Page 115 of Faded Gray Lines

I held my breath until I heard him blow out a harsh one of his own. It sounded like defeat, so I pressed on.

“Right, so why don’t you spare both of us the unpleasantness of me having to tell him you’ve been uncooperative and just fucking do it.”

Papers shuffled in the background, and he sighed. “What do you need and how fast?”

I fist pumped the air.

“I need you to hack into Agent Alex Atwood’s employment records and transfer to the DEA. I want to know when it was made and who authorized it. I also need you to look into any encoded files about the night Detective James Harcourt died.”

“Mateo needs this stuff?” he asked skeptically.

Shit!

“Do I need to repeat myself?” I growled, trying to sound intimidating.

“When do you need it?”

“Now, please.”

“Are you serious?” he yelled. “I can’t do this now. I have a class to teach.”

“I guess you’ll be late then.”

My challenge hung in the air until he finally muttered to himself. “Fine. I need at least twenty minutes. I’ll call you back.”

Just as he hung up, the bedroom door opened. Panicking, I threw the phone under a couch pillow and flung myself on top of it, quickly closing my eyes and pretending to be asleep. The smell of soap and caramelized leather washed over me as he kissed my lips.

“I’m heading over to the townhouse. I’ll be back.”

Stirring, I gave him a sleepy nod, keeping my eyes shut until I heard the suite door close. Throwing on a pair of jeans and a blue knit top, I paced the floor until nineteen minutes later, my phone rang.

“Bright, what did you find?” I asked, my nerves shot.

Keyboard keys clicked in the background. “Alex Atwood called in the tip about a drug shipment arriving at a known Carrera warehouse. James Harcourt was the first detective on the scene and Atwood showed up shortly thereafter. After Harcourt was shot, it seems he did everything he could to save him. He got a lot of commendations for it too. That’s where it gets weird.”

“How weird?”

“Well, he moved up the ranks of the DEA without proper channels. He wasn’t promoted. It’s like he was just placed.”

“Who appointed him?” I asked, holding my breath.

His answer buckled my knees.

Sick. I was going to be sick. Violently sick.

“Thank you.”

“Wait,” he called out, causing me to pull the phone back to my ear. “I also found an offshore bank account. It was inactive until a few days after Harcourt died, then multiple deposits were dumped in there and randomly withdrawn.”

No more. God, please, no more.

“Is that all?”

“Isn’t that enough?”

I never made it to the bathroom. As soon as I ended the call, I ran to the sink and threw up nothing but stale whiskey. It burned, but that was nothing compared to the burn of the worst betrayal yet.

Once I’d cleaned up my mess, I reached into my purse and pulled out the clipping I’d taken from my mother’s house. Staring at Alex’s face as he stood next to my father’s casket, I dialed one last number.