Page 99 of Filthy Elites

Haley begins scanning the images on the screen, swiping quickly through them as the waitress returns, setting down our meals, refilling our glasses, and disappearing once more. Money might come with its own set of problems, but I will admit the ability to afford privacy is a perk I never experienced in my past.

It feels like forever before Haley finally stops and turns the phone my way again. “Him,” she says, pointing to a man on the screen. Unfortunately, he’s got his head down and turned away from the camera and all I can see is the wide brimmed white hat and a hint of dark gray hair peeking out from beneath the edge at the base of his skull.

“He was there on most of those dates you had listed,” she says. “I served him a time or two, but he paid only in cash. I never got a name.”

Despite the fact that this is the furthest I’ve come so far in my investigation, irritation simmers inside of me. There’s no clear picture of the man’s face and other than an average build and hair color, without a name or any other identifier, I’m still back at square one.

“Can you think of anything else about him?” I ask as I take the phone back. “You saw his face.”

“He wore sunglasses inside,” she admits with a grimace. “I thought it was kind of weird, but he’s not the first guy to do that—the dance floor lights irritate some people’s eyes. All I can say is that he was older, like way too old to be hanging out with college kids. Maybe forties or fifties. He was definitely Caucasian.”

Each bit of information is like gold and yet, I’m still not happy. I doubt I will be until I catch the motherfucker and get rid of him for good—just as Nicholas ordered.

“Alright,” I finally say. “Thank you.” I slip my phone back into my pocket.

“What’s this all about?” she asks curiously.

I contemplate my response, but she’s an outsider in this. A source of information, nothing more. To get her further involved will do nothing good … for either of us. Yet, somehow, I can’t seem to help myself. “Give me your cell,” I say, reaching my hand out.

She blinks but hands it over willingly. I enter my phone number in her contacts and send a message to myself to ensure that I have her number as well. Once I’m done, I hand the thing back to her and pick up my fork.

“Uh … Viks?” She holds her phone up and frowns at me and I know what she’s expecting. Something I won’t give her—an explanation. Her hopeful expression does nothing but back me into a corner. My jaw clenches. I can’t tell her anything, and I don’t want to pretend with her. Anything more I say will be tainted by the façade I give the rest of the world. She deserves better than that.

“Eat,” I say, “and then I’ll take you back to campus.”

Her expression falls and it guts me.

Even though she didn’t get an answer, at least I didn’t lie to her. Omitting is better than the alternative.

FIVE

Viks

Though I haven’t dealtwith many hackers in my time, each and every one I meet all seem to have something in common—an aversion to being healthy. Jackson Teller sits at the long L-shaped desk surrounded by a collection of technology. Narrow eyes glassy as he squints at the half a dozen computer screens lit with images that flash back and forth as he clicks and drags them all over the place. Smoke lingers above him as he puffs through what has to be his second pack of the day.

“Well?” I finally say after what feels like an eternity of fucking clicking and silence. “Do you have anything yet?”

“Hold your fucking horses, man,” he pops off, dragging the Marlboro Light from between his lips with a curse. “I’m almost—there!” He mutters something else, setting his cigarette in a nearby overflowing ashtray as his fingers fly across the keyboard. “Got ya, you motherfucker. Thought you could hide from me? Not a chance, dickstain. I get everyone. I’m the fucking king of—”

“Teller,” I cut him off, unwilling and in no fucking mood to let him fall into another one of his ‘I am the king’ deliriums. “Focus. Do you have a clear image of the man’s face?”

“Yeah, I got the motherfucker,” Teller says proudly. “And a name too—Patrick Kennedy.”

“Patrick Kennedy?” I repeat, rounding the desk to get a good look. Teller tightens up and lifts his cigarette back to his mouth, puffing furiously. I don’t give a fuck. I know he hates it when people invade his personal space. With how much he’s getting paid for this fucking job, he can keep his yap shut and deal.

Sure enough, there are several grainy images of the man from the security camera—this time from different angles. Each one ripped in pieces and placed together to get a full profile. He was good, I’ll have to hand it to him. From the looks of it, Teller had to splice the images all together since there wasn’t a damn one we could use with a full frontal view of him. That tells me another thing—he’s a professional.

“He’s got a rap sheet a mile long,” Teller states. It’s not shocking.

“Print it,” I order. “As well as all the images including the one you put together.” My phone buzzes in my pocket and I know, without looking, who it is. I’m already late. Nicholas is expecting me and he is not a man who likes to be kept waiting.

I hang around long enough for Teller to finish printing what I asked him to. I grab the stacks of paper, warm off the press, and shove them into a folder before heading for the door. “Keep your phone on,” I call over my shoulder as I book it out of the five hundred square foot apartment he claims makes him feel safe. How anyone can feel safe living in a goddamn box, I’ll never know.

Several minutes later, I pull into the Carter mansion driveway, shucking my jacket to try and rid myself of the damn cigarette smell from Teller’s apartment, and grab the materials I just collected before heading up to meet Nicholas. Unfortunately, as I enter the estate, pushing through the front door, I spot him coming down the staircase, followed by a tall, leggy brunette that is most certainly not Mrs. Carter.

Nicholas spots me. “Viks,” he says, “I apologize, but you’ll have to update me later on that project I have you working on. I’ve got a prior engagement with Ms. Bairns.”

I step to the side, letting the door hang open as a butler hurries out from the shadows with a jacket, holding it up for him as he slips inside before taking the woman’s arm and leading her outside. “Of course, sir,” I say, nodding as he passes me by.

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