Page 56 of Sinful Fantasy

“A threat?” My fingers tighten until I’m crushing the phone in my palm. “That’s the game you wanna play today?”

“I don’t make threats.” She taps a button on her end that sounds suspiciously likeenter; somehow, it comes with an air of finality that makes my heart skip in my chest. “I’m giving you fair warning. A caution that allows you time and space to correct one’s course of action and ensure rules are being followed. By the time we’re ready for threats, you’ve already disrespected the fair code of conduct I set down—in which case, relationships have broken down, trust has been irreparably destroyed, and my men already have a little red dot glowing against your temple. So,” she asks again, her tone sugary-sweet and smiling, “Is Felix behaving himself?”

“I thought you were all-seeing,” I grit out. “Don’t you already know what he’s doing? In fact,” I add as an afterthought, “you probably know more than I do.”

“Probably,” she agrees smugly. “But I enjoy asking you. Last chance, Malone, then I’m hanging up and going back to work.”

“He won’t sell women,” I relent on a sigh. “He won’t deal in innocents. Even without your prohibition, we all know where Mayet’s line is. He won’t cross it.”

“So his morals rest on his sister-in-law’s lawbreaking ways?”

“No. He has no clue about her ‘lawbreaking ways’. But he’s intuitive enough to know where she stands. Now tell me what I need to know about my vic, or I might start charging you formytime.”

She barks out a laugh, the sound more insulting than any well-placed comeback. Still, she gives me something to work with. “Roger Wilson, Aaron Davies, and Kyle Andrews.” She repeats each identity. “Kinda bland names, Detective. There are more than a few of each in the world, and a surprising number in Copeland City alone. But if I cross-check each name and narrow my search down to geographical location, I can tell you that you’re going to have a fourth name pop up soon.”

“Afourth?” I reach into my back pocket and search for a pen. Paper. A notebook. “Shit.” Coming up empty, I take the book Fletch instinctually knows to pass me, and press the tip of my pen down on a blank page. “Who?”

“Benedict McArthur,” she reads. “Forty-one years old. Married, with a teen who recently got his learner’s permit. Our Benny is an IT consultant for Prestige Programming, in Copeland City. His wife, Roberta McArthur, works for the same company, also in IT, but runs a different branch of the business. She’s smart, Detectives. She may be the break you need for this case.”

“Roberta McArthur,” I repeat for Fletch. “We’ll track her down right after we’re done here.” Then I return to my conversation withDetectiveAsa. “What can you tell me about the man on ice right now? Which name was he born with? Who was the original? And who the hell does heactuallywork for?”

“Okay, let’s see… Roger was born at Copeland Memorial Hospital, on February fourth of seventy-seven, to Roger and Gloria Wilson. He attended a local high school, married his high school sweetheart, and is, right now, supposedly cooling his buns in Mayet’s fridge. Davies was born January first of eighty-five. Same hospital, same school, different grade. Kyle Andrews was born May fifth, nineteen-eighty. Different hospital, same high school. He graduated at the top of his class, and went on to attend MIT. Benedict…” she pauses for a moment and reads whatever is pulled up on her screen. “Also went to MIT. Same hospital. His parents existed, his siblings exist. His marriage exists and appears legal.”

“That doesn’t make sense,” I press. “How can he be four different dudes at one time? How can he attend the same high school, under different names, at the same time? And the same college, four years apart?”

“I don’t know,” she hums impatiently. “Yearbook photos show different faces, though similar features; brown hair, brown eyes. In the high school hierarchy, the four ranged from the fit school jock at the top, to the not so popular nerd—cough, cough, Benedict McArthur. These boys all existed, Detective. And there’s a chance they knew each other.”

“They’re all the same person!” I snap.

CSIs glance over their shoulders to watch me. Nonplussed, Fletch takes the notebook back, now that I’m done writing.

“Asa,” I grit out, “he’s one person. What the hell do you mean there were four and they met?”

“I’m saying these histories are full and colorful, Detective. You have a massive ball of yarn right now, and you’re searching for that one thread to tug. Find it, and watch everything else unravel.”

“Ishe an operative?” I demand. “Is that what this is?”

“I can’t tell you that.”

“Asa!”

“Not that I won’t,” she verbally rolls her eyes. “Ican’t. Because I don’t know. As it stands, according to the data I have in front of me, I’m led to say no. But the fact that the data is incomplete makes my assumption worth less than a peanut.”

Long before I can gather my next coherent thought, she chirps, “Thanks for the summons. This was fun! Now I’m going back to my actual job. I’m kind of important, ya know?”

“Mmhm. I wanna save your number in my phone in case I need to call you again.”

She chokes out a laugh. “Not happening. Just rub the lamp, Aladdin. Maybe I’ll come out to play. Oh! Did Minka tell you that Tabby, the mayor’s daughter, is having a new baby? Jen’s all aflutter about it.”

“Jen?”

“Laaaawreeeence,” she explains slowly. “The mayor’s other daughter. She gets to be an aunty for the second time, andnotbe set on fire by her father’s watchful, beady eye—since obviously, making babies means having sex.”

“He’s mad that his kid is having sex? Hisgrown,marrieddaughter?” I emphasize. “He’s pissy about that?”

“He’s on edge,” she clarifies with a snigger. “I’d say the guy’s about at the end of his rope and long past the point of patience.Anywho,” she quips, ever so cheerfully. “Go find Benedict and see what shakes out. Toodaloo.”

“Wait, Asa—”

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