Page 14 of Fighting Conviction
“Fine,” he grumbled.
“Excellent. I’ll tell her to be ready at BlackStone’s gym then—” A faint buzzing sound interrupted them. “Hold on.” Jay pulled his phone from his pocket and held his finger up. “Sorry man, it’s Jules.” Jay patted Devil on the back and jogged to the passenger side of Hawk’s sedan. “Hey, baby girl. Everything okay?”
Devil shook his head. People talked about “pregnancy brain” making soon-to-be mothers scatterbrained, but Jules was still sharp as a blade. Now, her fiancé on the other hand…
It was probably why Hawk was letting Jaybird devote most of his time to her instead of BlackStone. Distractions were unacceptable, especially in their line of work and Jaybird was a liability at this point.
Hopefully Jaybird wouldn’t have to learn the hard way how dangerous emotional ties could become. Devil had let his feelings cloud his judgment too many times. He wasn’t going to let anything—oranyone—distract him again.
Chapter Five
“It’s Burgess.”
“Yes?” The gruff male voice on the other end wasn’t angry enough for Neal Burgess to detect the accent, but he knew it was only a matter of seconds before the inevitable. No conversation with the Russian ended well.
Neal rounded the hallway corner before immediately entering his office and shutting the door behind him. He leaned against it to relieve his tired bones before answering. “BlackStone Securities was here again…”
“… And?”
“And I-uh, I’m reportin’ it, like you asked?”
The long, insufferable sigh on the other end grated at Neal’s nerves. “I told you to report to me if they know anything. Do they?”
Neal tugged at his mustache. It needed a trim. “No,” he finally answered.
The boss wasn’t going to be happy Neal had nothing to share. Again. But if the men of BlackStone Securities insisted on being tight-lipped about what they knew, then what was he supposed to do about it?
“Do they suspect anything about the party?”
Neal thought back to the conversation before answering. “No, sir.”
His fingertips grazed down his uniform, remembering late to press the button on his chest before searching the lower pockets. The loud beep of the body worn camera was muffled by all the stacks of paperwork in his office. Although he was an investigator, Neal still wore the duty-issued vest. Bulky as hell, but it was more convenient for his needs than the tweed blazer and ironed button-down Hollywood portrayals.
Still waiting for a reply on the phone, Neal made his way around the cluttered room, dodging the files haphazardly stacked on the floor in chaotic heaps. He glanced through the indoor windows that gave him a view of the officers milling around in the precinct. When he was sure no one was watching, he carefully pulled the drawstrings so the brittle and yellowed slats wouldn’t break on the blinds.
When he had his thoughts to himself, protected by the flimsy barrier between him and his nosy colleagues, Neal plopped on his threadbare desk chair. With the force of his collapse, he rolled back against the wall and groaned at the worsening of the whooshing pulse in his skull. The annoying buzzing in his right ear wasn’t helping, either.
Wait, not buzzing.
“Sorry, could you repeat that?”
“No, Burgess. I do not fucking repeat myself. Pay attention you worthless piece of shit.”
Neal winced as the Russian accent came out and patted the pill bottle in his pocket. The motion calmed his pulse to a steady beat rather than his usual staccato that threatened a heart attack at any moment. It was amazing how the simple gesture created a façade of relaxation, even if only for a moment.
It was nothing like the pills though.
Eleven.
That’s all he had left in this particular bottle. He kept track of the number and never forgot, always knowing when he’d have to refill from the dwindling stash at home. He pulled the orange cylinder out of its pocket and stroked his thumb over the worn label.
Cicilia Burgess.
It was a miracle there was any sticker still stuck to the bottle, considering how long he’d been shoving it in and out of his pockets.
Neal swiped aside paperwork to reveal his coffee-stained, empty desk calendar. It’d been too long since he last took his medicine, but he wanted to make sure he had enough. He moved the phone to hold it between his shoulder and ear as he twisted open the bottle with one hand—a reflex at this point. He shuffled out the tablets, one by one, to make sure he’d remembered correctly.
One-two-three-four-five-six-seven-eight-nine-ten-eleven…
