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“Just that she needs time off. You know Jazz. She’s not one to share more than the bare minimum.”
And that was the heart of the problem. He probably knew more about Jazz than anyone at OZ, and still he felt as though he’d yet to scratch the surface. She kept so much of her thoughts and feelings to herself.
“Maybe this time away will give her the impetus to finally go after him for real.”
“Yeah, maybe,” Ash said. “We just need to give her what she needs. Whatever that is, without judgment.” Before Xavier could delve too deeply into those stinging words, Ash switched gears and said, “Serena pulled the camera footage around the restaurant.”
“Let me guess. It shows nothing.”
“Yeah. Inside and out. Feed cut off for about ten minutes.”
“How far of an area did she go out?”
“Five blocks. Did find an ATM camera that got a brief shot of the SUV Jazz described. Windows were tinted. Couldn’t see a thing. Not able to see a license plate.”
“Okay. I’ll head over to the restaurant and start the interviews. The police have anything?”
“Guess you haven’t looked at your OZ alerts.”
Xavier cursed silently as he clicked the link. He’d heard a notification at the restaurant, but it had come in the middle of Jazz’s announcement, and he had ignored it. He was definitely off his game.
Xavier quickly read the alert.
Shootout in Cedar Park, about an hour outside Seattle. The man suspected of killing Franco Bass was shot and killed by the FBI.
Shaking his head in disgust, Xavier held the phone to his ear. “That was quick.”
“Yeah. They’re saying he was a disgruntled former employee, always a good ploy.”
“Happens so often nobody gives it a second look.”
“All tied up with a pretty bow.”
“Okay. I’ll start digging.”
It’d been a while since he’d done an investigation without Jazz. He already missed her intelligent wit and dry sense of humor. He’d give her a week and then reach out to her. Whether she wanted to admit it or not, she needed her OZ family. She needed him.
And yes, he definitely needed her.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Chicago, Illinois
Kevin Doyle forced himself to ignore the buzz of the restaurant two floors below and concentrate on the massive amount of work he needed to do. Usually, he could drown out the noise, but a wedding party had rented out the large private room, and the majority of the attendees were apparently already three sheets to the wind.
He didn’t have to be here. He, in fact, had an entire floor of offices twelve blocks away where he could have all the quiet and privacy he needed. But this restaurant had belonged to his family for decades. It had seen them through many hardships, and for sentimental reasons, he did the bulk of his work here. Plus, it was an excellent cover for his other not-so-legal activities.
Pulling out a lower desk drawer, he lifted the false bottom and withdrew the ledger. His family laughed at him for not putting his accounts online like a twenty-first-century businessman, but he didn’t trust technology. Prisons were filled with people who’d been careless and trusted their life’s work to cyberspace, where hackers were just waiting to dig into your business either to steal from you or ruin you. No, thank you very much. Pen and paper had been good enough for his ancestors. They were good enough for him.
Burying himself in the numbers and shipments of his warehouse imports, he successfully drowned out the drunken noise below.
An hour later, the pounding on the door was a welcome distraction. The familiar knock—two hard, one soft— made him roll his eyes and sigh. The man was so predictable. “Come in, Oscar.”
The chunky man stomped inside. He was huffing and puffing, and that was likely because he’d walked up only nine steps to get here. The man was in pisspoor physical shape, but he was loyal, and he was family, so Kevin gave him a pass he might not give to someone else.
“You busy?” Oscar wheezed.
“I’m always busy. What do you need?”