Heated Manipulations Read online

  “I don’t,” Bucky allowed, “But this whole Joshua King business…”

  “Is yet another reason for me to stick around.” I gritted my teeth, doubling down on my resolve. “I’m the one who started this whole thing. I’m the one who gave him that list of Omegas who were affected by those pills. It’s not just me who got the short end of the stick here—there are hundreds of us who’ve been fucked over by this. I owe it to them to at least try to see this through. I owe it to Josh.”

  “Josh—who got a knife between the ribs for his efforts,” Bucky pointed out, his voice lowering to a whisper. “Look, Nick, I don’t want to have this out with you right now. The kids—”

  “I get it. It’s not a nice thing to talk about. But it’s happened, Buck. It’s not like I can just walk away from it now.”

  “I…I hope you’ll change your mind about that.” A shriek sounded from Bucky’s end of the line, followed by a raucous whoop and a war cry. “Aw, hell. They’re playing cowboys again—gonna have to go separate them.”

  “Two alpha kids.” I smirked. “It’s always a battle, isn’t it?”

  “You’ve got no idea. Just you wait.” Bucky sighed. “If you need anything, you’ll let me know?”

  “Of course.”

  I hung up the phone, leaving Bucky to deal with Jet and Hardy’s gunslinging games while I rose to go splay out on the couch in the living room. Bucky always meant well, and I knew I’d be safer if I was out in California with him and Kate…

  But there was too much on the line here in Fort Greene for me to leave it behind. Now, more than ever.

  I flicked the television on, hoping to see something on the news that might lift my spirits. A headline like Journalist’s murderer apprehended by police. Taken into custody. Citizens rejoice. Or, at the very least, one of those personal interest stories about a surfing squirrel, skateboarding dog or something.

  Instead, I was only faced with the same grim news I’d been hearing for the last four days—ever since the police had made their first statement about Josh’s murder.

  Four days of investigation, and it was just the same shit, different day.

  “We’re working around the clock to bring Joshua King’s killer to justice,” Detective Ansel Thomas informed a stern-looking female news anchor. “But as of right now, no—we’re at a loss for leads.”

  “What can the public do to help you on this case, Detective?” The journalist tilted her microphone back toward the detective, looking just as hopeful as I felt.

  “We’re taking any information we can get—and we’re grateful for it. If you think you might know anything at all about this case, we encourage you to call into our tip line at—”

  I turned the television off with a dark groan.

  At this point, no news would’ve been better news. If I had to hear the term loss for leads about this thing one more time, I was going to scream.

  As I placed the remote back down on my coffee table, my knuckles brushed against a piece of paper. One that I’d woken up to find slipped beneath my front door four days earlier—just before I’d turned on the TV to see Joshua King’s body being wheeled away from the murder scene in a body bag.

  Nick, it read. Don’t talk to anyone. Don’t trust anyone. Not even the police—this goes deeper than either of us ever imagined.

  The note was signed with a J, scrawled out on the back of a Sunoco receipt in Joshua’s handwriting.

  It was the last thing he’d written. The last thing he’d ever write.

  As I read it over again and again, all I could do to make myself feel better was resolve the same thing I’d spent the last four days mulling over.

  Whatever Josh had uncovered, I was going to get to the bottom of it.

  His death wasn’t going to be in vain.

  3

  Harper

  The next morning started with a hangover to remember. All I could think about as I banged my way through making a cup of hotel room coffee was how much I’d like to forget.

  Forget about the hangover, sure. Would’ve been nice to go through the rest of my day without a tinge of nausea and a general sense of disorientation. But the rest of it, too. Joshua’s murder. The feeling of grief that had hit me like a sock filled with quarters when I got the call. The heartache of it all. The guilt. The lust for justice—or even better, vengeance. Even the strange figure that had been watching the funeral from atop the cemetery hill the day before—there was part of me that would’ve liked very much to back to Miami. Pick up whatever work my clients threw my way. Get lost in the minutiae of the sad, tawdry lives that cheaters, liars and thieves all led. Forget it all.

