Page 1 of Riggs
1
Riggs
Dean slides a manila folder across his desk like it’s a live device and not paper. “You already know her.”
I already know who it is. How can I not? “I don’t do glitter,” I say, even as I open it.
“You do threats.” He laces his fingers on the blotter. “Vanessa Mercado. Seven-city brand tour. DMs went from dumb to dangerous—timed to her private itinerary. Sponsors won’t cancel. She asked for BRAVO. She asked foryou.”
We met in the Kingsley mess—sunshine in heels, flirting to hide fear, called me Beard-Mountain like it was a rank. Chemistry? Sure. Useless on a detail. I keep the file between us and start reading.
Screenshots. “I know where you sleep” junk, then two clean messages. One hits five minutes after her manager updates the travel doc. One includes a photo of a hotel hallway hours before she checked in. Low angle, maintenance phone. Another’s a drone still over her last rooftop shoot, framed too well to be luck.
“Inside leak,” I say. “Plus someone's flying eyes.”
“Rae’s remote.” Dean nods toward the bullpen where Rae pretends not to eavesdrop over a screen full of code. “Jaxson on call for digital; Hayes if we see devices. You’re primary. Build the box. Find the leak.”
I flip to the route grid. “Cities?”
“Saint Pierce, Seattle, Denver, Austin, Nashville, D.C., New York. Two weeks. Venues range from hotel ballrooms to rooftops to pop-up shops.”
“What does she want?”
“To keep her commitments and stay alive,” he says dryly. “In that order unless you convince her otherwise.”
“Copy.” I stand. “Anything else I should know?”
Dean’s mouth twitches. “Her brand manager, Brice. Hair higher than his threat IQ. He’ll whine about ‘deliverables.’ You’ll remind him warm skin tones look terrible in morgues.”
Rae finally turns. “I’ve got her metadata. Her comments are a crime scene. Scraping threats now. Also, someone accessed the Hotel Delphine staff portal from a tablet this morning—ghost user. If it pings again, I’ll tag it.”
“Good.” I tap my ear. “Stay with me.”
“Always,” she says.
Dean palms the folder back, takes a breath like he’s about to add rules. He doesn’t. He meets my eyes instead. “Keep it professional.”
“Always,” I echo, and this time it’s not for Rae.
Hotel Delphine smellslike new money and polished citrus. The valet lane’s clogged with SUVs and ring lights the size of moons. I park on the side street because I don’t valet my ride, and I take the service elevator because I don’t enter through a lobby if there’s another way in.
Penthouse level: floral carpet fighting chrome. Two rental-blazer guards at a folding table check badges like they’re TSA. I flash BRAVO credentials, and they straighten like someone just made their day easier.
“Andy Riggs,” I say. “BRAVO.”
“Yes, sir.” The taller one swallows relief. He waves me toward the double doors.
The suite could fit a basketball court. Air’s hairspray, coffee, and a faint ozone from too many power strips. I sweep fast. Two exits. Windows sealed. Balcony slider dead-bolted but liftable. Bathroom clear. Kitchenette clear. People everywhere. A blonde woman with a headset bumps a cart and apologizes to a ficus. Brice—blazer, importance hair—barks into a phone about color temperature like it’s life support.
Center of gravity is on a stool under a ring light. Vanessa.
Cameras don’t catch gravity. People like her pull a room. She’s in jeans and an off-shoulder black top, bare feet—pink toes—and an effortless laugh that dies the second she sees me in the mirror. Not fear. Assessment. Memory.
She swivels, slides off the stool as the stylist swears and ducks, and then she crosses barefoot, smile already loaded.
“Riggs,” she says, like we left off yesterday. “Here to ruin golden hour?”
“Here to make sure you survive it.” I stop where I can see both doors and the balcony in a single glance. “Ground rules.”
