Page 23 of The Birthday Girl

V ega’s phone buzzed just after midnight, the screen lighting up with an unfamiliar number.

For a moment, he thought about ignoring it.

He’d spent the evening staring at photographs of Mercedes’ dead body, and his eyes were too raw for more bad news.

However, the persistence of the notification needled him until he thumbed it open.

Danielle had finally sent the messages between her and Mercedes. Vega scrolled slowly, his gut tightening as he read each text.

Mercedes: I found somebody to take the baby shower video off my hands. A couple of others want it too, but I’ll get the real bag from her team. Linking with her crisis manager tomorrow.

Danielle: Get that money, bitch. I told you that if I eat, we all eat. You’re more of a sister than Tahlia has ever been. She should’ve thought about that shit before she hit my baby daddy over the head with a bottle.

Mercedes sent laughing emojis.

Mercedes: I ain’t gon’ lie. I’m not even mad at her. If my man got my sister pregnant, I would’ve done more than that. You better be glad she didn’t hit your ass next. More laughing emojis.

Danielle: She knew who to play with. That bitch knows how I give it up.

Days later, Mercedes sent Danielle another text.

Mercedes: I think I’m being followed. Everywhere I go, I keep seeing the same black SUV.

Danielle: Do you think you’re in danger?

Mercedes: I don’t think so. They never stop or bother me. I’m just letting you know in case something happens to me.

Danielle: Okay, girl. Be safe.

Mercedes: I will

The next day, another text from Mercedes.

Mercedes: Girl, Tahlia hit me up again, asking if I had any more footage or damning evidence against her.

Danielle: How much is she offering you? I know damn well she don’t think you’re going to give it to her for free.

Mercedes sent a laughing emoji.

Mercedes: Bitch, you know me better than that. She offered me a hundred thousand.

Danielle : Do you have anything else to give her?

Mercedes : What do you think? I’ll call you after we meet up and let you know how it went.

Vega leaned back in his chair, his stomach churning with the bitter taste of confirmation as he rubbed the stubble on his jaw. Mercedes died less than twelve hours after sending her last text. Nothing wasn’t a coincidence. It was a cleanup.

After printing off the messages, he pulled the case board closer, pinning the screenshots under a thumbtack beside Mercedes’ photo. Every lead constricted around a single focal point, and at the center of this deadly convergence stood one name: Tahlia Banks.

Text messages might create suspicion, but they wouldn't secure a conviction. Vega needed something more tangible, like a paper trail that clever attorneys couldn’t explain away.

Vega leaned back in his chair, the glow of the texts still burning behind his eyelids. Mercedes was meeting with the crisis manager. He was the link he’d been looking for, and links always unraveled if you pulled on them long enough.

Vega dragged the department-issued laptop closer, keyed in his credentials, and pulled up the forensic report from Mercedes’ emails.

Most of it was spam offers, overdue bills, and junk she never deleted, but buried in the attachments were the ones that mattered: a PDF invoice and a payment confirmation.

On the surface, both looked clean, but Vega dug deeper, pulling up the document properties.

And there it was, buried in the metadata.

Whoever drafted the invoice hadn’t bothered to scrub the author tag.

One careless line exposed the originating domain: Crisis & Reputation at Prince and Parks.

Its glossy website called their services “narrative protection,” but Vega knew better.

They didn’t protect shit. They were janitors with law degrees, mopping up after billionaires who couldn't keep their indiscretions contained.

Vega jotted the firm’s name into his notebook, circled it twice, and leaned forward again. The next step was finding out which suit inside its walls had made the deal.

***

The next morning, Vega entered Prince and Parks bright and early.

The firm’s name gleamed across frosted glass doors in gold lettering with both sleek minimalism and corporate arrogance.

Inside, the lobby smelled like money. Polished marble floors reflected the overhead lights as white leather chairs lined the walls, their surfaces spotless.

Behind the counter sat a receptionist who looked like she had been hired more to intimidate than to assist. She was a woman in her late thirties to early forties, with golden skin, long auburn hair, and red freckles dotted across her nose.

“I’m here to speak with whoever manages Tahlia Banks’ account,” Vega said, smoothly tossing his brown blazer aside to remove his badge.

Gaze fixed on the receptionist, then slowly pushed it across the counter, hoping his intimidation tactic would make her crack.

“Unfortunately, I’m unable to help you with that.” Her practiced smile stayed put. “Our clients are confidential. If you’d like to schedule a consultation—”

Vega cut her off with a dry laugh. “I’m here about a murder investigation. One of your colleagues had a recent “consultation” with a woman named Mercedes Carter, and she ended up dead less than twenty-four hours later.”

The receptionist’s eyes ballooned, but her tone stayed even. “That’s a very serious accusation, Detective. Do you have a warrant?”

It was almost impressive how quickly she dropped the fake warmth.

Vega took a slow breath through his nose.

“Not yet, but I do have probable cause and a judge who owes me a favor. I’m giving you a chance to cooperate before this place starts trending on every news site in the nation.

They would love to hear how a luxury PR firm connects to a dead woman.

I’m sure press like that would be horrible for business, especially when your job is to… bury scandals, not star in them.”

He leaned in until his badge scraped against the marble countertop. “Here's how this plays out. Either you grab Tahlia Bank’s publicist, or tomorrow's headline reads 'Luxury PR Firm Linked to Murder Cover-Up.' Your choice.”

