Page 16 of Promise of Destruction
I press my hand over my mouth as I stare at the headshot I left open when I closed my computer last.
In person, his aura is dark. It steals past my bones, seeping into my soul and ensnaring it. The photographer must have edited his photo to get him to appear less sinister, because on my computer, he doesn’t look terribly frightening. In thepicture with that handsome, rugged face and square jaw, he’s the persona of a former quarterback who got a job at his daddy’s business and worked his way into the Fortune 500.
In person, there was nothing behind his eyes.
But there’s no mistaking it.
Thoseare the eyes that were glued to me in the bath.
The man who stood outside my window, who pleasured himself to me masturbating to try and relieve stress, is Declan Evers.
eleven
Declan
ThehouseIhaveCollins send me the address to is garish, but so is the woman who answers it with her hair in colored foam rollers on top of her head. She’s wearing a pink robe trimmed in the sort of feathers kids use to make art projects, which she draws tighter around herself as she squints at me through eyes creased with age and probably a refusal to wear glasses despite an obvious need.
I’m already bored with her before she even opens her mouth, so I speak before she has the chance to.
“I’m sorry to disturb you so late, ma’am. Is your husband home?”
The woman opens her mouth, but I’m spared from having to hear her voice when a man appears behind her shoulder. He looks even more pathetic than her, in a plaid pajama set and blue bath robe thrown over top.
He, at least, had the wherewithal to throw his glasses on, so he doesn’t squint when he sees me, though he does look confused.
“What—what are you doing here?”
We’ve never met, but he knows who I am. Most everyone does, particularly in the sort of circles he runs in.
“I’m sorry to disturb you,” I repeat, this time to Joseph Kline rather than his wife. “It’s actually an urgent business matter. Do you mind if I come in?”
I’m not waiting on an answer, though. The wife huffs dramatically the moment I say the word ‘business’ and I hear her heavy footsteps clomping on the staircase a moment later. This gives me the opportunity to step inside, and once I do, Joseph sighs, gesturing me in as if I haven’t already invited myself in.
“Can I get you a coffee, or something?” He blinks at the time on the microwave, trying to figure out whether coffee is the best suggestion at such an unusual time.
“Whiskey would be better.” I tell him, just playfully enough that he blinks at me instead of being outraged.
Either he was in the deepest sleep of his life, or this man is too stupid and slow-witted to be in charge of such dealings as a multi-media company like Kline Press. Luckily for him, I’m about to liberate him of that burden.
He seems to be in a trance as he looks around his kitchen like it belongs to someone else and then remembers what he’s looking for. He rounds the island and takes out a bottle from a cabinet on the back, sliding it to me without any further pleasantries.
I size him up a minute, wondering what exactly it is that’s off about this guy. I’ve dealt with thousands of shifty people, but Joseph Kline is somehow different— disconnected.
“Shall I drink from the bottle, then?” I ask, pulling the top loose before looking at what he actually passed me. The guy doesn’t know the difference between cognac and whiskey, but it doesn’t make a difference right now. I didn’t come here for a drink; this is just a bonus.
He smacks his head like he’s trying to rattle his common sense loose and retrieves a glass for me.
Joseph watches me closely as I pour myself a measure larger than socially appropriate and tip the bottle in an offering, which he promptly denies with a shake of his balding head.
“What’s the meaning of this?” He glowers at me, trying to look and sound like he’s not confused. Unfortunately for him, the PJ set isn’t cutting it.
I take a long, deliberate sip from my glass, appraising him before setting it down.
When I reach into my jacket pocket, he flinches back like he expects me to withdraw a gun. I can tell already just by the way he’s acting that this guy is mixed up in less-than-savory dealings, which is great for me, because it should make him an easy target to manipulate.
I let him linger in his fear a moment before closing my hand around the newspaper and slapping it down in front of him. His eyes flick up to mine, seeking permission to step forward, so I nod for him to come closer. He does, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose and squinting at the large print headline.
Jesus, you’d think the guy was ninety with one foot in a grave, not sixty-something and in charge of the entire West Coast media.
