Page 83 of Out of the Shadows

She dropped her head into her hands. “Kill. Me. Now.”

He laughed. “Don’t worry, Bean. They love you. Though I’m not gonna lie, it’s... interesting being a part of a larger team.”

She glanced back at him and smiled at the baffled look on his face. “It’s odd, right? But don’t worry. They’ll grow on you.”

“Who’ll grow on you?” Gavin asked as he walked into the room with Xander and Alvarez behind him. Gavin made a beeline to her and dropped a kiss to the top of her head before taking the seat beside her. “Good hike?”

Warmth heated her cheeks and she nodded, clearing her throat. “Yeah, and apparently, cyber did a montage of us hiking yesterday and sent it to Tiny.”

“Of course they did.” Gavin shook his head. “How’s it going, Tiny?”

“Good. I mean, not as good as you guys, but what are you gonna do?” The man chuckled, but before Bean could say anything, he continued, “I have an interesting update on Branson Whitcomb if you guys are ready?”

Gavin glanced at Xander and Alvarez, who both nodded, and leaned back in his seat. “Go for it.”

“For background,” Tiny said, “Branson Whitcomb just turned thirty-one and is the only child of Roger Whitcomb. His mother was Roger’s third wife, Miranda, who passed away five years ago from breast cancer. Branson’s living in a condo in downtown Seattle that was owned by his late mother.”

Bean tried to recall what the guy looked like but drew ablank. As if reading her mind, Tiny shared a picture of Branson on the Smartboard. She nearly snorted. His dark-blond hair looked like it was in need of a haircut, but it blew in the wind just so. He was dressed in khaki shorts with an unbuttoned linen shirt and was barefoot and leaning on the rail of some yacht. There were Gucci sunglasses on his face and a champagne glass in his hand. The Mediterranean Sea sparkled behind him, picturesque villas dotting the background. He looked like the stereotypical vacationing trust-fund douchebag.

Of course this guy was sleeping with his stepmom.

But now that she could put a face to the name, she remembered him from the gala. He’d sat at their table next to his father and hadn’t said a word. He’d simply scrolled through his phone the entire evening—not bothering to lower its volume—with an unending glass of whiskey.

“Branson began drawing from his trust at twenty-five,” Tiny said. “Five hundred thousand a year—a lump sum for that first year, and monthly installments after that. At thirty, it bumped up to seven-fifty. When he reaches thirty-five, it’ll be a million a year from then on. It sounds great, but unfortunately for him, his father is the account trustee, and he froze the accounts shortly after Branson’s thirtieth birthday. Branson’s been living off what was in his account, but during the last six months, his funds have been dwindling fast. Very fast.”

“Drugs?” Alvarez asked.

Tiny made a face. “He’s most likely a recreational user, but for the amounts we’re talking about, my guess is gambling. He took a few trips to Vegas and Monte Carlo the year before with friends, but six months ago, he was in Vegas and blew through about a quarter mil. Ever since, he’s been hemorrhaging money. In the last six months, there have also been four large deposits into his account of a hundred grandeach—all cashier’s checks. Without fail, a few days after each deposit, the money is gone.”

“Can you trace the cashier’s checks?” Xander asked.

Tiny glanced at her. “Bean?”

She wrinkled her nose. “Yeah, but it’ll take some time. Extra safeguards have to be put in place to ensure we don’t raise any flags. There’s also really no way to make any of the information we get admissible.”

“In my experience,” Tiny added, “if the money is from the mafia, triad, bratva, or whatever group, the bank’s not going to have a record of it. Those transactions never hit their books.”

“That’s fair,” Gavin said, tapping his chin with his finger.

“Any updates on the warehouse property?” Bean asked.

“Not yet,” Tiny replied. “But just going by the number of companies involved in this parcel of land, I can guarantee you that this warehouse isn’t used for anything good.”

She raked her hands through her hair in frustration. They had more information, but instead of any answers, they just had more questions, more puzzle pieces that they couldn’t get to fit.

“We talked to Edward and Rita earlier,” Gavin said. “He’s concerned about his sister. Polanski called him to let him know that Constance was at the house the evening of the shootings. At first under the guise of concern, trying to get Polanski to disclose their location. According to Polanski, when she realized he didn’t know, she changed tactics and tried to get him to loan out one of Edward’s security guards to her.”

Bean made a sound of disgust. There was something so wrong with that woman.

Gavin shrugged. “Of course, this isn’t new information to us, but according to Edward, it raised some red flags. The guy’s paranoid as fuck right now?—”

“As he should be,” Alvarez interrupted. “After what happened to his son, who can blame him?”

“True. However, it was Constance’s concern that worried him. They don’t have that kind of relationship. He said that up until a month or two ago, he and Constance—and I quote—tolerated each other at best.”

A chill crawled down Bean’s spine. “A month or two ago? Right around when her husband froze her accounts?”

“When it’s rumored her husband found out she was sleeping with his son?” Alvarez added.

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