  But forgetting wasn’t why I’d come back to Fort Greene. Forgetting wasn’t an option. I’d come here to do two things, and two things only: lay my brother to rest, and track down the sick fuck who had killed him. What I’d do with the bastard when that happened was anyone’s guess at this point. Turn him into the police or put him in the ground as well—it was hard to feel charitable or sympathetic when last night’s drinks had set a hammer to the inside of my skull and my youngest brother was dead.

  I swung by the Sunoco out by the hotel before I started my day. Aspirin, another coffee, a tank of gas and two cheap breakfast sandwiches—fried chicken burgers with melted cheese on top, sandwiched between two toasted halves of a buttermilk biscuit. Not exactly fine dining at one of those white-tablecothed places in Somerset, but it’d cure my hangover all right.

  My agenda for the day was simple. For any good investigation to go smoothly, there was a certain amount of groundwork to be laid first. Swing by the police station to buzz around any officer who would give me the time of day—not because I hoped to gather any actual intel on the case, but so I would know where they were at and make a point of not being there at the same time. Pop over to a few of the local watering holes, just to slouch over the bar and keep my ears perked for whatever the townsfolk had to say on the matter. But first…

  First, I thought stopping by my father’s old business might be the best place to start. Ernesto Alvarez had always liked me well enough, and he’d liked Joshua even better. I hadn’t had a chance to talk to him during the funeral beyond a quick handshake and an I’m sorry for your loss. Not with Kaleb and Rusty around, at any rate. But now that my brothers had both headed home with a quick hug and a tense goodbye, I was free to speak a little more openly with whoever I liked. And if there was one man left in Fort Greene with his ear to the ground, it was the owner of King Private Security.

  King’s Place had been a rough neighborhood back when Dad first opened business there. The remnants of that time—graffiti, vacant lots and steel bars that came down over the doors and windows after closing time on most of the businesses—served as reminders that it was a few bad years away from turning back to that time even still. But ever since Ernesto had taken over KPS, he’d made a point of cleaning up the neighborhood to the point of near-respectability. There wasn’t a Starbucks or Whole Foods in sight, and if you wanted anything resembling a tofu burger, you’d still have to venture uptown, but Ernesto’s efforts at KPS had kept gang violence at bay while managing to keep the rent down.

  Largely, I recalled with a smirk, because KPS handled most of the unofficial policing of the place—something that the Fort Greene PD, which generally stayed out of King’s Place when it could, still had yet to realize.

  “Harper King. Well, if it isn’t the golden boy of the sunshine city.” Ernesto spotted me from across the room as soon as I walked into the KPS building, tossing aside a file folder he’d been perusing and rising from his desk with a broad grin on his face.

  “Hardly the golden boy anymore, Ernesto.” I shook his hand, meeting his smile with a more subdued one of my own. “No more celebrity scandals and politicking for me. I’m a PI now—most of my work takes place after the sun goes down.”

  “Shame,” Ernesto said with a chuckle, coming around his desk to wrap a massive hand around mine. “And here I was, thinking
that I had direct access to what those Kardashians are up to these days.”

  “You’ll have to keep up with them on the television now, I’m afraid. Had the damndest time remembering which one was Kim and which one was Khloe.”

  “Still—not bad for a former mall cop.”

  “Ah, you know how it is, Ernesto. Once a mall cop, always a mall cop.”

  Ernesto and I chuckled at that. It was a running joke between KPS employees that we were only suited for policing the local shopping centers—after all, that was how Dad had built the business in the first place. Of course, now KPS turned out first-rate bodyguards, bouncers and professional muscle as well. The Kardashians themselves would’ve been lucky to have any one of Ernesto’s boys on their security teams these days.

  “If you’re interested, you know…” Ernesto began.

