Page 83 of Quiet Protector
Phillipa waits for me to finish my whiskey before spilling her guts. “You also have an undisclosed conflict of interest.”
I’m about to say, ‘No shit, Sherlock.’ Melody was Julian’s fiancée—if not still—so that automatically links me to Julian’s case, but I realize I’m way off the money when I see the worry in Phillipa’s eyes.
“Who?”
I’m desperate for another shot of whiskey when she mutters, “Olivia Wilde. Previously known as Ophelia—”
“Petretti,” I interrupt. “How is she involved?”
After snagging her briefcase off the ground where my entryway table once stood and detouring past the kitchen to snatch up the half-consumed bottle of whiskey, she retakes her seat next to me. “If you were manufacturing babies for well-to-do clients who either were infertile or didn’t want to ruin years of plastic surgery by growing their own baby, what services would be on your speed-dial list?”
A normal person would automatically say an obstetrician. I’m not close to ordinary. Mr. Gregg taught me to think outside of the box, which is precisely what I do in this situation.
“A pharmacist?” I suggest a few seconds later. “They have access to fertility drugs without needing a prescription, meaning there won’t be a messy paper trail for authorities to find.”
“Exactly.” The whiskey burns my throat for a second time when Phillipa places an employee identification card next to our empty glasses. Although I only spent twelve hours with the woman smiling up at me from on the card, I’ll never forget her face. She’s one of a handful of people I blame for ruining my life.
I want to believe the evidence Phillipa is presenting, but with my trust low, I have to remain cautious. “Olivia…” I stop, then correct, “Opheliahas only been ‘deceased’ for six years. Julian is a decade older than her. Your dates don’t add up, Phillipa. You’re missing a huge chunk of the timeline.”
She smiles, pleased with herself. “I would say you’re smarter than you look, BJ, but you rock the smart, cutie vibe as well, so I won’t mess with your head.” She places a second ID card onto the first. This one is from many decades ago.
“Ophelia’s mom was a pharmacist.” Since I’m not asking a question, it doesn’t sound like one. “Do you believe she was running the same scheme as Oli… Ophelia?”
“I don’t think. I know.” She hands me a bunch of autopsy reports. “Drugs found in the older victims’ autopsies were matched to prescriptions filled at the drug store Lana worked at.” When she locks her eyes with mine, the confidence in them is nearly enough to put me on my ass. “The Petrettis were working with the Castros. I’m confident of it.”
When I take a moment to work the facts through my head, the pause in time awards me more confusion.
“There’s something we’re missing. Dimitri wouldneverwork with the Castros.” I don’t disclose how I know he hates them with every fiber of his being, but I do disclose we’ve had private conversations. “He’s also unaware Ophelia is alive. If your beliefs are true, Dimitri is in the dark about it all.” I am shocked I’m standing up for a criminal, but at the end of the day, Dimitri isn’t in the wrong—this time.
“I guess time will tell.” Phillipa balances on the edge of my couch before digging her hand into her briefcase. “We have surveillance in place for Ophelia.”
“When were these taken?” I ask when she dumps a file full of still images onto the coffee table.
As she pours us another generous serving of whiskey, I rummage through the photographs. “My guy has been there since dawn…” Her words trail off when I curse under my breath. “What?”
“That’s Isabelle.” I point to a photograph in the middle of the stack, cursing for the second time when I recall Isabelle’s sudden desire for a trip to Tiburon. “I told Izzy Ophelia was alive. I gave her a photo from Tobias’s folders.”
Phillipa looks a cross between wanting to strangle me and hug me. “Brandon, why would you do that?”
“I had no clue she’d seek her out.” That’s a lie. I knew the instant I showed Isabelle the picture, she’d do everything in her power to locate Ophelia as it’s exactly what I would have done if I were in the same situation. “I’ve got to go. Can you show yourself out?” Not waiting for her to answer me, I race to my front door.
“Where are you going?” Phillipa shouts as I jab my finger into the elevator call button.
As I dash into the awaiting cart, I answer, “To fix a fuck-up.”
One of many I’ve made the past two weeks.
* * *
Thirty minutes later, I pull my BMW into the driveway of Isaac’s private residence. No one had knowledge this property existed until Alex tailed Isaac and Isabelle home from his penthouse apartment a couple of months ago. I was in awe of the architect when I arrived to catalog evidence following the execution of a search warrant, but the inside of his palatial palace required a creative imagination. I don’t know who conducted Alex’s search warrant, but they spent more time destroying Isaac’s property than hunting for evidence.
When several presses on the buzzer go unanswered, I pull my car to the side of Isaac’s estate so I can check for any incoming flights to Ravenshoe’s private airstrip. Isaac wasn’t seen in any of Phillipa’s surveillance images, but that doesn’t mean he wasn’t with Isabelle in Tiburon. He never lets her out of his sight.
I stop punching in the flight manifest for a private jet that arrived back earlier this evening when the headlights of a car shine into the cab of my BMW. Although I can’t see any features of the person seated behind the driver’s seat, I’m confident it is Isaac. His arrogance is felt from here, although it’s a little light tonight compared to normal.
After a few minutes of psyching myself up for World War III, I curl my hand around my door latch, prepared to confront Isaac for the second time in under twenty-four hours. I’ve only just cracked open my door when another set of headlights beam into my car. These aren’t sleek and curved like most sports cars. They’re round and classic, convincing me they don’t belong to any of the cars in Isaac’s fleet. If its price tag is under one hundred thousand dollars, he won’t touch it with a ten-foot pole.
My teeth grit when Hugo spots me as quickly as I spot him, then they’re crunched down to nubs when he conducts an illegal U-turn to pull in behind me. He’s got issues with me, and in all honesty, I understand why. I just wish he’d take his frustration out on my brother instead of me.
