Page 13 of Salem's Fall
Tuesday morning, he waits for me by my desk as I walk inside the office, smug and arrogant as ever. Before I can even set my tote bag down and grab my morning coffee, he’s already on me.
“Got an exciting new assignment for you,” he says with mock enthusiasm.
“Oh yeah? What is it?” I ask, already dreading the answer. No way this is going to be good for me. Not with that insufferably pleased look on his face.
“Quinn and I are going to meet with the DA tomorrow, so we’re busy with more important matters. Here,” he says as he hands me two enormous, bulging file folders. “Someone needs to track down the security tapes. You remember—the ones from the Museum Gala and the office building where they found the knife?”
“You really think we’re going to find anything? We don’t even know if they still have the tapes from the party,” I say with a sneaking suspicion this is busy work, designed to keep me on some wild goose chase, far away from the real case work. “And as for the building, someone could’ve dumped that knife months ago, right? Even if they have security tapes, when would we even start looking?”
He pinches the bridge of his nose. “I don’t have time to play Twenty Questions with you, Woodsen,” he says, voice filled with annoyance, as if speaking to me is a personal burden. “Can you handle this without screwing it up, or should I call Holly? I’m sure even a secretary could manage something this simple.”
I grit my teeth. “I’ll take care of it.”
“Good girl. Try not to make a mess this time.”
As he walks away, I let out a groan of frustration. As if it isn’t bad enough being on a case I’m almost certain we’re going to lose, I have to be on it with this pompous asshole.
Still, if there’s no other option and I’m stuck on this team, I’m determined to blow Quinn’s mind with how good I am at whatever scraps Mark throws me. Blackhollow’s, too—not that I care what he thinks.
Well, not much anyway.
I thumb through the files Mark has left for me, focusing on the task at hand. First up: the tapes from the museum’s All Hallows Gala.
It doesn’t take me long to find a phone number for the museum. Mark—or more likely one of the secretaries—pulled the entire directory. Mark has highlighted a few contacts for me that look promising. I start at the top with Sherri Baker, Executive Director. One thing I’ve learned, it’s always best to go directly to the highest person in charge.
After a few rings, a bored-sounding woman picks up.
“Sherri Baker. How can I help you?”
“Hi, Sherri, this is James Woodsen with Whitehall & Rowe,” I say in my most professional-sounding voice. “I’m working on a case, and we have reason to believe you may have evidence relevant to the matter. We need to obtain security footage from your All Hallows Gala that took place last Halloween.”
There’s a long pause, and I can practically hear the woman on the other end rolling her eyes.
“I’m sorry, but we don’t just hand over security footage to anyone who asks.”
“Yes, I understand, but it’s part of an active criminal investigation,” I explain, keeping my tone steady. “It’s important that we?—”
“Sorry,” she interrupts, “but you’ll need to go through the proper channels. Get a subpoena.” She makes an annoyed huffing sound, and I hear papers shuffling in the background. “Now, if you’ll excuse me. I’ve got the annual Gala coming up in less than three weeks and simply don’t have time for this.”
“But—”
The line goes dead.
I stare at my phone in disbelief.
Well, that was rude.
It’s barely 9 a.m. and I’m already at my first dead end.Good thing I don’t give up easily. In a burst of ingenuity, I send out a quick text to my best friend Katie asking her to meet up. It’s a long shot, but if it plays out like I hope it will, it might solve everything.
A few hours later, I head to the Sidebar downtown to grab drinks with Katie. Sidebar was one of our favorite hangouts when we were in law school. We had a lot of good times there, along with our other best friend, Jess Foster. Jess—the friend I no longer talk to after I caught her in bed with my scumbag ex-boyfriend, William.
The place is packed as I walk in, the noise and energy from the crowd filling the air. A few men catcall as I pass by, offering to buy me drinks. I ignore them, my eyes locked on my best friend, sitting at our usual table near the back of the bar.
Katherine Tang is striking as usual, even in her minimalist, effortless style: trim and athletic, dark brown hair pulled back into a practical ponytail, accentuating sharp cheekbones and piercing brown eyes. Tonight, she wears one of her signature plaid blazers over a sleek silk blouse, paired with fitted pants and Hermès leather loafers. Always polished yet understated. The kind of wealth that doesn’t need to announce itself. A small pair of pearl stud earrings and her grandmother’s antique gold Rolex watch, an heirloom from their Beijing diplomatic lineage, are her only accessories.
“Hey, bestie. Been way too long,” I say and give her a big hug before grabbing the vodka soda she ordered for me. “Sorry I’m late. Quinn caught me just as I was leaving the office.”
“Oh yeah?” Her brow lifts with a suggestive tilt. “Caught youhow?”
