Page 14 of Brother's Keeper

The madam hummed acknowledgment. “That side of my business is based on discretion.” Her words dripped with honey. “I can’t be expected to betray my clients’ confidence. Even to the police.”

Holland nudged the corner of her aviator sunglasses. Judging by the creases in her brow, the tinted lenses weren’t enough to cut the harsh, midday light. “A man’s life may be in danger,” she explained. “Your cooperation could be critical to the success of our investigation.”

Isha looked at me and received a blank stare and silence in return.

“Very well.” She stepped aside and swung the door inward, then extended her arm toward the dark interior of the tattoo parlor.

Holland didn’t wait for a spoken invitation before striding confidently across the threshold.

I lagged, dodging Isha’s squint as she pushed the door shut behind us.

The investigator advanced into the room, perusing padded chairs with accompanying tray tables and mirrored-backed counters arranged with pots of ink and artist portfolios. Tufted velvet furniture filled the waiting area, lit by crystal chandeliers that warred against the black painted walls. The moody atmosphere allowed Holland to remove her shades and hook them over the neckline of her blouse.

A cup of coffee steamed on a nearby tray. The smell mingled with the peppery aromas of incense wafting from upstairs.

Isha retrieved the drink and held it in both hands. “Who exactly are you looking for?” she asked.

Holland pulled a steno pad and pen out of her jacket pocket. A little premature, by my estimation, but I couldn’t fault her for trying.

“Frederick Sumner,” she replied, supplying the name that I’d replaced with the moniker Lover Boy. “He’s an anchor for the local news.”

Memories trickled in of the easiest kidnapping of my life. Frederick Sumner bought every bit of the male prostitute act I put on and had been ready to follow meto hell itself for the sake of a good fuck. I’d left him cuffed and gagged in a storage unit, then let Donovan take it from there, thinking the TV personality would be well on his way in a week or so. The next time I saw him, Lover Boy was a corpse going cold on the floor of a grimy downtown warehouse.

I hugged my arms around my chest, warring with the suit coat so tight it felt more like a straitjacket.

Taking a sip of coffee, Isha nodded toward me. “If I may ask, what is your handsome friend’s role in all this?”

Both women turned my way. It might have been a bit much for Isha to pretend she didn’t know me given my recent media splash. But her feigned ignorance let me breathe a little easier.

“He’s been very quiet.” Isha’s espresso brown eyes glittered with mirth. “And you seem like a capable woman. If you wanted to keep someone around for protection, surely you could find a more imposing figure.”

My mouth pinched a tart smile. At 5’9” and just shy of 150 pounds, I was the smallest member of the Bloody Hex—at least I had been before Ripley rejoined. Even Donovan was taller than me. But size wasn’t really an issue when you could snap people in half with your brain.

Holland cleared her throat. “Mister Farrow has been consulting with the Investigative Department—”

“On what?” Suspicion tweaked Isha’s features.

Did she think I’d led them here? If Grimm warned her that we were coming, did he not tell her I wasn’t to blame?

“He’s here to observe,” Holland answered, defensiveon my behalf, or maybe reluctant to mention the suspected involvement of the Bloody Hex.

“We thought Mister Sumner might have a usual consort here?” Holland continued. “Someone who may be in touch with him personally and able to reach out or provide information on his whereabouts?” The investigator’s effort to redirect the conversation was obvious, but Isha appeared to accept it.

“My employees are bound by the same privacy standards as I am,” she said. “I’m afraid they won’t be of much help to you, either.”

Holland put the notepad away, fighting a scowl at having been so thoroughly rebuffed. “Do you mind if we look around?” she asked. “No need for you to tell us things we can discover for ourselves. Perhaps you have security footage we could review? We could take it back to the Capitol building so as not to inconvenience you further.”

She checked the upper corners of the room, searching for cameras she wouldn’t find. The Blooming Orchid was an old-fashioned establishment, built on discretion, yes, and with a low-tech way of tracking customers’ comings and goings. Anyone requesting services was expected to sign in using the guestbook under the counter by the stairs. I was well-schooled in that practice. So well that I had penned my name the night of Lover Boy’s disappearance and inadvertently placed myself on a potential witness list.

Isha remained steadfast and sedate as she told Holland, “I wish you luck in finding the information you need. Elsewhere.”

It was a polite “fuck off,” followed by a tip of her chin toward the exit.

Holland set her shoulders. “You should know, I am able to subpoena your testimony if that becomes necessary.”

“Let’s hope it doesn’t become necessary.” The madam smiled, her white teeth framed by full, burgundy lips.

When the investigator refused the invitation to leave, Isha dismissed herself instead. She took her coffee mug and retreated to the stairs without another glance at me. In her absence, the quiet in the room became oppressive. Holland stood across from me, working her jaw.

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