Page 40 of The Birthday Girl
Vega took the man’s hand and gave it a firm shake. “No. I don’t have concerns. What I have is text messages, emails, and an invoice linking a dead woman to your firm. You want to tell me why Mercedes Carter’s last known meeting was with someone who works here?”
Ezra’s nostrils flared as if hoping to breathe in some backbone before speaking. “Our office services hundreds of high-profile clients, Detective, and as you can imagine, confidentiality is paramount. Even in a criminal investigation, we must proceed carefully, both for our clients’ sake and our own legal protection.” His lips pursed, almost apologetically. “If you have something official, I’ll need to see it before divulging anything further.”
Vega offered the man a smile as thin and sharp as a razor. “You’ll get what you need in due time. For now, let’s try an off-the-record conversation. Who at your firm handled Tahlia Bank’s file?”
Ezra’s gaze flicked involuntarily to the wall behind him, the one that shielded the partners’ offices from view. He forced his attention back to Vega, but the damage was done.
“If you could… give me a moment, I’d like to consult with my supervising partner,” Ezra said, something almost feverish in his eyes.
He scurried off, and Vega watched every twitching muscle, hungry for the tell he knew was coming.
The waiting area was empty, except for a single intern who was rearranging the lobby’s art books with the frantic precision of someone who feared losing his job. Vega let his gaze wander over the titles: White Collar Crime: A Retrospective, Discretion & Power, and The Art of Crisis. All of them gleamed with the same prurient self-importance as the firm itself.
Ignoring the bore of titles, Vega thumbed through his battered notebook, reviewing faces, timelines, patterns. The narrative had coherence now, and the only loose thread was the one these jackals at the firm thought they could hide.
Ezra returned after several minutes, his tie even more lopsided, his palms wet on the sleeves of his jacket. “Detective, the partner is not available to meet this morning, but I’ve been authorized to… provide some clarity on our client relationship,” he said, as if the concession gave him hives. “Ms. Banks is a client of record, but any dealings with Mercedes Carter were undertaken as an extension of our crisis management services.”
He pressed his hands flat against his thighs, pinning them there. “Mercedes Carter was not a client. She was regarded… as a threat vector. A variable to be neutralized, professionally and legally.”
Vega’s lips curled, but he said nothing, allowing the silence to stretch. Ezra, desperate not to fill the void, nevertheless caved in less than ten seconds.
“I’m not admitting to wrongdoing,” Ezra said, voice barely above a whisper, “but the night before Mercedes Carter’s, um, accident, a contractor engaged by our firm met with her. We had authorization to negotiate a nondisclosure agreement and financial settlement. The objective was to contain reputational fallout, not to…” He trailed off, realizing perhaps too late that he’d over-shared.
“Who was the contractor?” Vega said softly, almost affectionately, like a father coaxing a confession from a wayward child.
“Unfortunately, I cannot disclose that information. That would violate our terms and endanger the continued operation of our firm.” Ezra added, “Anything further would require you to subpoena our records, and even then, our legal team will fight to limit what’s admissible.”
Vega filed that away as an invitation. “Thank you, Mr. Cole,” he replied, straightening his tie. “I’ll be in touch.” He grinned, but his smile never touched his eyes.
Ezra hesitated, his eyes shifting toward the glass wall before he held out his hand for Vega to shake again. When the detective grabbed it, his voice dropped to nearly a whisper.
“Detective… this isn’t in any file, and if you quote me, I’ll deny it.”
Vega stilled. “What is it?”
Ezra wet his lips. “The last time I spoke with Ms. Banks, she said something that… unsettled me. She said, and I quote, ‘You did your job, and now the problem is mine. What happens next is none of your concern.’” He swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing.
“At the time, I didn’t think she would cause anyone harm, but after learning of Mercedes’ murder…” His gaze faltered, shame flickering across his face. “I keep replaying that conversation, wondering if I missed something deadly.”
For a moment, Vega stood there, tapping the edge of his notebook against his palm in deep thought.
“Mr. Cole,” he said finally, his tone quiet, almost kind. “You just confirmed what I already suspected. That’s more useful than you realize.”
Ezra looked as if he might be sick. “I shouldn’t have said that. If this gets out—”
“It won’t come from me,” Vega cut in, sliding his notebook back into his blazer. “But you did the right thing. You’re not a suspect—yet. Keep it that way.”
Vega turned and walked toward the exit, the echo of his shoes against the marble a steady counterpoint to the panic rising in Ezra’s chest.
15- Prized Possession
The school bell had barely rung before kids spilled onto the sidewalk in a rush of colorful backpacks and chatter. Shanice waited at the curb, her fingers drumming the steering wheel as her gaze jumped from the school entrance to her rearview mirror and back again.
Ever since the package with Tyriq's severed ear appeared on her doorstep, Shanice's world had narrowed to a tunnel of vigilance. The baseball bat by the front door became an extension of her arm, its twin under the bed, her midnight companion. She'd grip it while checking locks before lying down, only to rise at 2 AM to check if her children were still breathing. At 3 AM, she checked again, and at 4 AM, she patrolled the windows, her ears straining for sounds that shouldn't be there.
Each afternoon brought the same breathless moment when Kali climbed into the car. “Did you see that woman today?” she’d ask, the question always casual, though there was a tremor beneath.
The sound of branches scraping her windows made her freeze mid-step, and cars slowing down near their apartment made her heart pound against her ribs. Shanice hadn't fully closed her eyes in nineteen days. The skin under them had darkened so much they looked bruised, and her once-steady hands now trembled whenever she reached for anything—doorknobs, coffee mugs, her children's small fingers. She was a paranoid mess.
