Page 29 of Power Term

Standing back to full height, I glance over my shoulder and point to the desk. “Whoever did this wiped this area clean of fingerprints.” A single step to the right offers a different angle. Then another and another until I’ve rounded the desk and am standing just outside the blood splatter congealed on the oriental rug. This close, I scour the body without touching in hopes of finding more clues to what happened here. “His fingers look to be broken, unless they always had a ninety-degree angle that I didn’t notice.” Swiping a pen from the desk, I lean closer to the right hand and use the pen to carefully lift a stiff finger. “I’m no coroner, but there seems to be bruising and blood around the worst breaks, meaning it was done before the bullet to the brain.”

Tank’s silence at my brilliant discovery draws my attention from the dead secretary to where he stands in the middle of the room. Head down, phone in hand, his thumbs fly across the screen completely absorbed, clearly not listening to my findings.

“What are you doing?” I question, annoyed at my friend for being distracted by whatever’s on his phone.

“I’m calling the FBI,” he snaps. Cutting those dark eyes my way, he tosses a hand toward the body. “In case you haven’t noticed, a fucking political figurehead was executed in his uppity fucking office.”

“No, not yet,” I grunt as I step away from the desk. Marching toward Tank, I rip the phone from his hand. “Did you hear me? Don’t call them yet.”

“Benson.” The deep rumble of his voice is laced with warning. “Give me back the phone.”

“Five minutes. Give us five minutes to piece together what we can on our own before you call.” Only thinking of the need to delay that damn call, I shove the phone in my hand down the front of my cargo pants and nestle it neatly into my boxer briefs right beside my balls.

“Bastard,” he growls. “Get my phone away from your dick. That screen touches my face.”

“I know, and I’m sorry, but it’s Randi’s life on the line, Davis.” I angle my head toward the body. “It isn’t a coincidence that Vlad said he didn’t trust Rosen, believing him to be dirty somehow, and the man turns up dead the same day the president is abducted. Something isn’t right here. You know it and I know it. Give us a five-minute window alone with the evidence to see what we can find, then call the FBI. You know as well as I do those bastards will swoop in, take over the scene, and give us shit for answers. We need the answers now, not later. Please, we need this to help us find her. I know it.”

Dark, assessing eyes glance from me to the body and back again, each time looking more resigned to the fact that I’m right. With an exaggerated sigh, he crosses his arms over his chest. “You have your five minutes, Benson. Find something useful.” Disgust crosses his face as he hitches his chin toward my crotch. “And you’re disinfecting my fucking phone.”

“Is it on vibrate?”

“Yes,” he answers, brows tugging inward. At my growing smirk, he tosses his hands in the air, knowing full well why I asked. “Fuck you, Trey. That’s disgusting.”

“What? I’m just saying I hope someone calls.”

“Four minutes thirty seconds. Use your time wisely, you idiot.”

Smirk still stuck to my face, I stride back to the body, this time with a little more confidence, and squat low to the floor to inspect the area beneath the desk and chair.

“Benson.” I pop my head over the desk’s edge. “Don’t leave any damn fingerprints.” A pair of latex gloves comes flying at me. I snatch them midair before they can smack me in the face.

“You really need to wash that mouth of yours out with soap,” I say loud enough for him to hear as I examine the worn oriental rug. “Sarah will have your ass if she hears you picked up cursing as a new bad habit.”

Hands to my knees, I push up with a groan. There’s nothing on the damn floor that looks abnormal. I skip over the laptop, not enough time in my small five-minute window to crack the password and to access the data inside. I move to the iPhone and quirk a brow. I don’t need a password for that if I have the owner’s thumbprint, which I do. Well, I actually have the whole thumb, but all I need is the print.

“First of all, I’m fucking stressed, so cut me some slack. Second, my Sarah knows how you talk. She’ll blame you as the bad influence.”

I scoff as I snap on the latex gloves. “Even more reason to clean up your act before you get home. You wouldn’t want to be responsible for my death, now would you.”

“Depends on the day, Playboy.”

“Ouch.” I chuckle. Phone in hand, I draw it closer to the dead body and hold it below his right hand. “Just so you know, I do feel bad about this,” I say to the dead man. “But not enough to not do it. You understand, right?” The wrist bends under my slight grip; the guy hasn’t been dead very long if he’s still movable. It takes a few tries to maneuver the limp digit, but finally I find the right angle and apply pressure, clicking the phone unlocked.

Excited to see what the device holds inside, I release the hand. It falls to the side, clipping the armrest on it’s fast descent.

“Careful, you idiot. Don’t leave any bruises we can’t explain.”

I nod even though I have zero clue what he just said. I’m too invested in what I’m not finding on the dead man’s phone.

Nothing. No texts, no emails, no calls or contacts. Everything is gone.

With a groan of frustration, I click on the Pictures app, hoping there’s something in there that can tell us what the hell Todd Rosen was mixed up in that ended with him shot in the forehead.

“Fuck me,” I grumble.

“What? What did you find?” Tank’s by my side, ripping the phone from my gloved hand and cradles it in his own. His eyes widen on the screen. With a hiss, he slams his eyes shut and drops the phone. It clatters to the desk before falling to the floor. “Little warning, asshole.”

“I feel sorry for whoever was receiving those dick pics,” I grumble as I retrieve the phone to continue flipping through the photos. Holding it at arm’s length in case more pictures of his tiny junk appear, I swipe through the pictures. “Hell, nothing here either.”

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