Page 112 of Triggered By Love
“No, not the models. They were cast to play a part. It was mostly acting with them, other than…” she trailed off. “I can’t put Brando in the same category. What he did was out of love.”
“He went to a private show out of love for you?”
Avery blinked at the sudden pressure in her eyes. “Yes, and I won’t be able to live with myself if it had anything to do with his death. I almost wish it was gang-related or mistaken identity.”
“You want to find out, don’t you? You want to know.”
“I don’t want to know, but I can’t help speculating.”
“That’s why you invited me to be your model.” Jason’s eyes were wet. “That’s why you put your trust in me.”
“Am I endangering you?” She placed her palm on the side of his face, and he turned toward her hand, kissing it. “Because if I am, I’ll put a stop to this. I’ll ask Starbright to assign someone.”
“No!” His bark was explosive. “You can’t let some innocent model fall under this trap. I’m capable, and I want to go in. I can’t wait to nail these bastards. I’ve pretty much got it figured out.”
“You have?” She kissed him on the forehead, wondering whether he would be shocked at how depraved her performance would get.
“Yeah. Starbright places models for that pervert Orson Leach’s enjoyment. After you parade them around for the private show, he hooks up with them later on. The guys are offered money and favors to decorate fundraisers. They’re used to entrap politicians with sexual favors. Maybe they get hooked on meth and the deaths are accidental. Or maybe they’re given an overdose because they know too much.”
“How would you explain Brando’s death?”
“He balked at their proposition, so they took him out.”
Her fingers tightened, gripping and digging into his cheek. “How do we prove it?”
“You’re doing it. You’re using me as bait.”
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Jason strolledthrough the run-down Brooklyn neighborhood, walking by a row of winos in various states of dereliction and inebriation. The grimy brick building was surrounded by a corrugated metal fence splattered with overlapping graffiti.
The entrance door was propped wide open, revealing a trash-strewn row of mailboxes on one side and a dumbwaiter trash drawer and stairs on the other side.
Jason took the stairs leading to the basement. It reeked with urine, and a single lightbulb flickered in the dank hallway. He’d been here before.
Saul’s apartment was on the ground floor. Jason didn’t call ahead, so he didn’t know if anyone was home. He also didn’t want to telegraph his arrival and allow Saul to skedaddle.
He knocked on the door. “Hey, Saul. It’s Jason, Avery’s friend.”
There was no answer. He knocked again, a steady tapping, for about three minutes.
Still no answer. Not even someone telling him to bug off.
He turned around and knocked on the door across the hallway. “Hey, I’m a friend of Saul’s. Has anyone seen him around?”
The door cracked open with the chain still linked. A young man peered out. “Does he owe you money?”
“Depends.”
The man’s greedy eyes looked Jason up and down. “How much is it worth to you?”
“Depends.”
“He ain’t around.” The man moved to shut the door, but Jason put out his palm to block the door from closing.
“I’m actually looking for Ernesto Gomez. That dude owes me more. You seen him around?”
“You’re too late. He’s dead.”
