Page 80 of Endeavor

“It’s not an issue of money,” Dean explains. “This guy…he’s good. He’s been planning this for a while. His moves are meticulous and calculated. This hasn’t come up in any of the profiling yet, but part of me believes he might have either a police or military background. His recent actions and knowing how to avoid detection seem to fit such a profile.”

“Have you mentioned this to the profilers?” I ask.

“Yes. Their system hasn’t ruled that out, but they aren’t confident in the statistical numbers related to police or military background. That’s why it wasn’t formally presented to you today. It may be by next week, but I don’t like waiting that long.”

“Dean, if you have thoughts like this, share them with the whole group,” I demand.

Dean nods. “Yes, sir. My apologies. These briefs are only meant to provide you with statistically approved data. Bryce prefers not to speculate.”

“I understand that. He may own your firm, but he isn’t the client,” I point out. Dean nods.

“No, sir. You are absolutely correct.”

“So, say this military option is correct. Do any of the suspects meet that criteria?” I ask.

“Well, your publicist’s PA was in ROTC in college, and there’s a kid that works at the record label that just got out of the military, but he’s twenty-two, in my opinion, he’s too young to match the profile.”

“OK, well, thank you.”

“One last thing, I will be heading down to confirm the identity of our new security detail for you. His name is Trevor Kingsley. I have to confirm identification before he can enter the building. I have all your video and motion sensors in place. Just press star three on your phone, and it will connect you straight to me. It shouldn’t be more than three minutes,” Dean says.

I give him a look. “Dean, I think I’ll be fine for three minutes. Plus, this place is like Fort Knox. No one is getting in here without you and like forty other guys knowing it.”

“Point taken. Anything else, sir?” Dean asks.

I shake my head and leave. I’m half-expecting Dean to salute me as I walk out of the room.

I head into the kitchen, grabbing a beer, and I decide to sprawl out on the massive bed in my mother’s guest room and watch television. But something draws me to my mother’s suite. I walk through the massive room, with its fourteen-foot ceilings and crisp white furniture. The only color in the entire room is from five throw pillows and the three paintings on the walls. My father had let her decorate this place. She had wanted it all white. She says white is soothing. I find it barren, myself. The Malibu house he had more of a say in and his laid-back style shows at the house. But here, it’s my mother, through and through. I glide my hand along the long dresser as I walk toward the door.

My hand stops first, blocked by objects. As my eyes follow my hand and focus, I jump back as though I’ve been electrocuted.

“What the fuck?” I mutter to the empty room. I slowly reach out, stopping my hand midway as though the three items will bite me.

My father’s wallet, keyring, and sunglasses sit in a neat row on the dresser. After he died, my mother placed them in the drawer, the only one she kept with his things after she eventually cleaned out his clothes and belongings from the room. It took her two years and my encouragement, but she finally did it. She claimed the one drawer had the things she just couldn’t part with, including those three items. He always left them in a row like that on this side of the dresser. The key to his first car was always pointing toward the wall, and they were always the middle object. The sunglasses and wallet were always at a diagonal. It made no sense and spoke completely to my father’s OCD, but it became a familiar thing to us. Something a loved one did every day, something insignificant that others wouldn’t notice, but we did. And when he was gone, it was just another small insignificant detail that we remembered and missed.

No one here would know about this. And it wasn’t like this when we arrived here. Could Emma have moved them? No, there’s no way. No one would put things in this strange order and angle, only Dad. Hell, Mom and I are probably the only people on the planet that remember he did this. A shiver runs through my body. I look around the room as I call my mother.

“Did you leave Dad’s wallet, keys, and sunglasses on the dresser?” I ask her before she even says hello.

“N-no. Why?” she stammers, my question clearly catching her off guard.

“They are here,” I state dryly. I take a photo and send them to her.

“Oh my God!”

“Mom, calm down. I’m sure there’s a reasonable explanation.”

“What if? You need to tell security, right now,” she demands.

“I will,” I tell her. “Don’t worry. It’ll be fine.” I hang up, but my words don’t reassure me. I open the dresser drawer to put the items away and it’s what’s inside that changes my demeanor.

A yellow sticky note. I read the words.

“To you, your father should be as a god. Was yours, Grady?”

I drop the note and step back.

I hear Dean come back into the apartment. “I’m back, Mr. Daniels, and I have Agent Kingsley with me.”

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