Blackest Red Read online

  He puts his cell phone in front of my face, his voice a harsh command. “Read.”

  As he removes his hand from my back, I cut my narrowed gaze from his face to the typed words on the screen.

  Blindside is nothing but lies. I will make you suffer for everything you’ve done and then the truth will be revealed

  My attention jerks to Sebastian, my heart thudding hard. The other two notes didn’t directly threaten me. “When did you get this?”

  He straightens and slides his phone into his inside jacket pocket. “This is a scanned copy of the letter that arrived at the Midtown Central offices this morning. Someone from my team has already confirmed it’s from a different printer.”

  My eyes widen. “This is someone else? Not the original person escalating?”

  “No this is someone new. The pattern of the words is different.” His gaze focuses on mine. “Is there anything you’d like to share? Any reason someone would think you’re lying about what happened at Hawthorne with Tommy Slawson?”

  I furrow my brow. “It sounds far more personal, doesn’t it?”

  When he nods solemnly, I shake my head. “I don’t have a clue. I told the truth as it happened.”

  He scowls. “Who would think you’re not telling the truth?”

  I shrug. “An angry family member who doesn’t want me to ruin the Slawson family name?”

  “Tommy didn’t have any family. His mother is dead, and there aren’t any other living relatives.”

  “Are you sure?”

  When he gives me an insulted look, I wrack my brain trying to come up with an alternative. “Don’t serial killers sometimes have followers? Maybe it’s someone who believes Tommy was innocent of the other murders or somehow justified in his murderous rampage?”

  Sebastian’s expression shuts down. “We’ve been checking on all leads, message boards that mention Tommy and any cult-like followers who’ve made comment about you. So far, nothing on that front. One thing we have going for us is that this letter was printed in red, which should help us narrow it down to the actual printer that was used.”

  “Why does that matter?”

  He raises an eyebrow. “Get your shower and I’ll tell you on the way down to the lobby.”

  As we walk toward the elevator, Sebastian’s gaze skims over my black suit jacket, emerald silk shirt, then to my pencil skirt and black pumps. “You could’ve changed into your signing clothes later.”

  “What?” I button my jacket closed, then push the down key on the wall. “You don’t approve of my look?”

  His gaze moves in a predatory glide from my head to my toes, then back to my face, his eyes turning a deeper crystal blue. “My preferences in your attire haven’t changed, Miss Lone.”

  My stomach flip-flops and my face flames as I remember his last words as to what he preferred seeing me wear: Him. Wrapped around me. On me. In me.

  God, help me. Cass would love this! I clear my throat to shove her pleased giggling out of my head. “You were going to tell me about the letter and how a color copy matters.”

  The elevator arrives and he holds the door for me to enter, then follows me inside. As we slowly descend, Sebastian says, “Every color printer since 2002 now puts a unique set of invisible dots on any color copies made. It’s invisible to the eye, but can be seen under blue light. Each set of dots identifies a specific printer, which will then allow us to trace who purchased it.”

  “Why are printer companies putting spy dots in their color copiers?”

  He shrugs. “Those ‘spy dots’ are one way to help our government combat against counterfeiters.”

  I nod my understanding, then mumble, “How Big Brother-ish.”

  “Be glad or we’d have nowhere to start looking for the culprit.”

  I sigh. “Point taken. So after you pick up what you need to in the business office, I’d like to go for a bagel. I saw a bagel/coffee stand a block away.” And along the way, I’ll get to see the Christmas decorations. I bet they’re amazing in this area.

  “Not a good idea. You’ll eat here in the restaurant.”

  Straightening my spine, I lift my chin. “Oh, did that sound like a request? Let me rephrase. I’m going to get a bagel once you’re done picking up your paperwork. You can either come with or not.”

  Sebastian scowls. “Your stubbornness puts you at risk.”

  “And here I thought you’d said my stubbornness is what saved my life the last time it was threatened.”

  He turns to face me, a deep frown bracketing his mouth. “To be clear, I saved your life back then. Same as I’m doing now. And why is it that you’re, yet again, in someone’s crosshairs?” He quickly scans my face, his assessment detached, methodically calculating. “Is that gorgeous face hiding layers I’ve yet to uncover?”

