Page 66 of Master of Lies

CHAPTER24

Jed

My first stop was at the home address I’d found for Grifo. It was in Forest Hills, a pricey suburb of Portland. When I got to the cul-de-sac, I parked outside and walked around it. Grifo’s house was handsome. Big, modern, lots of glass. Huge lawn, massive trees. Evidently the cosmetic surgery business paid well. The house looked abandoned, though. No lights, no cars visible in the garage. The grass had gotten long and shaggy. Dead leaves had blown across the front entryway, and the side patio, piling up in drifts.

I went up to the front door and gave the buzzer a try, but I wasn’t surprised when no one answered. Grifo had been spooked away from his own home. Then again, Boer probably got referred to Grifo by Adriani, so chances were, Grifo had probably worked on people who were on the wrong side of the law before. He had to know the score.

He’d made a shit-ton of money, after all. This was a five-million-dollar house.

I stared up at the house, and heard Freya’s voice in my mind.

The light. Turn it on. Don’t leave me in the dark. Please.

The words kept repeating in my head. Or not exactly the words, but more her tone. The soul-deep desperation behind them. Something about that was all fucked up. Completely wrong. It scared me.

Well, fucking duh. Of course it was all kinds of bad to handcuff a woman to a bed and then leave her there. There was no way to spin that. It sucked. Unforgivably. Particularly after she’d helped me out like that. Stitching together information from my stress nightmares. I wouldn’t have a plan at all but for her being so fucking brilliant.

But Freya was so tough and fiery, I had expected a different reaction from her. Fury, outrage, vitriol, fireworks. Sarcasm and snark. Me, getting cut down to size.

Not…whatever that was. Not her looking that vulnerable. That scared.

In any case, it made me feel like shit. I had to get this done fast, so I could let her loose and take my medicine, whatever that turned out to be. If she needed to whale on me, or scream at me, or bash me over the head with a frying pan, fair enough. I would take it. Hell, I deserved it. Every last blow. I welcomed it.

And this was just the classic problem I had with that woman. Instead of focusing on the task at hand, I was wasting time and energy wallowing in guilt, anxiety, and shame.

And doubt. Always doubt.You think this is safe? Staking me out like a fucking goat for any asshole who comes along?

Damn, the woman had a point. And it made me fucking tense.

The next stop was the cosmetic surgery practice right near Old Town. It was raining by the time I found the place and parked. No umbrella, but it was a short walk.

The place reeked of wealth and privilege. I walked into a great big central lobby with a vaulted ceiling, filled with big exotic potted trees and a burbling waterfall that rushed endlessly down artfully carved blocks of dark stone. Very classy. High overhead.

I walked up to the desk, which was presided over by statuesque blonde trophy receptionist. Her face had that taut, stretched look of someone who’d had some work done, but she was a fine-looking woman. Her desk had a name tag. Ramona.

She gave me a onceover, and I saw her reaction evolve over the course of two seconds. First, startled appreciation, then her smile faded as she took in the what’s-wrong-with-this-picture details. Scabs on my cheekbone, the beard, the tattoo on my neck. Her red-painted lips tightened, sphincter-like. I couldn’t help comparing that to Freya’s soft, lush, expressive mouth, her blinding grin. Not a fair comparison.

The phone rang, and she put up her finger with a smile. “Hello, Madden, Grifo, Clark, and Burns, can I help you?” She listened for a moment. “Oh, definitely. But have the bakery switch the eclairs out for profiterole…yes. And tell Barbara in accounting there will be two catering invoices for the gala. One for the meal, from Highline Catering, and one for dessert, from the Moulin Pastisserie. Did you check on those lactose-free Neapolitan pastries?...yes, I know, but we need one for Rachelle Grifo at table one, and Dr. Maxwell at table seven, as well, and a gluten-free for Charlaine Bristol at table twelve…well, just check on it, Gary, to be sure they’re on top of it! Then call me back! Okay…later, then.”

She hung up, and gave me a tight, professional smile. “Hello. Can I help you?”

“I hope so,” I told her, still humming from having heard the name Grifo mentioned. “I was hoping to speak to Dr. Joseph Grifo.”

Ramona blinked rapidly. “Ah…he’s not working here at the moment.”

“He isn’t?” I asked. “Since when? Where did he go?”

“I’m afraid I can’t give you any information,” she said. “Privacy concerns, of course. But he’s not working at this practice. At the moment.”

“I see. So he’s not in business anymore?”

“Like I said, I can’t tell you.”

Damn, I should have called ahead, made an appointment with these people. I noted the subtle tension in her face, the way her eyes rolled and slid away from mine, and felt the instinct to press her. “Could I speak to someone who worked with him? Dr. Clark, for instance. The website said he was a close associate of Dr. Grifo.”

“I don’t think that will be possible,” she said. “I doubt he’s available.”

I leaned down over the desk and gave her a slow, dangerous smile. “Why don’t you check and see?”

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