Page 8 of Seth
Without a knock, the door swung open, and Diego stepped in, waving a plastic folder in the air. Dressed in a dark-gray suit, he looked well-rested, refreshed, sharp. Judging by the smug smirk playing over his lips, he knew that perfectly well. His thick, umber hair, brushed to the side, was still wet; his short goatee neatly trimmed. “You owe me a hundred.”
“Don’t you know how to knock?” Gustavo pushed out a put-on growl.
Grinning, Diego said, “Knock-knock, you owe me a hundred.”
Approaching the wide desk, he pressed his palm against the polished surface of the wood and offered the folder to Gustavo.
“Gay. Submissive. Ultimate bottom.” Once again, Gustavo thought that Diego’s silvery baritone suited his boyish, goofy nature so well. Seven years younger, he wasn’t only smart enough to be Gustavo’s lieutenant, but also his best friend.
Tearing the folder out of Diego’s grip, Gustavo flipped it open. Pictures occupied a few sheets of paper, showing the dead body from every angle. Gustavo’s attention fixed on the boy’s wrist and the tattoo covering the inner side of it. A black barcode stretching over the pale skin had a nine-figure number written on top.
“You’re a fucking cheat.” He slammed the folder against the desk. “You saw the tattoo. It wasn’t a guess; you knew. I won’t pay you a cent.”
Diego’s lips hardened as he huffed out his indignation. “Yes, you will. I saw the barcode, but I didn’t know for sure. Slaves aren’t the only ones who do barcodes.”
“Is that right? Who else?”
“I don’t know; some anti-mercantilists who fight against becoming a product of global consumerism?”
Gustavo squinted. “You just made this up. It’s not even a movement.”
“Whatever, you owe me a hundred. Your fault for not looking more carefully. It was a lucky guess. Now, hand it over.”
“Phht.” Unwillingly, Gustavo reached for his wallet and fished out a bill before slamming it against the desk. “I’ll remember this, you little fucker.”
“You know, winningyourmoney makes me truly happy.” Quick fingers snatched the win, as Diego murmured, “Yes-s-s, come to Daddy!”
Deciding to ignore his friend, Gustavo leafed through the photographs, then read the background check on the twenty-two-year-old boy, Justin Frank.
An orphan, adopted by a childless family, he had an impressive list of police records of shoplifting, stealing, and house-breaking. He ran away from home more than five times; five times he had been brought back. After turning eighteen, he’d left home and never returned. A year ago, his adoptive parents were murdered during a street mobbing. No one would ever miss a boy like this; no one would ever look for him.A perfect victim.
“The information on the slave registration website hadn’t been updated for two years, but we managed to locate his master. His pseudo name popped up on a few closed forums. We might have gotten a lead. The Citadel—a local BDSM club.”
“Did you check it already?”
“On it.”
“What about the murder profile?” Gustavo pushed the folder away from him.
Diego clicked his tongue, grimaced. “We ran it through the police and Interpol, but nothing similar popped up. Boys always go missing, but nothing like this has ever happened. Either this is his first murder, or he does a good job of body disposal.”
Interesting…Gustavo thought, reclining back, he looked into Diego’s brown eyes speckled with yellow. “Did you get DNA results or fingerprints?”
“Not yet, but soon.”
“Keep me posted.” Gustavo smiled at the Christ in the painting that had been stolen from the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum3many years ago. “I will find you, Loco, no matter what.”
* * *
Seth’s moodturneda few shades darker as he clicked through the news channels.
This can’t be happening,he thought, pressing the button on the remote control with an irritable finger. He hadn’t slept for forty-six hours and was sure he was hallucinating as not a word about the murder had hit the media.There should be something, anything. It can’t be that no one went to the construction site today. There is no chance the body hasn’t been found yet.
He glanced at his smartwatch, canceling yet another alarm reminding him of a skipped meal. It was well past twelve.Why has no one called me?If the body was found, they would have called me.
A hoarse breath broke out of his throat; he tossed the remote on the black leather sofa and spun on his heel, facing the window. A bright cityscape blurred in front of his eyes as he plunged into his thoughts.
Can the police be withholding information? Are they getting ready for a press release? Maybe they are waiting for me to panic and reveal myself?He shook his head.Not possible. They have a witness, a body, my fingerprints and DNA. Why would they wait? This makes no sense.
