Page 28 of Only the Wicked (The Sinful State #1)

Chapter Twenty-Three

Rhodes

Evie Thompson stands on the sidewalk outside of The Hamilton, holding her phone, glued to the screen. She doesn’t look up once.

Her dark hair with grown-out highlights is split down the middle, tucked tightly behind her ears. The charcoal suit she’s wearing is no nonsense, as are her short, natural nails.

Her father is a secretive hedge fund manager, born in Egypt, and he maintains ties throughout the Middle East. As one of my first investors, I owe his daughter this meeting. I would’ve met with her anyway.

Evie could’ve gone the route of spoiled, entitled rich kid, but she didn’t.

She’s worked her ass off. Top of her class at Harvard Law, and she chose the public servant route.

Probably an easy choice for someone with what has to be a sizeable trust fund, but she could be spending her days traveling the world and chasing hard-to-get handbags, and she’s not. Therefore, she intrigues me.

I stand in front of her as she types away on her screen. She continues typing, fingers flying, clueless that if I wanted, I could read the email response she’s tapping out.

I clear my throat and large brown eyes flash.

“Just a minute,” she snips.

Alright then .

“I’ll go inside and get our table.”

By the time the hostess has gathered two menus, Evie’s at my side.

“I’m not going to eat,” she rushes. “Why’d you change the location?”

“A precaution,” I admit.

I should probably warn her to be more cautious. She’s climbing in the ranks and there are those who might be interested in her work.

“What’re you doing these days?” I ask as we slide into a window booth.

Before she can answer, I say to the hostess, “We’re only having drinks. Do you have a cocktail menu?”

“On the back,” she says with a smile. “Our smoked salmon appetizer is the best, if you decide you want something to snack on.”

“Thank you,” I say.

The restaurant is basically void of people this time of day but before long the after-five crowd will hit. However, at this time of day on a summer Friday, the patrons may be tourists. The D.C. power players are likely long gone for the summer weekend.

Evie taps on her phone and then with a sigh, sets it down on the table and flips it over so she can’t see the screen.

“Done?” I can’t help but ask. I’m not certain if she’s Gen Z, but she’s definitely self-absorbed.

“Sorry.” She picks up a glass of water and sips. Those eyes of hers are so large her portrait could be mistaken for AI. They make her look young, probably younger than she is.

“You wanted to meet?” I prompt.

“If I gave you a list of names, could you get me information on them?”

I sit back, amused. “What’ve you heard? That I sell information to the highest bidder?”

I’ve heard the rumors. There’s a vestige of truth to them, but it’s not as simple as the rumors insinuate. Nothing ever is.

She sits back and places her hands demurely in her lap. “Let me start over. I’m sorry, my mind is all over the place this afternoon.”

I can see that. While her hair is pulled back tightly behind her ears, the strands around her shoulders fall uncontrollably around her in an unkempt, wind-blown fashion.

“I’m working a human trafficking case.”

Ah. Okay.

“The case officially targets the Los Zetas cartel. We located twenty-two women in D.C. nail spas that were trafficked here by them.”

I haven’t read anything about that, but my news focus leans toward finance and international.

“Here’s the issue. The more I learn about their process, it becomes clear they aren’t doing it alone.”

“You have suspects?” That’s her list. People with leverage who could have customs officials or DEA look the other way. She’s probably right. The volume of drugs alone coming into the country each year is evidence in and of itself of crime on the inside.

“Some senators, congressmen.”

Hmm. She’s going up the chain.

“Where’s the list?”

She scans the restaurant.

Of course, now she’s concerned about someone watching.

She hands me a rumpled list torn from a cutesy notepad with a rainbow on the top corner.

“Does your boss know you’re looking into these people?

” I scan the list of names. While some of the names are familiar, they don’t mean anything to me.

I live in California and these individuals aren’t my representatives.

None of them are on the Senate Intelligence Committee and they aren’t Pentagon players.

Her pupils are dilated. Fear .

“You think your boss is in on it?”

“I don’t know anything yet. But I know my searches are being monitored.”

Her father’s face flashes. He must hate that his daughter has been assigned to go after the lowest of the low.

About half of organized crime business these days is legit, but still, she’s hunting groups willing to traffic humans. You can’t sink much lower in the criminal food chain.

“Do you have a security detail?”

I didn’t see one outside, but it’s quite possible she’d insist a detail not follow her while she’s working.

“No, that’s not for the underlings,” she says with a smile. Although, an assistant DA in D.C. isn’t an underling. But I hear they work like dogs so maybe that’s how she feels.

“What about your father?”

“No. If you’re going to ask if he’s going to pay the bills,” she presses her lips together and shakes her head slightly, “he won’t be. We’re not really talking these days. I’m coming to you because my gut says you’re a good guy and that you aren’t obsessed with cutting deals for the sake of money.”

She flips her phone over and taps it, flicking over photos of women with dark hair and haunted eyes posed in mug shot style.

“The cartel trafficked these women in?”

“It’s a robust operation. It never stops. A bust here, there. It’s not working. They just regroup.”

