audace's finances for months. Every other purchaser paid for their ‘merchandise’ using fat briefcases full of cash. In my shock and haste on the night of Eva’s auction, I made a fatal flaw. I left a paper trail. My million-dollar payment raised a major red flag and the FBI decided to follow the money. That trail led them to my Reyfield hotel room.
And now we’re here – Trotten, those two FBI buffoons and myself, in the spacious executive conference room at Silver Metal Brokers’ headquarters in Manhattan. This has got to be against FBI protocol but I don’t think they care. They just want to get to the bottom of this case by any means necessary.
I occupy the grandest chair, at the head of the table. It’s a silent reminder to them that I’m in charge. This is my turf. They’re here on my terms.
Personally, I don’t give a fuck about Gwendolyn and her illegal sex trafficking ring. She could rot in jail for all I care. That’s where she belongs, anyway. I don’t mind playing a role in her demise. The FBI has already offered me criminal immunity in exchange for my full cooperation.
I just have one condition.
I need guarantees, written assurances that the name of the woman I bought using that million-dollar cheque won't get dragged into the spotlight of this scandal. I won’t have Eva’s reputation tarnished by this shit.
She has her whole life ahead of her. She has dreams. She wants to sell pretty bracelets and she wants to travel the world and she wants to teach little old ladies about crafting jewelry. That’s beautiful. I’ll do whatever is necessary to protect her from exposure. Even if that means going to jail myself. So, until I get some sort of written guarantees for Eva, I’m not saying a word to these investigators.
On their end, they’re resistant to giving immunity because if they promise not to expose Eva, they may be impeded in their ability to collect evidence for their case. They’re afraid that they won’t be able to prove wrongdoing without her involvement.
Of course, Daniel is sweating in his designer loafers. He keeps reminding me that if the investigators find another credible lead before I cut a deal with them, I’ll become expendable and they won’t need me anymore. At that point, they’ll prosecute me without batting an eye. But that’s a risk I have to take.
Bring it on, motherfuckers!
The man sitting across the table from me is losing his patience. He runs his handkerchief over his shiny bald spot and levels me with a glare. “Mr. Silver, you’re running out of time. Unless you want us to escalate our measures against you, you’d better start talking now.” He roughly shoves the dirty cloth into the inner pocket of his cheap suit jacket.
He thinks I give a shit what happens to me? I lean across the table and glower at him. “Escalate away, you fucking piece of –”
“Mr. Silver!” Daniel hisses through clenched teeth.
I lean back in my tufted leather chair and stare up at the tiled ceiling, trying to come up with an alternative – a way to get the FBI off my back and be with Eva again. I draw a blank.
This shit sucks. I’ve been away from her for a month. I cut off all contact with her. Daniel says that the feds may have tapped my phones and any communication with her could lead them straight to her front door. Then all that I’ve done to protect her would have been for nothing. It’s the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do, but if I never see her again, I can live with that as long as she’s protected from this mess.
This shit sucks!
What do they call this feeling? Is this what heartbreak feels like?
When Diane and I got divorced, I felt numb for a few days and then, I grew indifferent. Sure, it hurt to end my union with the person I swore I’d cherish till death do us part but what bothered me even more was losing a sizeable chunk of my net worth to accommodate her lavish lifestyle.
Losing my Kitten is different. It literally feels like I lost an internal organ. Like my body is operating without a vital biological structure. There’s a gaping hole in my chest and I’m bleeding out into my chest cavity. My heart is gone. That’s what it fucking feels like.
It feels wrong. It feels dangerous. Like I could break down at any given moment. Like I could die.
Damn it, Eva...I didn't even realize I had a heart until it was breaking from missing her so much. But what I feel, what I want doesn’t matter.
Daniel clears his throat, bringing the attention back to him. “My client has already stated his conditions. Unless you’re prepared to meet them, then this conversation will be over and I’ll be forced to take this matter to the Department of Justice because your behaviour over the past several weeks is bordering on harassment.”
The agents share a look. The younger one swallows hard, his composure wavering. I laugh on the inside.
We don’t have a harassment case. Daniel’s bluffing but his poker face is strong.
My poker face ain’t bad either, I guess. No one seems to notice how much of a mess I am inside. I’ve been away from Eva for far too long. I want to get back to her. I want to hold her in my arms. I want to talk to her and make her understand why I left that hotel room that day without an explanation. And I want to spend the rest of my life making it up to her.
But I have to keep my distance.
The phone at the end of the conference table rings, but I ignore it. I’m busy. I’m in the middle of a standoff with two hounds of the state, for crying out loud.
It rings and rings, droning on and on and on. When it finally stops, I think to myself that my administrative assistant has finally gotten the message, but instead, there’s now a knock at the door. A persistent knock.
Huffing, I push away from the table and stand. “Excuse me, gentlemen. I have a new secretary and she doesn’t seem to understand the meaning of ‘hold my calls’.”
I yank the door open and come face to face with Jane. Or is it Jenny? No, it’s Jane, I think. I can’t quite remember her name. All I know is I don’t like her. She’s too perky, too excitable. I resolve right then to fire her as soon as this meeting is over.
Standing in the doorframe, I glower down at her. “I told you not to interrupt me,” I say between gritted teeth.
Instead of looking intimidated, she sort of just rolls her eyes. She’s obviously not smart enough to be intimidated by my glare. Insubordination is an infection. If you don’t nip it in the bud, it spreads. And I won’t have it contaminating my organization.
The girl’s fingers dig into my arm and she drags me into the hallway, speaking in a low volume. “Sir, there’s a Paul Jones on the line.” She says the name like it should ring a bell. She balances on the heels of stilettoes and waits for my reaction.
“Who the fuck is Paul Jones?” I growl, even more irritated.
She gives me a conspiratorial look. “He says he’s a private investigator.” She peeks down at the notepad in her hands. “He’s been keeping an eye on Simon Leroux.”
Shit!
My blood runs cold and my head goes light. Still my feet are steady as I stomp down the hall to her desk and snatch the phone out of its cradle. “This is Silver,” I say as I shoo Joanie away with my hand. She takes the hint and quickly disappears down the hallway.
“Mr. Silver, this is Paul Jones – the private investigator you hired to keep tabs on Simon Leroux.”
“Yes, yes,” I say impatiently. Even though he can’t see me, I gesture with my hand for him to move this conversation along. “Is something going on?”
“Leroux is on the move, Sir." I grip the lip of the desk at this news. "He just bought a bus ticket to Reyfield, Illinois.”
My heart rate spikes. “Don’t you let that fucker out of your sight, you hear me?” I slam down the phone and hurry back to the conference room. Without explanation, I grab my suit coat and head for the door.
The investigators eye me. “Where are you going? We’re in the middle of a meeting!”
“If you want to solve your case as much as you say you do, you’ll follow me.”
“Where are we going?”
“Reyfield, Illinois.”