Page 55 of Diamond In The Rough

I slide my palm along my shaft, and draw a pained moan from the depths of my chest.

Five is all I need to take the edge off and make it possible to get on with my day.

“She’s coming up clean, boss.”

In the car in the middle of Harlem, I take a call from Harrison, and flash my only remaining middle finger at my brother, who insists on grinning to spite me.

“August fifth birthday. She turned twenty-nine just a couple of weeks ago. Her parents are popping up as normal, respectable, legal citizens, and her degree from Brown University looks legit, too. She got a double, boss: Art History and Economics. No marriages on file, no children, no legal snafus. She’s been working for Colby since the start of this year, and before that, she was contracting her time to various businesses in the same field. She seems to have a skill for finding unique and exceptionally expensive artifacts. Rich folks hire her to acquire items for them.”

“Furniture and shit?”

“Yeah. But the antiquey kind. They say they want something dating back to the thirteenth-century, and it’s her job to locate it. Or maybe they have a collection of coins, but they’re missing one or two key pieces; she hunts them down and facilitates the purchase. She has a driver’s license, but no car registered to her name. She moved into her apartment in January, around the same time she started working for Colby.”

“So she made some big moves at the start of this year…” I look out the tinted window as a trio of kids ride past on bikes. “I’m not so naïve as to ignore the timing. Wilkes popped up around then, too.”

“I see no connections to Wilkes in her file, sir. She’s traveled rather extensively in her twenty-nine years, but most often, it was on a client’s dollar. They wanted her to find the Holy Grail, so she flew out in search.”

“She been to England?” I nibble on my bottom lip. “In the last eighteen months?”

“She has,” he sighs. “But she went nowhere near Nottingham, and didn’t cross paths with Wilkes or his people. Frankly, sir, we could stretch anyone’s connection to make it fit, if we wanted to. You and I have both been across the Atlantic in the last few years. Your brother practically runs New York City, and the things we trade in are…” He clears his throat. “Similar. Anyone on the outside could say you and Wilkes are working together, too.”

“He’s made threats against my family.” I glance across, and scowl when Felix reaches for a cigarette, pats his breast pocket, and growls upon finding it empty. “The only time Wilkes and I will work together is when I have him in the bunker, and he begs me to stop peeling the flesh from his bones. Did you run Roscoe too?”

“Yep.” He taps a keyboard, indicating he’s in an office somewhere. “Roscoe Jones is a thirty-two-year-old, unmarried, childless construction worker with no legal past to speak of. No arrests. No drama. He drives a five-year-old truck and pays no alimony. He’s American by birth, and has no weird credit rating issues. He’s just…” He shrugs, the movement of his clothes audible. “Normal, boss. He’s at Hale’s place a fair bit, though.”

“A fair bit? How often?”

“Like, five nights out of seven. Most often, he walks into her building with a takeout bag. That other friend, the woman they hang out with, she comes along, too.”

Jazzy.

“Do they spend the night?”

Silence hangs, a pregnant pause that eats at the lining of my stomach and leaves my throat almost burned by the acid.

“Harrison?”

“He… stays sometimes. Not always. But a night here and there. Jaz doesn’t—maybe once or twice in the last eight months.”

“Fuck.” I bring the phone from my ear and meet Smith’s gaze in the rearview mirror. “Take me to the East Village.”

“Uh oh,” Felix taunts. “It’s go time.”

“Shut the fuck up.” I set the phone at my ear again. “She home now? She with Roscoe?”

“No, sir. Well, yes. She’s home from the shop, according to CCTV, but no, I didn’t see Roscoe go in. So either he’s been there all day, or she’s there alone.”

I look down at my watch, mumbling, “What time is it,” despite the fact I’ll answer my own question in just a sec. “Quarter past five. She split from work pretty quick.”

“Word on the street is Jakeline is a right bitch to work for.” He stops for a beat and chuckles. “I’d be out of there on the dot, too. You heading to her place?”

“Yeah.” I swallow, moistening my throat and glancing out the window as we move through traffic. Either I watch the cars surrounding us, or I look into my brother’s taunting eyes and deal with his smug satisfaction. “I wanna talk to her. But keep running your checks, and I’ll call you back later.”

Dragging the phone from my ear, I kill our call, only to hit another name and dial. As soon as the line connects, I bark out my orders.

“Stovic? I need you in the East Village now. Michaels, too.”

“Yes, boss.” I hear the faint thud of boots on the floor as our soldier moves through our home and prepares to do as he’s told. “Everything okay? You told us to stay at the house.”

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