Page 16 of Capitol Matters (Marionette #2)
When I arrived at work Tuesday morning, Holland was waiting for me. I made it on time, despite a last-minute scramble to find something professional to wear. Last night’s outfit had been salvaged by the addition of an old corduroy jacket I found in the back of Nash’s closet. Salvaged being a gracious term because, besides looking ridiculous paired with black and leather, the coat had been tailored for Nash’s broad shoulders and robust torso, and I was swimming in it.
Thankfully, Holland didn’t comment on my wardrobe as she led the way to her office. Tagging along after her while studying the curve of her waist in a skimming pinstripe minidress fulfilled a ‘called to the principal’s office’ fantasy I only now realized I had.
The first thing that struck me about Holland’s office was the darkness. The overhead light stayed black, and it took my eyes a moment to adjust as I scanned the space. My father had a similar setup during his career as a lead investigator, so I was familiar with the fixtures. A desk and chair faced seats for up to two visitors and was flanked by bookcases on the back wall. Unlike Maximus’s shelves, which were brimming with curiosities, Holland’s were bare. It gave me little to look at but her as she settled into the seat across from me.
Judging by the pace she’d set getting here, I assumed she’d be in as big a hurry to start our conversation. Instead, she smoothed her hands across a bare spot on the desktop, taking a moment to organize her thoughts.
“How’s your shoulder?” I nodded toward it.
She pressed her fingers to the healing wound. “Much better, thank you.”
We fell into quiet again. My least favorite state of being.
Between shots last night, I’d decided if Holland cut me loose from Capitol duty, I could always barback at the Bitters’ End. My Cocktails game was on point, and all the booze I could guzzle was certainly a perk.
Holland cleared her throat. “I’ve had some time to consider the events of the other day, and I feel I owe you an apology.”
My jaw fell slack. “You’re kidding.” Unprepared as I had been to face her, I was even less ready for that.
The investigator lifted her hand, putting me on pause as she explained. “While your methods were unconventional, I believe you acted in the best interests of the Capitol. I also believe you protected me, and that the situation may have escalated further without your intervention.”
Disbelief bubbled into an abrupt laugh. I had a witty comeback loaded and ready to fire, but Holland’s next statement wiped it from my mind.
“I also spoke with my father,” she said.
Had he told her about my assignment? Would it complicate things if he had? Or dash Holland’s hopes about me turning my life around? She could hardly blame me for following orders. She was such a conformist she would probably think it was the best thing I’d done yet.
The investigator continued, “He had several thoughts about your role in Capitol business, and we agree that treating you like a civilian is not the best use of your skills.”
And I’d thought Ripley was being a smartass saying the same thing.
“These are challenging times,” Holland said. “The city is in shambles, and we’re operating with bare essentials. We need what help we can get and, you were right, it would be foolish not to accept yours.”
Could the ease of last night’s abduction have carried over into today? I’d all but given up on seeing eye to eye with the strait-laced investigator, but there might have been hope for us yet.
Still, her explanation raised more questions than it answered, so I asked, “What does all that mean for me?”
“Essentially, that next time we’re called to a crime in progress, I’m not going to leave you in the car.”
A knock at the door stirred Holland from her chair. She excused herself and stepped out, cracking the door wide enough that I glimpsed Tobin, Vesper, and Felix clustered in the walkway.
Left alone with my thoughts, I tried to remember how long ago Holland had been promoted to her current position. It was big news at the time. Maximus Lyle’s daughter rose through the ranks, impressing everyone along the way. Her office, however, was considerably less remarkable than her achievements. Perhaps she hadn’t had time to put her personal touch on the room. Though, judging from my time spent around her the past few weeks, it was equally likely she didn’t inhabit this space often enough to fuss over aesthetics.
In my pants pocket, my cell buzzed against my thigh. I fished it out and saw Donovan’s name on the caller ID. Strange to hear from him this time of day, especially since he’d had such a late night at Lock n’ Roll. I sent the call to voicemail, then tucked the phone away as the investigator reentered the room.
“Sorry about that,” she said.
My phone vibrated again. Text message, judging by the short burst of an alert. I ignored it as Holland returned to her seat and pressed her palms against the desktop.
“Where were we?” she asked.
Before I could answer, my cell resumed buzzing. Grimacing, I pulled it from my pocket and scowled at the screen. Another incoming call from Donovan. A message alert scrolled across in all caps.
HELP! SOS! EMERGENCY!!!
The call rolled over while I stared, and another rapid-fire text came through.
ANSWER YOUR PHONE!!!
“Is everything all right?” Holland asked.
I must have looked as shaken as I felt. That, or she was irritated by the device that had suddenly captured my full attention.
“I-I’m sorry.” I rose from my chair and started toward the door. “I have to take this call.”
Rushing out of the office, I didn’t know what to think. Thoughts cluttered my mind, unformed but full of dread. My fingers felt numb as I swiped into the call log. When the phone started vibrating again, I almost dropped it.
“What?” I answered, pressing the cell to my ear.
I made speedy progress away from Holland’s office, my back to the trio of investigators lurking nearby. The other end of the line remained quiet for several seconds, disturbed only by the sound of rapid breathing.
It could have been someone else using Donovan’s phone. One of the escaped convicts or a newbie Hex member gone rogue. I wasn’t the only one with a tattoo worth killing for. A place in the gang and a seat at our table remained a hot commodity in the criminal world.
“Donnie?” I hissed.
It was unwise to say his name here, but logic was delayed by the onslaught of fear.
If he died, I would never forgive myself.
If he died after last night, when all I had to say about his angst and worry was that I’d been right about what a shitty criminal he’d be, I would never forgive myself.
“Donnie!” I shouted into the receiver.
“He’s dead…” My brother’s voice was so choked I could barely understand him. Despite his obvious distress, relief washed over me.
A few employees walked past, and I forced a smile and wave at them before rushing down the hall toward the parking garage elevator.
“Who’s dead?” I whispered.
Sniffling preceded another sob-garbled statement. “It’s my fault,” Donovan said. “I screwed up. Promise you won’t tell Grimm.”
I punched the down arrow to call the elevator car. It must have already been on this floor because the door slid open immediately.
“I don’t tell him shit anymore,” I replied, keeping my voice low. Grimm had made it clear that the gang was no longer my concern, and I lumped him in with it. “Where are you?” I asked.
A long pause stretched until I got impatient and snapped his name.
“Storage,” Donovan replied.
Standing in the elevator, I remembered the last time I’d taken this ride to the parking garage. Moments before I’d discovered the mutilated corpse the investigators made of my car. Nash brought me here this morning on a belly full of toast and eggs, but he was back home and in bed by now, and I was across town with no car.
Asking my brother to pick me up and take me back to the storage facility was a non-starter. He was too upset to be behind the wheel, and it would take too long, besides.
I could hotwire a car but rigging anything newer than a ‘90s model would be a challenge, and I doubted any of the Capitol clowns drove thirty-year-old beaters.
I must have been silent for too long because Donovan spoke up .
“Fitch… hurry.”
Swearing, I ended the call, resisting the urge to throw my phone into the steel wall of the elevator. I could try to wake Nash or even Ripley, but involving others would only complicate a situation I didn’t fully grasp.
I should have learned from Donovan’s chauffeured arrival at Jacoby Thatcher’s house the night of my arrest: no taking cabs to jobsites. So, I wouldn’t take a cab to Lock n’ Roll. I’d take it to the fried chicken restaurant across the street—one of a few fast-food joints in town that had managed to keep their doors open. Then, I would walk over to the storage facility and into whatever disaster awaited me.