Page 3 of Quiet Protector
“For every check written, two check digits, a bank identifier, a branch identifier, and part of an account number is imprinted on the bottom. Is it the same with wire transfer payments?”
Phillipa looks lost to where I’m going, but she nods her head, nonetheless. “If they used the same bank and branch, you’d have similar digits on the transfer receipt, but the account number would be different.” She gasps in a sharp breath when I place down the two sheets of paper side by side. “They’re almost identical.” Her eyes lift to mine. “Is that the number Alex pried out of Albert Thursday afternoon?” Her eyes widen when my chin balances on my chest. “But there are decades between transfers. The date on Albert’s transfer reveals it only occurred this week. It was a down payment for something no amount of grappling had him disclosing, but the code on the Greggs’ file is from twenty-two years ago.”
The shock on her face slips away for annoyance when I mutter, “It isn’t just legitimate businesses that have return customers, Phillipa.”
Her face screws up. She appears utterly confused. “What do you mean? You need to spell it out for me, Brandon. I’m hormonal and five seconds from chewing off my arm in hunger, so my brain is beyond fried right now.”
Trust isn’t something I give easily, and tonight isn’t any different. My next set of words don’t just come out garbled, they’re also brimming with distrust. “Did you make copies of the files I requested?” When Phillipa jerks up her chin, I ask, “Even Ophelia Petretti’s?”
Her chest rises and falls four times before she pulls a third file out of her leather briefcase. This one is thicker than the Greggs’ file. It’s even bulgier than Isabelle’s.
“Did you comb through it?” The instant I voice my question, I realize how stupid it was for me to ask. Phillipa’s rant only minutes ago exposes she read Ophelia’s file, otherwise, how would she know about Ophelia’s bogus claims I used my position to instigate a sexual favor. “Did you find a wire transfer receipt inside?”
Phillipa’s brows furrow before she shakes her head. “But that doesn’t surprise you, does it? She wasn’t sold, more removed from her situation, so her file wouldn’t have a receipt for us to source similarities from.”
With her honesty feeding my trust, I pace to an oil painting hanging above my fireplace. Phillipa groans when the removal of the painting from the wall reveals a hidden safe. “That’s the first place thieves look.”
My laugh comes out super breathy since I tried to hold it in. “That’s the point. As soon as light is captured by the digital retina in the touchpad, an inbuilt camera commences recording. The footage is uploaded to both the security company’s servers and is streamed live to my phone.”
Phillipa joins me at the wall that divides my dining room from my living space. “There’s a camera in there?” When I nod, she asks, “Where? That’s got to be the world’s smallest lens.” After stepping back, she waves her hand across her body then strays her eyes to my phone that commenced streaming a live feed the instant the painting was inched away from the wall. “It’s tiny but effective. I can see my crow’s feet from here.” She’s clearly joking. Although she is a handful of years older than me, she doesn’t look a day over twenty-five.
While Phillipa lady-boners over my state-of-the-art security system, I punch a six-digit code into the digital touchpad, push aside my personal weapon, bundles of emergency cash, and a shoebox full of photos and memorabilia I can’t give up no matter how hard I try so I can grab a bright pink envelope from the very back. The greeting on the front of the envelope reveals it doesn’t belong to me, much less the tiny slip of paper inside it.
I didn’t buy Isabelle, but Tobias most certainly did, and he kept a record of his purchase.
I’m reasonably sure I won’t eat for a week when I dig out the slip of paper from the envelope. The number sequence scrawled across it is a sixty percent match to the one Alex handed me. The only difference is the numbers that most likely correspond with the account the money was being withdrawn from. It abundantly proves Isaac is purchasing something significant from the Popovs. I just need to determine whether it’s upstanding like the purchase Tobias made or something much more sinister.
* * *
Many hours later, I fan a bedspread over Phillipa before heading to my room. We worked through both lunch and dinner, yet we’ve barely made a dent in the stack of wire transfer receipts Phillipa returned from Tiburon with. The angle Tobias was working is clear, each transfer appears to be an exchange of money between the Popovs, Bobrovs, and Petrettis. We just have no clue exactly what they purchased.
If it were children like Isabelle, this is worse than anyone could have imagined. Several of the receipts have the same transfer identity imprint as the wire transfer receipt in Isabelle’s file, but without knowing the name of the child who could have been sold, we have no clue what their files are coded with.
We could scrounge through the thousands upon thousands of files in Tobias’s personal collection, but that would take months.
We don’t have months.
Phillipa disclosed Isaac’s payment was a down payment. That means there’s more to come. Furthermore, I can’t live like this for months on end. I love cheese pizza and tomato soup, second only to peanut butter licked off Melody’s skin, it’s my favorite combination, but I barely touched it when it was delivered fresh. I didn’t even reheat a slice when Phillipa’s hungry stomach got the better of her four hours ago, meaning I’m once again going to bed with a tablespoon of peanut butter hanging out of my mouth.
It’s the only thing that didn’t make my stomach churn when placed within an inch of my nose. It had quite the opposite effect, actually. I told Melody I’d never make a peanut butter and jelly sandwich without getting hard. I should have said I’d never eat peanut butter again without testing the durability of the zipper in my pants. Just the smell of peanut butter mingling in the air gets me hard.
Eager to stop my zipper’s nasty bite on my cock, I suck off the remainder of the peanut butter from the spoon, dump it and the jar of peanut butter onto my bedside table before making my way to my walk-in closet to change into something more suitable for sleeping.
When I catch sight of my white face, black-rimmed eyes, and cracked lips while standing in front of the full-length mirror, I’m tempted to snap a selfie and send it to Alex. He wouldn’t need to demand a doctor’s certificate if he could see what I’m seeing. The black rims circling my eyes give my skin a ghost-like appearance, and we won’t mention my slouching shoulders, or we’ll be here all night.
Once I’m dressed in a pair of sweatpants and a plain white shirt, I head to bed. My steps slow when I notice my iPhone screen is lit up with a text message. It’s so late, Agent Phillipa crashed on me like Isabelle did weeks ago, but not nearly early enough for my mom to remind me that the best days begin when the sun is rising.
Curious, I check who the message is from before crawling into bed. I’m tired, but I can’t take an ounce more curiosity.
My pulse spikes when I speed-read the message.
Unknown number:Hey, BJ. Are you awake?
I cross my room at the speed of lightning to check Phillipa is still asleep on the couch. Her faint snores are authentic, but she’s the only female in a very long time who has called me BJ at this hour.
When I find Phillipa snuggled under my bedspread, I type out a reply to my mystery caller while pacing back to my semi-naked bed. I only have one blanket, and that’s keeping Phillipa warm.
Me:I am. Who’s this?
