Page 27

Bishop

Back at my house, I made coffee then headed into my study. I had to make a couple of calls. Opening the drawer of my desk, I took out a cell phone and switched it on. While that booted up, I logged into the laptop, and used my thumbprint to sign into an encrypted partition. My email software—custom designed by Knight—opened and emails downloaded. I wasn’t sure how the system worked, but Knight had explained that every email sent to the address went via an encryption system, which could only be unlocked by my thumbprint. It made reading emails long and tedious, but it was better than someone gaining access to them. Thankfully, I didn’t receive much correspondence through it.

Another click of the mouse opened the address book—also encrypted and accessible via my thumbprint—and I scrolled through until I found the contact details I wanted, then tapped them into the cell.

The call was answered on the third ring.

“What?” It was more a growl than a word.

“When are you going to answer a call like a normal human being?”

“When those normal human beings are less annoying.”

I laughed quietly. “Are you busy?”

“That depends on how interesting what you’re going to say next is.”

I rolled my eyes at the typical Deacon response. “Rook said you helped him out with Magdalena’s situation a few months ago. If you’re not doing anything, I could do with your help.”

“Oh?” Interest brightened his tone. “Tell me more.”

“A new job I’ve taken. The girl is being stalked by her ex-boyfriend. He’s a detective in New York.”

“And you want me to warn him off?”

“No. I want to know his movements.”

“Ohhh, you want me to stalk the stalker?”

“Is that interesting enough for you?”

“Yeah. I’ll take Gemma. She could do with practicing her stalking skills. Do you want this under the radar or as part of the Disperser Security contract you have with us?”

“Let’s keep it between us for now.”

“You got it, Brother. Send me the information and I’ll get us on a flight to New York.”

“Thanks.”

He ended the call before I could. Deacon was worse for small talk than I was, so I didn’t take it personally.

With that organized, I turned my attention to my emails. Two of them were annual check-ins from existing clients, confirming that their identities were still safe, and they hadn’t needed to send out a distress call. Not that they needed to tell me that, I’d have known the second any call was sent out, but it gave them a sense of security to be able to reach out.

The third email was from Knight, with a file attached.

I know I said we’d talk next week, but you need to see this. DO NOT CALL ME. Email me back after you’ve read it, and we’ll discuss the next steps.

I clicked on the attachment. A window popped up asking for my thumbprint. I sighed, but pressed my thumb against the reader, waited for it to turn green, and then the file opened.

The first page was a short biography of Detective Chester Dulvaney. Two photographs were at the top—one of him in his uniform prior to being made detective, the second in civilian clothes, his badge hooked to the waistband of his pants.

I scanned through the bio.

Age: 36

Height: 6’1

Weight: 216 pounds

Eyes: Brown

Hair: Brown

Distinguishing marks: Tattoo of the name Eden, left arm. Small panther on left bicep. Bullet wound scar, right shoulder.

Both his parents were still alive and lived in New York. No siblings. No blemishes on his police record.

Nothing that hinted toward any kind of domestic abuse. I drummed my fingers against the desktop and scrolled down to the next page.

There were three photographs on this page. All women. One of whom I recognized.

Three ex-girlfriends , Knight had written. I’m assuming the last one is your girl .

Beneath the photographs were three names, addresses and cell phone numbers. I dismissed Eden’s information and looked at the other two.

Jessica Cantrell, aged 29, and Claudette Rafferty, aged 34. One relationship lasted less than two years, the other approximately ten. And it seemed that both women had moved out of New York shortly after the breakup.

I reached for my cell again and tapped in the first number.

“Hello?” A soft feminine voice answered.

“Ms. Cantrell?”

“Who is this?”

“I’m calling about Detective Chester Dulvaney. Do you have a moment to—”

She hung up.