  I shook my head, holding a hand up before he got into it. There wasn’t a single time I’d set foot in KPS since Dad had turned the place over into Ernesto’s capable hands that hadn’t been marked with Ernesto offering me my old job back.

  “Same answer as always, Alvarez. Don’t know that I could ever come back here now—not after…”

  Ernesto’s grin slowly faded. “Yeah. Yeah, I hear you, Harper. I know I said so at the funeral, but—”

  “Nah. Don’t.”

  Ernesto shook his head. “I’m really sorry about your brother. Genuinely. You know I always liked Josh. Good kid. Good head on his shoulders. Always a smile out of him when he came around—a smile, and a—”

  My grin returned as I reached into the pocket of my leather jacket, pulling out the extra breakfast sandwich I’d picked up from the Sunoco and offering it to him.

  “Ah. There it is.” Ernesto cocked his head back towards his desk, motioning for me to follow him as he unwrapped the biscuit. “You King boys always did know just how to charm a man.” Ernesto held the sandwich up as a toast before digging in. “Of course, when Josh brought one of these over, usually meant that he wanted something.”

  “Just sticking my head in,” I promised. “It’s been, what, three years?”

  Ernesto nodded, chewing and swallowing. “Not since Reggie’s funeral. It’s a shame, isn’t it? Only ever see you King boys when there’s been a death in the family these days.”

  I dug my hands back into my pockets, working the nail of my index fingers into the pads of my thumbs. “Suppose so.”

  “You looking into it?” Ernesto asked the question point-blank—he obviously knew me better than I thought. “Expected you would’ve been back in Miami by now if you weren’t.”

  I tilted my head to the side, considering how much I wanted to reveal. On one hand, it wasn’t good procedure, alerting half the town that I was going to be nosing around my brother’s murder. On the other hand…

  “I am,” I admitted. “But on the down-low, mostly. Just checking in with the local police for the moment. But if any leads happened to come my way…”

  “Once a mall cop, always a mall cop.”

  I nodded. “Can’t be helped, I s’pose. Trust that you’ll keep that tidbit of information to yourself though, if you don’t mind.”

  “Not at all. If it was my brother…” Ernesto’s shoulders heaved with a sad sigh. “The police say they don’t have any leads yet. I believe them. But if I hear anything, you’ll be the first to know. Otherwise…” He raised the breakfast sandwich again in thanks. “My lips are sealed.”

  “Appreciate it, Ernesto.” I paused, looking around the office for a moment before turning to the door. I’d spent my childhood in this building. Most of my teens. A sliver of my twenties. Even though Dad had been gone for three years now, I could still feel his presence here sometimes. “It’ll be good once this all is finally over. Be able to get back to my life.”

  “Harper…”

  I turned, hesitating as I pressed out the door.

  “I’m glad you stopped by,” Ernesto said in parting. “Joshua…he was a smart kid. Always the brainy one out of all you meatheads. I’m sorry that he’s not here with us anymore. Truly.”

  “Yeah.” I hunched my shoulders forward against the wind coming in from outside. “Yeah, me too.”

  At the police station, I didn’t learn anything I didn’t already know. No leads. No evidence. Not even the murder weapon—but a flash of the autopsy report just before the detective closed the file told me that there was a good chance it had been a combat knife. Clean entry. Ragged exit. Half a dozen stab wounds, each of them between the ribs. All aimed at minor organs.

  “Still figure it’s a mugging then?” I asked, curious as to whether the detective had come to the same conclusion I just had.

  The detective nodded. “Doesn’t happen too often ‘round these parts—but get a few bottles of cheap whiskey in someone, they see an unarmed target…you’d be surprised how little those kind of people think about what they’re doing right up until the moment that they’re doing it.”

  I frowned, but said nothing.

  Even in a military town like Fort Greene, I couldn’t think of many drunks who often carried around combat knives. Could think of even fewer who could execute that kind of assault with such precision—aimed not to kill their target immediately, but to leave them in a whole world of pain while they bled out.

