Page 39 of The Birthday Girl
Mercedes:I will
The next day, another text from Mercedes.
Mercedes:Girl, Tahlia hit me up again, asking if I had any more footage or damning evidence against her.
Danielle:How much is she offering you? I know damn well she don’t think you’re going to give it to her for free.
Mercedes sent a laughing emoji.
Mercedes:Bitch, you know me better than that. She offered me a hundred thousand.
Danielle:Do you have anything else to give her?
Mercedes:What do you think? I’ll call you after we meet up and let you know how it went.
Vega leaned back in his chair, his stomach churning with the bitter taste of confirmation as he rubbed the stubble on his jaw. Mercedes died less than twelve hours after sending her last text. Nothing wasn’t a coincidence. It was a cleanup.
After printing off the messages, he pulled the case board closer, pinning the screenshots under a thumbtack beside Mercedes’ photo. Every lead constricted around a single focalpoint, and at the center of this deadly convergence stood one name: Tahlia Banks.
Text messages might create suspicion, but they wouldn't secure a conviction. Vega needed something more tangible, like a paper trail that clever attorneys couldn’t explain away.
Vega leaned back in his chair, the glow of the texts still burning behind his eyelids. Mercedes was meeting with the crisis manager. He was the link he’d been looking for, and links always unraveled if you pulled on them long enough.
Vega dragged the department-issued laptop closer, keyed in his credentials, and pulled up the forensic report from Mercedes’ emails. Most of it was spam offers, overdue bills, and junk she never deleted, but buried in the attachments were the ones that mattered: a PDF invoice and a payment confirmation. On the surface, both looked clean, but Vega dug deeper, pulling up the document properties.
And there it was, buried in the metadata. Whoever drafted the invoice hadn’t bothered to scrub the author tag. One careless line exposed the originating domain: Crisis & Reputation at Prince and Parks. Its glossy website called their services “narrative protection,” but Vega knew better. They didn’t protect shit. They were janitors with law degrees, mopping up after billionaires who couldn't keep their indiscretions contained.
Vega jotted the firm’s name into his notebook, circled it twice, and leaned forward again. The next step was finding out which suit inside its walls had made the deal.
***
The next morning, Vega entered Prince and Parks bright and early. The firm’s name gleamed across frosted glass doors in gold lettering with both sleek minimalism and corporate arrogance. Inside, the lobby smelled like money. Polished marble floors reflected the overhead lights as white leather chairs lined the walls, their surfaces spotless.
Behind the counter sat a receptionist who looked like she had been hired more to intimidate than to assist. She was a woman in her late thirties to early forties, with golden skin, long auburn hair, and red freckles dotted across her nose.
“I’m here to speak with whoever manages Tahlia Banks’ account,” Vega said, smoothly tossing his brown blazer aside to remove his badge.
Gaze fixed on the receptionist, then slowly pushed it across the counter, hoping his intimidation tactic would make her crack.
“Unfortunately, I’m unable to help you with that.” Her practiced smile stayed put. “Our clients are confidential. If you’d like to schedule a consultation—”
Vega cut her off with a dry laugh. “I’m here about a murder investigation. One of your colleagues had a recent “consultation” with a woman named Mercedes Carter, and she ended up dead less than twenty-four hours later.”
The receptionist’s eyes ballooned, but her tone stayed even. “That’s a very serious accusation, Detective. Do you have a warrant?”
It was almost impressive how quickly she dropped the fake warmth.
Vega took a slow breath through his nose. “Not yet, but I do have probable cause and a judge who owes me a favor. I’m giving you a chance to cooperate before this place starts trending on every news site in the nation. They would love to hear how a luxury PR firm connects to a dead woman. I’m sure press like that would be horrible for business, especially when your job is to… bury scandals, not star in them.”
He leaned in until his badge scraped against the marble countertop. “Here's how this plays out. Either you grab Tahlia Bank’s publicist, or tomorrow's headline reads 'Luxury PR Firm Linked to Murder Cover-Up.' Your choice.”
“I'll see who's available,” she said, voice brittle as thin ice. “The leather chairs are quite comfortable, Detective. Please make yourself at home while you wait.”
The receptionist's fingers found the phone’s dial pad without her eyes ever leaving his. She whispered something to whoever was on the line and turned around. Vega watched her disappear through a frosted glass door as he tapped his knuckles against the counter, still standing in the same place as before.
A few minutes later, the door swung open again. Out stepped a tall man in a charcoal suit that hung just a touch too loose at the shoulders. His tie knot had migrated an inch below his collar, and his left shoe bore a scuff mark that no partner at Prince and Parks would have tolerated. Everything about him screamed middle management. He was the kind of employee they'd sacrifice to the wolves while the real decision-makers watched safely from behind their desks.
“Detective Vega,” the man said, extending a hand. “Ezra Cole. I’m an associate here at Prince and Parks. I understand you have some… concerns?”