  My stomach bottoms out; he hasn’t mentioned my past and I’d foolishly hoped he’d leave it alone. I’m not the person I was back then. My gut response is to instantly defend myself, but knowing Sebastian, he’ll drill in on anything I say. The man doesn’t miss a thing. Redirecting him is best. “What’s so important about this paperwork you need?”

  He holds my gaze for a split second longer, then answers, “It’s a ballistics report from my mom’s case.”

  My eyebrows elevate. “That wasn’t already in the police file you had on your mom?”

  Sebastian’s jaw tenses. “I told you they thought she was involved in drugs. Why bother looking for her killer? I’m sure they shoved the paperwork aside and moved on to the next case. It took me five months to convince one of the officers to have the ballistics run on the bullets that killed her. No one wants to admit to making a mistake, especially on a case almost twelve years old. The officer who asked for the report is retiring in a month, so he had nothing to lose by helping me. The guy’s old-school and insisted on faxing me the results.”

  “I’m sorry, Sebastian. I hope the report gives you more to go on.”

  He nods briskly. “It’s a step forward on a case that went nowhere.”

  The lobby is quiet as we walk through it toward the business office. A few businessmen are checking out at the main desk, and a couple of middle-aged ladies are checking in with two massive suitcases. Cars are starting to line up out front, where the valets are blowing on their hands, their breath pluming in the brisk December air.

  “Wait here,” Sebastian says, gesturing to an arrangement of cushioned chairs next to the main desk.

  Once his broad shoulders disappear behind the business office door, I don’t bother to sit down. He didn’t sound like he’d be long.

  While I watch the two ladies bickering with the front desk about their room not being ready, even though they’re checking in before eleven, a tall man dressed in a nice suit steps up beside me and says in a cultured accent, “Do you have any meetings you must attend soon, Miss Lone?”

  “Not for a couple hours,” I say, taking in the striking combination of his dark skin and light brown eyes, set off by amazing bone structure. Even his close-shaved hair adds to his arresting features. His accent sounds a bit different, not exactly British, more like New Zealand maybe? When I realize he’s not wearing the hotel’s discrete gold bar on his lapel, I stop trying to place his accent. “Excuse me, who are you?”

  “I work for Adam Blake. He’d like a word with you in private. If you’ll come with me please.”

  The only thing multibillionaire Adam Blake and I have in common is his estranged, illegitimate son, Sebastian. I glance back at the door where I expect Sebastian to walk through any moment. “Please tell Mr. Blake I’ll be happy to make an appointment with him next week—”

  “I’m afraid he insists on today, Miss Lone. It’s a matter of utmost importance to him.”

  How did he even know to find me here? Probably because of Sebastian. Does Mr. Blake think I have something to do with Sebastian deciding to throw away his inheritance by taking the Blake family name? There’s obviously no stuffing that cat back in the bag. But what el
se could Adam Blake possibly want with me?

  Once I nod, I expect the tall guy to lead me to a quiet boardroom somewhere in the hotel. Instead, he quickly escorts me outside and into a sleek black car with dark tinted windows.

  When he slides in beside me and calls to the driver, “Blake Tower,” I glance his way as we pull away from the curb.

  “I can’t go directly there. I have a stop to make along the way.”

  “That wasn’t Mr. Blake’s directive.”

  I ignore his comment. “If Mr. Blake wants me to come when I’m called, like an obedient dog, then he’s going to have to accommodate my schedule. Give your driver this address, please.”

  “That’s on the Lower East Side,” he says, concern creasing his brow.

  “Yes, it is. I’ll need you to walk me inside the building too. Hope you’re packing.”

  When his eyes widen, I can’t help but grin. “I’m just teasing. You shouldn’t need a weapon, but I would like your very intimidating height standing behind me while I ask the building manager a few questions if you don’t mind.”

  He lets out a deep laugh. “That I can handle, Miss Lone. I’m Dennet, but you may call me Den.”

  “I’m Talia,” I say, smiling. “Where are you from, Den? At first I thought England, but I can’t quite place your accent.”

  A quick smile spreads across his face. “You’re partially right. I was born and raised in London. My father is from Kenya and my mother is Irish.”

  Ah, that’s where your light eyes came from. I start to ask what brought him from London to the U.S., but my phone buzzes with a text from Sebastian.

  PainInMyAss: One simple request and you can’t even follow that.

  Me: How do you know that I haven’t been kidnapped?

  PainInMyAss: Because you’re texting. Tell me where you are.

  Me: I need to run this errand on my own.