“Does your father know what you’re working on?” If she were my daughter, I’d insist she move to a different division.

“That’s why we’re not talking.”

She’s defiant. Did he also cut her off? I’m not a fashion savvy guy, but I can tell she’s wearing an off-the-rack suit by the way the sleeves are slightly too short and the shoulder pads scrunch with extra material.

I fold the list and slip it into my trouser pocket. “I’ll look into it. But, you know, if these men are involved, it’s likely my systems aren’t going to come up with anything that will help you.”

“Could I possibly talk to someone who works for you? Brainstorm the kind of information that could be useful?”

I think of Daisy. She’d love to use our baby, ARGUS, for a project of this nature.

“Sure. I’ll put you in touch with a person on my team. Do you have a secure laptop? Phone?”

The brown leather briefcase sitting on the floor isn’t closed, and I’m guessing that’s because it’s loaded with files. Paper files.

“No. I have a personal phone, but I’m sure it’s being monitored.”

“I’ll have Daisy send you a package. Follow her instructions.”

“Thank you. We’re underfunded, but I feel like…” her words trail and her head shakes slightly, as if she can’t believe she’s thinking the words she’s about to say.

“You feel like someone is purposefully averting funds to limit the pursuit of this case.”

She opens her mouth and releases a slow breath.

“You don’t need to say more. Daisy will be in touch.”

“It could just be that everyone at my level is overloaded and the budget is too constrained.”

“Absolutely.” Human trafficking isn’t the highest of priorities for the United States government. In theory, drugs are a higher priority, and the fight against them has gone nowhere for decades. Possibilities abound.

We stand and a harried waitress appears.

“I’m so sorry. I was on break and they didn’t come to tell me you’d been seated.”

“No worries,” I say.

I need to get back to Sydney. And I’m itching to call Daisy, both to tell her about Evie but also to ask her to proceed with that deep dive on Sydney. Her meeting with the FBI is likely innocent, but there’s no harm in confirming she’s been truthful about her identity.

Evie and I exit the air-conditioned restaurant and step back out into the heat. She sets her briefcase on the sidewalk and removes the suit jacket, revealing a wrinkled white silk blouse.

“Hey,” I say as she situates herself for what I presume is a walk back to her office. “Do you have any contacts in the FBI?”

“Some,” she answers, straightening but leaving her briefcase on the ground leaning against her calf. Her suit jacket hangs over her bag and trails the concrete sidewalk. “Mostly those who work human trafficking. You can’t possibly need a contact.”

I grin. “I have sources. But I’m curious. Would an FBI agent work on an unofficial investigation?”

“I mean, sure. We all have our pet projects. Why?” Her head tilts and awareness dawns. “Are they investigating you?”

“Not to my knowledge,” I answer with a professional and curt smile.

But if a wise person were to investigate me, they wouldn’t put it on the books, would they? Especially after Miles pushed to kill one. I’m considered a major donor. ARGUS works closely with the Pentagon and NSA.

She’s looking up at me with an inquisitive expression. And that’s how rumors get started .

“Forget I said anything. Daisy will be in touch,” I tell Evie. “Are you good to get back to your office? Should I hail you a cab? I have a car if you?—”

“That’s okay. The walk back is the only exercise I’ll get in today.” She bends and lifts the shoulder strap onto her shoulder and tucks the bag against her hip. “Rhodes, thank you. I know you don’t have to do this, but it’s for a good cause.”

“Happy to do it.”

She smiles. “I had a feeling you’d say that. That’s one thing I learned from my father.”

“What’s that?”

“Highly successful people are still regular people. It doesn’t hurt to ask.”

Inside, I cringe. I’m inundated with people just asking . But she’s not asking for an investment.

“You look out for yourself. And can I give you some advice?”

“Sure.”

“If you find yourself in a precarious position, reach out to your dad. Whatever disagreement you’ve had, he loves you. You will be his priority. Always.”

At least, that’s the way it should be. With a demure smile and a nod, she turns to weave her way through the sidewalk pedestrians.

Ten minutes later, I’ve dictated a number of messages, conferred with Daisy, and I’m pushing the revolving door into the Willard InterContinental. As the air-conditioning blasts my skin, it occurs to me I should’ve also encouraged Evie to dictate her emails. Typing them out is inefficient.

The cool lobby air is a relief after the D.C.

heat, but it does nothing to settle the unease that’s been building since my conversation with the Russians.

Blackmail attempts, FBI agents approaching Sydney, and now Evie’s theory of corruption reaching the highest levels of government.

Too much is happening at once for my comfort, and my instincts are screaming that something’s off.

My gaze sweeps the round bar until I locate a transformed Sydney in a creamy outfit that sets off her silky shoulder-length hair.

Hell, the creamy white stands out against the mahogany bar like a ray of light.

The rest of the room blurs as she comes into focus.

Laptop open, she’s intent on the screen, and it allows me a moment to take her in.

The healthy tan and energetic glow are more at home in the woods, on a trail, than in a stuffy bar, but I’m glad she’s here, with me.

Four days in, and I am so fucked.

And if she’s working with the FBI, I might be fucked in more ways than one.