Page 47 of Call Me Anytime
I’ve spent enough time with Hannah to know she isn’t the type of woman to ask for help. She’s independent, sometimes to her own detriment. It’s one of the things I admire about her—how strong she is—and that makes it even more rewarding to be the guy who lightens the load, even if she doesn’t think she needs it.
A grin tugs at my lips as I think back to the drive over to CMA headquarters, with Hannah in the passenger seat telling me all about Gary, the goat her mom used to have. Apparently, Gary thought he was part of the family—following them inside the house, lounging on the couch, and even trying to steal a sip from her mom’s coffee mug every morning.
The way her eyes lit up as she told the story—it was like I was seeing a piece of her she rarely lets out. Something freer, something lighter. I wanted to keep her talking, keep her smiling, just to keepthat gorgeous spark there as she let go of all the responsibility weighing down her shoulders.
Funnily enough, she’s the exact opposite of my sister, Dakota. Whereas Hannah would rather carry everything on her shoulders than even think about inconveniencing someone else, my sister wouldn’t think twice about it. Her needs come first, always.
Trust me, I should know—I’m the brother who has gotten roped into helping her move apartments more times than I can count.
“Hey,” I greet Shane as I slide the van door closed behind me. I then sit in the chair next to his.
Normally, he’d be riding my ass for my late arrival, but I can tell from just one look at him he’s got his listening face on instead. Concern rattles my chest, bringing my focus from floating fantasies about a carefree version of Hannah back down to earth in a plunging dive.
In our line of work, if Shane is too busy to give me shit, there’s usually a reason.
I set my coffee down and pull my headphones on, adjusting them against my ears. I flip the switch in front of me to connect to the call, and instantly Hannah’s voice is in my ear.
“I love that. Tell me about this ride.”
“It’s rough,” the caller says, his breathing picking up. “Up and down on my cock while your tits bounce in my face.”
I scoff. The male half of our species really is something.
“Oh, I love the way that feels,” Hannah responds, but I visualize her sitting there, at her desk, running that silly file with pink hearts all over it across her fingernails. “Uh ... what else do you want to do?”
“Motorboat the shit out of your big tits, Ruby,” the caller grunts like a fucking caveman, and I roll my eyes.
Technically, Hannah doesn’t have big tits. She has a slim but curvy hourglass shape. The kind of body that’s soft but fit at the same time. She’s the kind of woman men find themselves taking a second and thirdand fourthlook at when she walks past them.Though, professionally speaking, you probably shouldn’t be so aware of that ...
I cringe at the thought.
“Oooh,” Hannah pretends to moan into the phone. “Ruby’s wet propeller is spinning faster and faster as you drive us through these rocky waters. I don’t know how much longer I can go.”
“Oh baby, hold on!” the caller exclaims. “Don’t let that wet pussy come yet.”
“But it’s sooo juicy. Like a juice box. A Capri-Sun. If you keep sticking your straw in my hole, I’m going to squirt my juice everywhere!”
“Ah, fuck,” the caller’s voice squeaks out, his breaths turning into pants now that Ruby has told him she’s a squirter. “You can squirt?”
The line goes silent for a minute, and I can imagine Hannah trying to figure out what the fuck he’s even talking about. I grit my teeth to fight the urge to burst into laughter.
“Sure, I can squirt,” she eventually says, clearing her throat and adding a little pretend moan into the mix. “I can squirt like a ... like a fire hose. Someone call 911 because my juice box is about to erupt like a geyser.”
Shane and I share a glance and a chuckle before something makes him pull his phone out of his pocket. He shows me the screen.Incoming Call: Booth. I take off my headphones, pushing out of my chair and opening the door to the van to climb out yet again. I dial Booth on my phone and put it to my ear, waiting through three rings before he picks it up.
“Hello?”
“Hey, Booth. Just calling you back for Shane. He’s in the middle of listening to a tap.”
“Gotcha. I just wanted to let you guys know we got the in-depth tox back on Heather Turnwat, and it’s not just any run-of-the-mill fent. It’s the good shit. Carfentanil.”
Carfentanil is one of the most potent, most expensive, and most valuable fentanyls on the illicit market. It’s ten thousand times stronger than morphine and around a hundred times stronger than fentanyl.It was originally developed to use on fucking elephants, so you can imagine, for a human, it only takes a minuscule amount to be lethal.
“Carfentanil?” I blink. “Just like in Gwen Bridges’s case.”
“Yep,” he confirms. “I’m no detective, but if I had to put money on it, I’d say the same person is behind both murders.”
Not many people have access to carfentanil. And the people who do are usually in drug cartels that like to cut it with other shit to get their money’s worth. It’s at complete odds with the nature of both Heather’s and Gwen’s deaths. Whoever did this wanted them dead, and they wanted them dead quickly.