“I'll see who's available,” she said, voice brittle as thin ice. “The leather chairs are quite comfortable, Detective. Please make yourself at home while you wait.”

The receptionist's fingers found the phone’s dial pad without her eyes ever leaving his.

She whispered something to whoever was on the line and turned around.

Vega watched her disappear through a frosted glass door as he tapped his knuckles against the counter, still standing in the same place as before.

A few minutes later, the door swung open again.

Out stepped a tall man in a charcoal suit that hung just a touch too loose at the shoulders.

His tie knot had migrated an inch below his collar, and his left shoe bore a scuff mark that no partner at Prince and Parks would have tolerated.

Everything about him screamed middle management.

He was the kind of employee they'd sacrifice to the wolves while the real decision-makers watched safely from behind their desks.

“Detective Vega,” the man said, extending a hand. “Ezra Cole. I’m an associate here at Prince and Parks. I understand you have some… concerns?”

Vega took the man’s hand and gave it a firm shake. “No. I don’t have concerns. What I have is text messages, emails, and an invoice linking a dead woman to your firm. You want to tell me why Mercedes Carter’s last known meeting was with someone who works here?”

Ezra’s nostrils flared as if hoping to breathe in some backbone before speaking.

“Our office services hundreds of high-profile clients, Detective, and as you can imagine, confidentiality is paramount. Even in a criminal investigation, we must proceed carefully, both for our clients’ sake and our own legal protection.

” His lips pursed, almost apologetically.

“If you have something official, I’ll need to see it before divulging anything further. ”

Vega offered the man a smile as thin and sharp as a razor. “You’ll get what you need in due time. For now, let’s try an off-the-record conversation. Who at your firm handled Tahlia Bank’s file?”

Ezra’s gaze flicked involuntarily to the wall behind him, the one that shielded the partners’ offices from view. He forced his attention back to Vega, but the damage was done.

“If you could… give me a moment, I’d like to consult with my supervising partner,” Ezra said, something almost feverish in his eyes.

He scurried off, and Vega watched every twitching muscle, hungry for the tell he knew was coming.

The waiting area was empty, except for a single intern who was rearranging the lobby’s art books with the frantic precision of someone who feared losing his job.

Vega let his gaze wander over the titles: White Collar Crime: A Retrospective, Discretion & Power, and The Art of Crisis.

All of them gleamed with the same prurient self-importance as the firm itself.

Ignoring the bore of titles, Vega thumbed through his battered notebook, reviewing faces, timelines, patterns. The narrative had coherence now, and the only loose thread was the one these jackals at the firm thought they could hide.

Ezra returned after several minutes, his tie even more lopsided, his palms wet on the sleeves of his jacket.

“Detective, the partner is not available to meet this morning, but I’ve been authorized to…

provide some clarity on our client relationship,” he said, as if the concession gave him hives.

“Ms. Banks is a client of record, but any dealings with Mercedes Carter were undertaken as an extension of our crisis management services.”

He pressed his hands flat against his thighs, pinning them there. “Mercedes Carter was not a client. She was regarded… as a threat vector. A variable to be neutralized, professionally and legally.”

Vega’s lips curled, but he said nothing, allowing the silence to stretch. Ezra, desperate not to fill the void, nevertheless caved in less than ten seconds.

“I’m not admitting to wrongdoing,” Ezra said, voice barely above a whisper, “but the night before Mercedes Carter’s, um, accident, a contractor engaged by our firm met with her.

We had authorization to negotiate a nondisclosure agreement and financial settlement.

The objective was to contain reputational fallout, not to…

” He trailed off, realizing perhaps too late that he’d over-shared.

“Who was the contractor?” Vega said softly, almost affectionately, like a father coaxing a confession from a wayward child.

“Unfortunately, I cannot disclose that information. That would violate our terms and endanger the continued operation of our firm.” Ezra added, “Anything further would require you to subpoena our records, and even then, our legal team will fight to limit what’s admissible.”

Vega filed that away as an invitation. “Thank you, Mr. Cole,” he replied, straightening his tie. “I’ll be in touch.” He grinned, but his smile never touched his eyes.

Ezra hesitated, his eyes shifting toward the glass wall before he held out his hand for Vega to shake again. When the detective grabbed it, his voice dropped to nearly a whisper.

“Detective… this isn’t in any file, and if you quote me, I’ll deny it.”

Vega stilled. “What is it?”

Ezra wet his lips. “The last time I spoke with Ms. Banks, she said something that… unsettled me. She said, and I quote, ‘You did your job, and now the problem is mine. What happens next is none of your concern.’” He swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing.

“At the time, I didn’t think she would cause anyone harm, but after learning of Mercedes’ murder…” His gaze faltered, shame flickering across his face. “I keep replaying that conversation, wondering if I missed something deadly.”

For a moment, Vega stood there, tapping the edge of his notebook against his palm in deep thought.

“Mr. Cole,” he said finally, his tone quiet, almost kind. “You just confirmed what I already suspected. That’s more useful than you realize.”

Ezra looked as if he might be sick. “I shouldn’t have said that. If this gets out—”

“It won’t come from me,” Vega cut in, sliding his notebook back into his blazer. “But you did the right thing. You’re not a suspect—yet. Keep it that way.”

Vega turned and walked toward the exit, the echo of his shoes against the marble a steady counterpoint to the panic rising in Ezra’s chest.