Page 41 of Torched Spades
Powering off her computer, Meredith rises to her feet and slings her bag over her shoulder. “I said we’re all a little crazy, but you of all people should recognize the definition of insanity when you see it.”
“Doing the same thing over and over and expecting a different result,” I murmur.
I’m rooted in my spot, barely breathing, when she takes a few steps toward the lobby door, then stops and glances over her shoulder. “You want a different result, do something different. Malone brought chaos to your order. I’d say it’s time to return the favor.”
Chapter Thirteen
BECCA
It’sfunny how someone can live in the same city their whole life and never set foot on one of its most recognizable landmarks. Then again, what’s most familiar usually proves to be the most foreign.
At least in my experience.
The Port of Providence isn’t anything like I imagined. On all those over-the-top TV crime dramas, they’re always portrayed as shadowy and ominous… A desolate breeding ground for violence. However, as I walk into the warehouse foreman’s office, my expectations of lechery and chaos are met with silence and a scowl.
A short, stout woman sporting a puff of tightly permed gray hair sits behind a chipped wooden desk, a phone receiver tucked under her chin. “Hold on,” she mutters. Slapping her hand over the mouthpiece, she directs her narrowed gaze back at me. “Can I help you with something?”
It’s a trick question. The only thing she wants to “help me with” is finding my way back out the door, and part of me is eager to accept. But the other part, the part that has endured enough secrets and hypocrisy for two lifetimes stands her ground.
Meredith was right.
The only way to force Johnny’s hand is to play my own.
I force a pleasant smile. “I’m here to see Johnny Malone.”
Her lips quirk. “Who isn’t?”
I can see this is going nowhere fast, so I switch tactics, violating my integrity and about ten different laws. “I’m sorry, I seem to have failed to introduce myself.” My smile turns brittle as I extend my hand across the desk. “I’m Becca. I work for Owen Holmes at the Providence Probation Office.”
She stares at my hand. “Good for you.”
“Mr. Malone works here under Mr. Holmes’s direct supervision, correct?” I ask, ignoring her pursed lips. “I’m afraid if I don’t speak with him in the next five minutes, the port will be held in violation of a judicial order.” Which is complete bullshit. I have no clue what the hell I’m saying. Lies are spilling out of my mouth faster than I can filter them.
I guess the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.
“I’ll call you back.” Disconnecting her call, the woman folds her hands in front of her and gazes up at me. “Sweets, I hate to tell you this, but you’re as transparent as a cheesecloth. If you’re gonna lie, at least practice first. “Now,” she says, her rusty chair squeaking in protest as she leans back, “you wanna try that again?”
I slowly lower my hand. “But, I called earlier…”
“And star sixty-seven’ed me. Blocking caller ID is a weak cover, Miss Becca.” Pulling a pencil from behind her ear, she points the tip at me. “That’s not a warning; it’s a tip. Do better.”
This woman doesn’t pull any punches. Just from a thirty-second conversation, I can tell she’s tough but fair. She views honesty as a sign of respect, something she’s had to fight for in a male-dominated industry.
Since the only way through the gate is past the gatekeeper, I drop the act and come clean.
“Okay, you got me,” I admit, offering an apologetic smile. “I’m Johnny’s doctor. But I wasn’t lying when I said he didn’t show up for his appointment, or that I couldn’t get in touch with him.”
Smirking, she flips the pencil between her fingers, a move that’s irritatingly familiar. “Chasing down patients… Huh, that’s a new one. Most doctors just charge a ‘no-show’ fee and call it a day.”
“I’m not most doctors.”
She taps the eraser end of the pencil against her chin and smirks. “I see that. Johnny must be pretty special.”
“No, I just—”
“Hey, Alice, is it okay if first shift heads out now?”
Forgetting about the foreman, I spin around, nearly losing my footing as I stare at the man standing in the doorway, his hands gripping the frame above his head. He’s not strikingly handsome like Johnny, but he’s nice-looking in that “All-American boy-next-door” kind of way.
