Page 30 of Love Me Darkly
“I hear you,” he said absently, rubbing at his tired eyes. “I have a job for you, too. I need you to review all the wiretap recordings from last night. And I need you on that surveillance every night for the foreseeable future. I want to know what’s being discussed in VIP. Listen for any mentions of the NOLA house and the transport of the women and drugs. Pay particular attention to conversations involving Suede, Wilson, or Morrison. Document and timestamp everything and report directly to me with your findings. We need something that will convince the brass to allow a court order for back-room access.”
“On it, Sir.”
Mateo sank into the nearest chair as she walked away. Fatigue sapped the strength from his limbs, and the pounding in his head eased itself to a dull throb. His injured shoulder ached and the fingers of the hand on that side had gone slightly numb. He sucked down his café au lait, mournfully eyeing Jones’s empty baker’s box sticking out of the top of the trash. He should have told Donovan to bring him something to eat, as well. He couldn’t remember his last proper meal.
His work phone vibrated in his pocket, and he retrieved it to find Carlisle’s name on the screen.
“Here we fucking go,” he muttered before answering. “Garcia.”
Mateo flipped open the file in his lap and scanned its contents for the tenth time. He sat in his rental car in the parking lot of a minimart across the street from Melody’s apartment. The sun had begun to set, casting the shadows of the building over his black sedan. Peering over the wheel, he found the same thing he had the last time he’d looked up. No movement. Not yet.
Melody should be leaving for Solstice any minute, but until then, he was left with nothing to do but wait. A half-eaten cheeseburger and a handful of fries sat in a carton on the passenger seat, but Mateo ignored them in favor of the file Darcy had delivered to him that afternoon. He had spent most of the day on and off the phone with Carlisle, who had blistered his ears the moment he’d answered. She had torn him a new asshole, throwing around words like ‘reprimand’ and ‘disciplinary action’ and ‘suspension.’ The threats weren’t hollow, but Mateo knew he hadn’t gone far enough over the line for Carlisle to follow through. He was on a tightrope from here on, and Carlisle spent the rest of the day making sure he knew that.
After Carlisle had finished chewing him out, she hung up on him. She called back half an hour later, after she’d cooled off, to inform him that despite his defiance, she was going to push for the warrant he’d requested. The photos and videos he’d taken could never be used in court, but would be enough to get them a warrant for a raid if Carlisle could frame the evidence as having come from an anonymous source. Without being implicated in the illegal surveillance, Mateo would fly under the radar. Only his boss and team would know what he had done. It would stay that way, as long as Mateo walked the straight and narrow from now on.
In the glow of the light coming from the dashboard, Mateo took full stock of the details Darcy had unearthed. Her conclusions validated Mateo’s suspicions, resulting in more questions than answers. All records of Melody Johnson began twelve months prior, with nothing before that to indicate she’d ever existed before then. Her driver’s license, which stated that she was thirty-one years old, had been issued by the Louisiana DMV seven months ago. Her social security number had to have been recently generated, as it wasn’t tied to any previous earnings or employment history. Her apartment lease, utility bills, and phone number had all been established within the past year. Her employment with Solstice had been handled through an agency with ties to Valemont Holdings. She didn’t even exist online, lacking a single social media profile. There were no high school or college transcripts, no medical records or credit history.
Melody Johnson, club waitress, was a fraud. What Mateo couldn’t yet figure out was whether the fake identity covered the past of a criminal or of a victim. With no insight into her background, Mateo couldn’t be sure what her connection to Suede or the club might mean, which was why he was here. Until one or both of his requests for warrants had been pushed through, his hands were tied. Donovan wouldn’t have the results of the crime lab testing until tomorrow morning at the earliest. The rest of the team had their marching orders. Carlisle had been placated for now.
Mateo had found himself pacing his hotel room with nothing to do but pull apart and examine every detail, trying to make the fragments fit together. Frustration had driven him from the room, and his intention had been to grab dinner, take a drive, and find some way to distract himself until he was tired enough to attempt sleep. Mateo had ended up here, waiting for Melody to vacate her apartment so he could slip in behind her. It was exactly the sort of move he should avoid after his stunt last night. But unearthing the truth about Melody had become as important to him as finding the UNSUB. As important as taking down Suede, Morrison, and Wilson. As important as sniffing out the owner of Valemont Holdings. Because something deep inside him, some instinctual thing, told him there was a part of the puzzle in which Melody fit. He wouldn’t rest until he figured out the contours of that shape and where it fit.
