Total pages in book: 75
Estimated words: 71616 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 358(@200wpm)___ 286(@250wpm)___ 239(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 71616 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 358(@200wpm)___ 286(@250wpm)___ 239(@300wpm)
“Right.”
He shrugs. “Better for me if everyone thinks I am at least. Easier, considering my line of work.”
He’s right about that. Robbie Shetland is one of the most cunning men I know. He came from nothing, no, less than nothing. His mother and sister probably cleaned toilets for men like those sitting here tonight. The elite of the elite with more money and privilege than brains. And he has a way of finding people who don’t want to be found. He’s known within The Society. Although not a member himself, he has worked privately for several members. It’s one of the reasons we’re meeting here tonight and not at a Society venue. I don’t want anyone knowing my business.
“What do you have for me?” I ask.
He takes a single, folded sheet of paper out of his pocket. It’s crumpled and he makes a point of setting it on the table and flattening out the creases.
“It’s fine.” I pick it up and when I see what’s on it, I raise my eyebrows. “What the hell am I supposed to do with this?” It’s some sort of computer-generated code I can’t make heads or tails of.
“That piece of paper tells us where those emails originated.”
I glance again at the sheet as he points out a couple of things and starts explaining.
“I don’t want a lesson in reading code. That’s why I hired you. I just need the answers.”
“I’m getting to it. You ready for this?” He pauses for dramatic effect. “The email you received originated from New Orleans.”
“What?” I ask. Judging from the look on his face, the shock must be evident on mine.
“From an unremarkable little apartment in a part of town I’m sure you, being Society folk, don’t frequent.”
“New Orleans?” Dread claws my gut.
“Oh, forgot one more thing.” He digs around in his pockets and takes out another crumpled piece of paper. “Here she is.” He unfolds the sheet and hands it to me. “Coincidence of coincidences, turns out she’s an employee of The Cat House.”
I take it from him. It’s a grainy, black and white printout on cheap paper.
“The Cat House? As in, The Society Cat House?”
“One and the same. Hell of a coincidence.”
“And it’s a woman?” I try to make my eyes focus on the page, take in the shoulder-length dark hair, the big eyes on the woman’s unsmiling face.
“Women do blackmail. We live in modern times. Equal opportunity and all that.”
I shift my gaze back to him. “You sure this is correct? If she works at the Cat House—”
“Not in the way you think.” He winks, chuckles while shaking his head. “Dirty devil. She serves drinks.”
I look again at the sheet of paper. “This is the best photo you could come up with?”
He shrugs a shoulder. “Hotel’s printer was nearly out of ink.”
I study the printout more closely. “How old is she?” she barely looks to be eighteen.
“Twenty-seven according to her ID.”
“Right.” This girl is not twenty-seven. It’s a fake, obviously. “What do you know about her?”
“Her name, well, I should say the name she gave HR, do you all have HR?” he asks, pausing. I raise my eyebrows. “I digress. The name she gave whoever hired her is Blue Masterson. She doesn’t have a social media profile, no on-line presence at all, in fact. Very odd especially for someone her age. That there is her employee mug shot.”
I look from the photo to him. “Blue Masterson. Even that sounds fake.”
“Blue moved to a shitty little apartment in NOLA about six months ago.” Six months. The first email only showed up around two months ago.
“From where?”
“Don’t know.”
“What do you mean you don’t know?”
“No paper trail but I’m still searching.”
I look at the picture again. She’s attractive. Like all the things that are bad for you are attractive. Her gaze is sharp, clever and cautious in that way people who are hiding something have. I know it well.
“Are you sure it’s her?” She just seems too young. Too poor. Too much not a part of the world I come from.
“I don’t make mistakes, Zeke.”
“Ezekiel.” Only my mother, my brother and my niece call me Zeke. Zoë used to. Not sure she’d ever even said my full name.
“Ezekiel. Pardon me.”
I blink to clear the memory of Zoë. “It’s fine.”
“Blue Masterson has managed to erase her past. She’s better at it than most which is surprising. Dig as I might, I don’t get any hits. Like she didn’t exist until she showed up in New Orleans. The only thing I’ve managed to find are monthly payments to the Oakwood Care Center.”
My forehead creases. “What’s that?”
“Psychiatric hospital.”
“Oh?”
“Don’t know more just yet. All that fucking patient privacy and this place actually has decent online security.”
I sit back looking at the strange girl’s face, her narrowed eyes. She looks like she’s telling off the photographer. “So, she’s using a fake name. Fake papers. But if she works at IVI, she’d have been vetted.”