Page 96 of Power of the Mind

I stared at the gorgeous man in front of me, the one who made me want to both run and surrender at the same time. Beauty and brains. No matter how many times I fucked up intimacy and proved myself useless in the bedroom, Tallus stuck around, patiently waiting for me to figure my shit out.

Emotions strangled my throat, so my words came out quiet and choked. “You’d have made a great detective.”

And he beamed like the noonday sun.

***

Phone calls to families was sensitive work and far outside my skill set. I suggested grabbing food while Tallus got to work. He didn’t object.

With instructions to find Mexican food—not just any Mexican food, but a specific restaurant on the east end that Tallus claimed was the only authentic place in the city—I left him at the office and headed out.

Traffic was thick, so as I made my way along the congested Gardiner Express, I called one of my contacts, a guy I knew only as Scooter. A guy I used often when I needed to fish around in someone’s financial backyard and uncover secrets. Scooter had apparently worked on a sketchy undercover government tech project in the States before cutting ties with his employers and fleeing to Canada. His immigration papers had so many holes that he tended to fly under the radar so he didn’t risk deportation.

I’d never met the guy in person—it was how he operated—but apart from Tallus’s cousin, Scooter was the only guy I knew capable of performing deep illegal searches or tiptoeing through the dark web. He was scary smart but annoying as fuck.

“I need a financial audit on a Dr. William Hilty and a Ms. Rowena Fitspatrick,” I said when he answered.

“Krause?”

“Yeah.”

“How soon?”

“ASAP.”

The clicking of a keyboard came through the line, and I envisioned Scooter stowed away in the man cave of a mansion with blackout shades on the windows and empty cans of Monster surrounding him. I didn’t know the guy’s age, ethnicity, or if he preferred boxers or briefs, but I did know he was fucking rich off his ass and expensive as hell to hire. Obtainingillegal information, however, cost far less than some of the more questionable shit he did.

“I’ll do it for three hundred.”

I cursed under my breath. “Are you fucking kidding?”

“Nope. Two people. Higher price. Take it or leave it. You’re paying for information and a speedy delivery. Inflation, man. Don’t blame me. Blame your fucking government. A guy’s gotta eat.”

“What the fuck are you eating? Caviar?”

“Three hundred, and I can have it to you in an hour.”

“Two.”

More keyboard clicking. Scooter was barely paying attention. I was an annoying fly with a low-grade job offer. He didn’t need me. “Tell you what. I can go as low as two fifty because I like you, but that’s the best I can do.”

“Two twenty-five.”

“Two fifty. What part of take it or leave it don’t you get?”

I cursed again, scrubbing a hand over my face as I steered around a slow-moving van. “Fine. Fucking rip off.”

“You could find someone else.”

“I could have you deported.”

Scooter laughed. “Try it.”

Usually, my client would foot the bill for added expenses, but since my client was Tallus, who couldn’t afford his favorite Mexican food unless someone else was paying, never mind two fifty for potentially useless financial audits, I said, “I’ll transfer it now.”

“And I’ll send you an email in an hour.”

I hung up, taking out my aggression on the steering wheel.

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