He flipped the file closed and slid it between the seat and the center console. He had just raised his eyes to the second floor of the apartment building when Melody’s door swung open. She appeared, wearing a light jacket over her getup for the night, something black that sparkled with sequins in the fading light. A pair of thigh-high boots covered her legs. He watched her descend the stairs and turn right, heading toward Solstice. He kept his eyes on her until she disappeared, then remained where he sat until he was certain she hadn’t forgotten anything.
Once Mateo was sure enough time had passed, he left the car, snatching the hood of his sweatshirt over his head. He took a wide berth around the building, taking his time. He approached from the back, climbing up the fire-escape to Melody’s second floor apartment. He came up through an opening on her wrought iron balcony, just large enough to hold two people. A set of wicker chairs sat with a square table between them. He gingerly stepped over and around the plants cluttering the space. There were pots everywhere, bursting with greenery and flowers—wedged into the corners and behind the chairs, hanging from hooks. The sliding glass door had a flimsy lock, and he had it picked in seconds, sliding it slowly open and stepping inside. She had left a lamp on in the living room, illuminating a space that was stark and clean. Too clean.
Fishing a pair of nitrile gloves from his pocket, he slid them on and searched every corner and surface of the room. The furniture was modern and stark, hardly used. Few concessions to decorating had been made aside from more plants. There were ferns and rubber trees and pothos tucked away here and there, and an entire shelving unit held a collection of orchids and other exotic flowers, all displayed to their advantage. The supplies to care for them were neatly tucked into a crate in a corner—shears, spray bottle, watering can, fertilizer. Mateo searched under the couches and chairs before moving to the kitchen, opening cabinets and drawers. Everything indicated a person who lived alone. The offerings of the refrigerator were sparse and only two sets of dishes and silverware had been stored. Inspecting the walls, he found only a few pieces of modern art. No photos of Melody or her friends and family. No memorabilia or trinkets.
Ducking into the bedroom, he retrieved his flashlight and shined it across the space. It was more colorful in here, decorated in shades of pink, teal, and orange that matched the patterned bedspread. Rugs had been scattered over the hardwood floors to offer comfort and pops of color. A record player sat on a low table in one corner, crates of records stacked beside it. He rifled through the albums, not bothering to stifle his curiosity. Melody, apparently, liked Country music. There was an impressive collection of R&B, Soul, Hip-Hop, and Rock, but an entire crate devoted solely to Country. Apparently, Tracy Chapman was her favorite. He would never have guessed it.
On the other side of the room stood an easel holding a half-painted canvas. Mateo couldn’t tell what was taking shape in the form of oil paint, scraps of paper and magazine clippings, and other odds and ends like paper flowers. It was meant to be an abstract piece, a 3-D painting that exploded with color and life. More canvases of various sizes sat stacked against the wall—paintings of birds and flowers and people and landscapes. Some of them were traditional in style, but others were like the one on the canvas, popping out with 3-D shapes and eye-catching patterns. The last few were the most impressive, silhouettes of women with skin in various shades of brown and striking eyes. Instead of painting their hair, she had used extensions skillfully, adhering braids and dreadlocks and afro puffs to the canvas in various styles. He ran his finger over the orderly braids on one painting; it reminded him of Melody’s hair.
Mateo peered into her closet next, finding that it seemed to belong to two different people. On one side hung her club attire—sexy pieces of leather and denim, sparkling with gems and glitter. On the other side were clothes meant for comfort—worn jeans, t-shirts, sweaters, hoodies, shorts. None of them were designer, the labels worn and faded. The pieces had the soft, worn feel of thrift store clothing and her sexy heels were all knockoffs. Her dresser drawers revealed more of the same—loungewear and pajamas in soft fabrics and feminine colors.
