Page 48 of The Kingpin's Omega Lover
“You have got to be fucking kidding me,” King said. He poked his head inside. “Malori!” His own voice echoed back at him.
King’s cell rang. Ziggy. He put it on speaker. “Yeah, what have you got, Zig?”
“I’ve got Malori on three cameras. One in the fire exit stairs going down between floors eight and seven. He’s in the lobby about a minute later. And then two minutes after that, he’s leaving through the front entrance with something in his hands.”
“Fuck!”
His worst nightmare had come true: Malori in the city alone. No phone. No protection.
Gone.
THIRTEEN
After a promise tolook at external security and nearby traffic cameras for signs of Malori, Ziggy ended the call. King wanted to pick up the aluminum patio chair and fling it as far as he could, anything to vent his fear and rage and numbing confusion.
He did not understand why Malori had sneaked out. Why he’d lied, climbed through a vent, and left the building with a mysterious box. King genuinely thought Malori trusted him, and everything about this stabbed tiny little knives into that trust, leaving him hurt and bloodied inside.
Without a word, he stormed back downstairs, and he wasn’t surprised to find Kensley in his office, curled up on one of the large leather chairs opposite his desk. “Where’s Malori?” Kensley asked. “What on earth is going on?”
King was too angry to speak, so he nodded at Bishop, who explained what little they knew, mostly from Ziggy’s illegal access to the building’s security system.
Kensley stared at Bishop like he’d grown a third eye. “Why would Malori do that, though? It doesn’t make any sense. Where would he even go?”
“We don’t know, sweetheart,” Bishop replied. “He didn’t say anything to you? Was he acting strangely at all today?”
“He seemed fine. Obviously, he’s been upset and preoccupied, but he never said a thing about wanting to leave.” Kensley tossed a disgruntled stare at King. “I thought you two were happy.”
“So did I,” King snapped back. This wasn’t Kensley’s fault, though, and he didn’t blame Bishop for taking a protective step closer to his partner. King dropped into his desk chair, which creaked ominously. Part of him wanted to change into regular clothes, strap on his gun, and hit the streets. Search until he found the missing part of his heart. But the city was a big fucking place, and it was easy to disappear in a crowd of millions.
He absently picked up a pencil and tapped the eraser against a blank notepad. His attention caught on the top edge of the notepad, where a piece had been raggedly torn off. King was always careful—ridiculously careful, according to Bishop—when he removed a piece of paper from a pad. He was slow and deliberate, because he hated jagged edges. They were sloppy.
Someone had quickly ripped the top sheet off.
Curious and not daring to hope, King picked up the pad and angled it. The overhead light revealed indents in the paper. Some sort of shape, over and over. Not letters, more abstract. King put the pad down, ignored the curious stares from Kensley and Bishop, and pressed the side of the pencil’s graphite to the paper. Began to gently rub over the paper’s surface, leaving long smudges of gray and revealing pale lines, the way a forensic scientist discovered fingerprints.
It was the same shape, drawn eleven different times on the four-by-six paper, a mixture of geometric shapes and letters that meant nothing to him. Bishop circled the desk to stand beside him. “What is that?” he asked.
“I’ll bet you a grand that Malori was drawing it,” King replied. “It means something to him. Take a picture and send it to Ziggy.”King used his computer’s webcam to do the same thing, so he could try and search for it on the internet.
A ringing sound echoed into the office from the hall, and King looked up sharply, startled because he rarely heard that sound. It was the elevator doorbell, which meant someone without a key was asking for permission to come up to the penthouse.
Terrified it was the police with horrific news, King bolted to the lobby. Garvey and Hartford were both there. Hartford had the wall phone receiver in his hand and a strange look on his face. He put his palm over the mouthpiece and said, “It’s Mr. Cann. He wants to come up.”
Relief and anger collided in a toxic haze that left King lightheaded. Malori was coming back? Why had he bothered running away only to return after less than an hour? It took King a few tries to find his voice and say, “He’s alone?”
Hartford asked then nodded. “Says he is.”
Too many years of being overly cautious didn’t let King assume that was the truth. “Go ahead.”
Hartford hung up then pressed the button to allow the elevator access to their floor. King pulled his pistol out of the waist of his shorts and held it to the side. Hartford and Garvey took their cues from King, moving to opposite sides of the elevator door with their weapons drawn and ready. Bishop ushered Kensley out of the lobby. In case Malori wasn’t alone.
It was safer to expect an ambush.
The elevator dinged; the doors slid open. Malori stepped inside, his already pale face going white at the sight of three guns trained on him, and he fumbled the box in his hands. He immediately dropped to his knees and hugged that box to his chest, head bowed and shaking. “I’m sorry, please, don’t shoot, I’m sorry,” he whispered, over and over.
The rest of the elevator was empty.
“Fuck.” King put his gun on the hall table and knelt in front of Malori. “We’re not going to shoot, but fuck it all, Malori, where the fuck did you go? Why did you do that? You scared the shit out of me!”
