Page 144 of Mess With Me

“I know you are. So tell me what you think is happening.”

“I think if I found you, there’s a distinct possibility they will, too. Creelman—he doesn’t work alone.”

“Why do you think they want me so badly?”

“To get to me. It’s one of the reasons I’ve resigned my position, effective immediately.”

My jaw drops. Then I register what he said and realization dawns. He’s doing damage control. “So let me get this straight. You took public office. You fucked up. And now you’re worried everything’s going to get out if they find me?”

“It’s not—I’m not the only reason Creelman wanted you.”

“You know what he said when you sent me in on that date? He said you owed him something. That you took something of his. Is that what you’re worried he’s going to come for me for?”

“Sasha—”

“Do you think I’m in immediate danger right now? Answer me honestly, Sam.”

He hesitates. “I don’t know. I just have a bad feeling—”

“Then I don’t care.” This is not about him being worried for me. This is about him needing to cover his own ass. “This is your mess, Sam. I’m going to bet you only resigned so more of your mistakes wouldn’t come to light. You need to fix your shit yourself, and you need to find a way to make me not a part of it.”

“You don’t understand. I never wanted to hurt you.”

“There was a time I would have believed that, Sam. But you should know you already broke my heart.”

Then I remember—I reach into my pocket. I take Sam’s hand and drop the canary in it. “Keep that. And don’t contact me again.”

CHAPTER39

Griffin

Ford and I meet outside Lionel’s place just before six.

“Anything?” I ask.

Ford gives a grim shake of his head. He went straight to the office after his plane landed while I’ve spent all day driving around to everywhere I can think that Lionel might be. I even stopped by his ex-wife’s place. And Laura’s marker.

“No one there at all.”

It’s Sunday afternoon, but that’s still not a good sign. I can’t shake the feeling that something bigger than just Lionel going AWOL is happening. “Security?”

Ford grimaces. That’s a negative.

“Seriously?”

“You find anything?”

I shake my head.

Where the fuck are you, Lionel?

We look up at his building, neither of us, I think, feeling especially hopeful.

Lionel’s apartment is in a nondescript six-story building in Queens. It looks like it was specifically built to house lonely, divorced men. As though proving the point, as we walk up to the front door, a man with thinning gray-brown hair and sagging shoulders comes through, his eyes only briefly glancing over us. He throws the door open behind him, though, which solves our need to discreetly jimmy the lock.

“This place is depressing as fuck.” Ford states the obvious as we get in the elevator. The walls are paneled in cheap vinyl-covered pressboard and the fluorescent light over our heads buzzes loudly, casting an almost greenish tint.

The fifth-floor hallway’s not much better.

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