He paused over the lingerie, inspecting lace and silk and cotton with an eye that had shifted from assessing to fascinated. Gritting his teeth, he plunged his hand into the drawer and felt for hidden items, experience telling him the underwear drawer was the first place people thought to hide things. There was nothing, so he pulled himself away from the satin and lace and slammed the drawer closed. On the surface of the dresser, he found an array of bottles and vials, all filled with perfumes. He picked up each one, taking off caps to sniff at various scents. When he pulled the stopper out of a violet glass bottle, the fragrance he was looking for wafted up his nostrils and gripped him in its thrall. Vanilla, musk, and what he now recognized as cinnamon and clove made his mouth water. It was an oil, strong enough that only a few drops would be enough to have her carrying the fragrance all day. He closed his eyes and relived catching wind of her scent for the first time. His cock stirred to half-wakefulness as he imagined her coating two fingers in the fragrant oil and smearing it on her neck, between her breasts, over her navel, between her legs. With a groan, he shoved the stopper back into the bottle and put it back where he’d found it.
Pushing away from the dresser, Mateo went to the bed. He struck gold, coming out from underneath it with a shoebox. He dumped its contents onto the bed and shined his flashlight over them.
First he found a collection of opened envelopes—credit card statements. Mateo frowned at the numbers as he read them. The limit of the credit card was $25,000 and in the name Melody Johnson, though the address on the statements were for a P.O. Box in Baton Rouge. Oddly, there were very few charges, and they weren’t for the sorts of purchases Mateo had expected. The balance was paid on time every month, but she had never used more than a few hundred dollars of available credit a month at hobby shops, grocery stores, and plant nurseries. There was also a basic flip phone that had only made or received calls to one number. There were no text messages, and the thing didn’t even have a camera. Clearly a burner. Lastly, he found a small, palm-sized digital camera. He hadn’t seen one like it since the early 2000s, and it couldn’t have cost much money. But the battery was dead, and the memory card slot was empty, leaving it useless. Taking out his own phone, he quickly saved the single number from Melody’s burner phone, hoping Darcy could assist him with a trace. A burner that had been used to call only one person was definitely a red flag. He then neatly arranged everything in the box and stored it back under the bed before making his way toward the bathroom.
He had just stepped on the tiles when the sound of a key scraping a lock rang out like a gunshot in the quiet apartment. Mateo stilled, listening as Melody’s low, grumbling voice filtered in from the living room. She was talking to someone on the phone.
“Yeah, I know … look, what the hell did you expect me to do? The entire bottle of champagne sprayed all over me and the cork even hit me on the head! I’m not going an entire shift with a bottle of Dom on my clothes … I said I’d be back as fast as I can … they can manage until I get back … yeah, okay, whatever … I’m hanging up now.”
Mateo was forced into movement as her voice grew louder, closer. The bathroom door had already been hanging open, so he ducked behind it and angled himself so he wouldn’t be seen. He closed his eyes and held his breath, counting her footsteps, listening to the sound of her boots hitting the floor. She mumbled to herself between whispers of clothes coming off, words he couldn’t decipher. She sounded pissed. He heard the click of hangers in the closet, then more rustling. Then, her footsteps sounded off again, coming in his direction.
Fuck.
Mateo braced himself, his every muscle tense and coiled to spring. He would have to move fast once she laid eyes on him. The blinding light poured onto him from overhead, stinging his eyes. He heard the faucet turn on, then a thump and a curse. Then, the door was swinging away from him, slamming into the casing. Her stunned eyes went wide, and her lips parted on a scream that never came. Mateo had a hand clapped over her mouth before she could make a sound and an arm around her waist before she could flee. She issued a muffled scream against his palm and bucked in his hold, fingers clawing at his wrist. He propelled her back against the door, trapping her there with his body.
“Melody … Melody, stop … wait … goddamn it, listen!”
She went still at the sharp command in his voice, but those wide, frightened eyes darted left to right, as if looking for an escape route. She whimpered and shook her head, as if silently begging him not to hurt her.
“It’s okay,” he whispered. “I can explain, but I need you to stay calm. I need to show you something, but I have to let you go to do that. Can you promise not to scream? I won’t hurt you.”
She seemed to consider this for a moment before giving him an abrupt nod. Maintaining her gaze, he reached into his back pocket for his credentials. He flipped the leather billfold open and held it up. He hadn’t wanted to play this hand so quickly, or even at all if he could help it. But there was no way he could talk himself out of this without relying on at least a part of the truth.
“Supervisory Special Agent Garcia. FBI.”