  “Anything I might be able to help with?” I asked, knowing from the look on the detective’s face that I’d already pressed my luck just about as far as it would go. Ansel must’ve warned his task force that I’d be poking around. I’d have put money on it.

  The detective sighed, glancing around to make sure that no one was watching before producing an evidence bag containing a smartphone.

  “Your brother’s,” the detective explained. “Password protected, of course. Normally, I wouldn’t…but with so few leads…”

  “Mind if I take a crack at it?” I kept my voice as casual as possible. “Might help you with your case. Be a big break for you if I could help turn something up.”

  The detective bit his lower lip, looked around again, then shrugged. “Have to take your fingerprints first—but yeah. Couldn’t hurt, right? I mean, if you don’t mind…”

  “Not at all,” I assured him. “Happy to help.”

  We did the procedurals with a speed I couldn’t have been happier with. Obviously, this detective was happy for a chance to be the brave soul who finally made a break in this case—as long as no one knew who had helped him, of course. That kind of opportunism left me wiping ink off my fingers with a paper towel from his desk and holding my brother’s phone in my hand.

  Jackpot.

  “It’s a six-number passcode,” the detective explained, his chest puffing up with pride. “So what I figured was—”

  “It’s a date. Right.” I keyed in the obvious—Joshua’s birthday—and got an error message.

  Incorrect password. Three tries remaining.

  “Yeah.” The detective chuckled. “We tried his birthday too, smart guy. Tough luck.”

  I bristled at the name calling, but didn’t react. Reacting was for people who had something to prove. I had better ways to spend my time.

  The next code I keyed in was a little more obscure—August twentieth, from the year Josh published his first news article.

  Incorrect password. Two tries remaining.

  Dammit.

  I scowled down at the phone for a second, scratching the back of my head then looking up at the detective, dumbfounded.

  “Jeez. This is harder than I thought.” I gave the detective a pathetic enough look that it earned me a gentle pat of sympathy on my shoulder.

  “Yeah—and you knew the guy. If you’re not sure…” The detective reached out his hand to take the phone from me, but I hesitated.

  “I’m so sorry—it’s just, I’m having a hard time concentrating. With the funeral and dealing with these damned lawyers—and god, dealing with my family…”

  “You need a minute?”

  I gave him an apologetic, grateful smile. �
�Would you mind?”

  I watched him leave his desk and make a beeline for the break room.

  Perfect.

  With two tries left and no idea how long I’d have with the phone before the detective got back if I managed to crack it, I had to think fast. Our Omega father’s birthday was my next guess—Josh had never gotten a chance to know him, and I’d often found him looking over old pictures, wondering what could have been.

  Incorrect password. One try remaining.

  It was a bit of a reach, but there was only one other date I could imagine being relevant to Josh’s interests. And if I guessed wrong—well, it wasn’t like our boys in blue were going to have any better ideas. My fingers hovered over the numbers as I held my breath.

  Josh had always been a bit of a conspiracy nerd. Nothing serious—just a playful interest, one that I’d always assumed had helped guide him to becoming a journalist. I’d caught him out on it during a trip to Vegas once—we’d both blown all our money on the roulette tables, idiots we were, and Josh had taken out some more cash to try his hand at the slots.

  “1963, huh?” I’d asked him, looking over his shoulder as he keyed in his pin at the ATM. “Never thought you were such a Beatles fan.”

  “What?” He’d given me a look like I was having some kind of stroke. I could still remember the way it had made me laugh.

  “I Want To Hold Your Hand came out that year,” I’d explained. “I Saw Her Standing There on the B-side. Our Omega dad used to listen to them all.”

  “Oh. No—it’s not that.” Josh had grinned ear to ear, pleased that he’d stumped me on something. He’d always relished the fact that he was the smartest of all of us. “Kennedy assassination. It’s fascinating—when the House Select Committee on Assassinations investigated it, they actually concluded that it was a result of a conspiracy. They just wouldn’t say by who—or what the conspiracy was. Makes you think, right?”