  PainInMyAss: Where are you? I’M NOT FUCKING AROUND!

  Me: I have backup. Don’t worry.

  PainInMyAss: A Taser in your purse isn’t backup.

  How does he know about the Taser? I press my lips together, then realize he must’ve gone through my whole purse that night he bugged my phone at the Hawthorne resort. At least he’d kept his word about not bugging it this time or he wouldn’t be asking where I am. I’d left the Taser at home. It’s certainly wasn’t going to fit in my evening clutch purse. Shaking my head, I type my response.

  Me: THIS backup is the living, breathing kind. And I won’t be anywhere near a bookstore, books, or tour-related stuff.

  PainInMyAss: I don’t trust anyone else to watch over you. WHERE!

  “Who is that?”

  Den can’t see my screen, but he knows I’m responding to someone. “My bodyguard flipping out.”

  He frowns, his gaze snapping to mine. “Why do you need a bodyguard?”

  I eye him in surprise. Then it hits me that Adam Blake wouldn’t know about my author drama. Though he apparently knows I am an author, since Den had called me by my penname earlier. Now I’m even more intrigued by this out-of-the-blue summons.

  Den points to my phone and says in a gruff tone, “Send him your safe word.”

  My eyes widen. There’s no way he can possibly know about Sebastian and my sex life—correction, past sex life. “Safe word?” I squeak.

  He nods. “Your bodyguard must’ve discussed that if you were ever separated, you should include a word if you rang him, or some other signal in a text to confirm that you aren’t being coerced.”

  Relief quickly washes through me. “Oh, that word,” I say, like Sebastian and I had totally set up the protocol he’s talking about. Then again…hadn’t we?

  Me: I’ll be back in two hours tops. Promise. #Rainbow.

  A few seconds later, Sebastian responds.

  PainInMyAss: Can’t-Sit-For-A-Week, fire engine red. Promise.

  If he’s firing off innuendo punishment texts, he has stopped freaking out and is just royally pissed. That I can deal with. I don’t want to think what a rampaging Sebastian would be like. His normal domineering demeanor is intense enough.

  As we enter the Lower East End, Den glances at my purse. “You turned it off, right?”

  “My phone?”

  He nods. “If you don’t want your guard to follow you, you need to turn it completely off. If he’s worth what you’re paying for his services, he’s already pinging its location.”

  Damn it. I’m sure Sebastian is hot on my trail. “Oh, I didn’t even think about it.” I hesitate before I turn it off. What if I’m being played, and this guy’s taking me straight to my stalker? Then again, no one knows my connection to the Blake family except me. There’s nothing on-line, no paper trail to follow. There’s no way anyone other than a Blake could know that their name alone would be enough to convince me to agree to this meeting. Feeling assured, I switch my phone off.

  Den gives the sorry, dilapidated apartment building we’ve pulled up to a disapproving look, his accent becoming more pronounced. “Is this the proper address?”

  I nod and start to open the door on my side, when he says, “Exit this way and I’ll escort you in. You weren’t exaggerating about needing backup.”

  Smirking at him, I follow his line of sight to the trio of rough-looking teens who’ve stopped talking while sitting on the hood of a car down the street to stare at us getting out of the sleek car.

  “Keep your attention sharp, the doors locked, and the engine running,” Den says curtly to the driver before he grips my elbow in a protective manner. “Lead the way, Miss Lone.”

  I stare at the building as I approach. It doesn’t look any different than the one I lived in with my aunt, Amelia, and Walt. Same dreary, pollution-coated brick. Same cracked cement stairs leading to a broken buzzer at the main entrance door. The only difference was that our building had been dingy brown brick instead of red. And ironically resided just seven or so blocks from this one.

  I knock on the building manager’s door. His name is Mr. Snitch, according to the scratched-through sign next to the main door. Den never lets his golden eyes rest, his muscular neck craning upward at the sudden sounds of a couple fighting a floor above us.

  Just as I start to knock again, the door rips open. A balding, middle-aged man, sporting a pink bathrobe and a raised metal baseball bat, growls from the doorway, “What!”

  Den instantly steps in front of me, scowling. He doesn’t have to say a word; his menacing expression is enough to make the man stumble back a little. Screwing up his face, the building manager holds the bat higher. “Back off Zulu Warrior or I’ll take this to you.”

  “Excuse me.” I barely resist rolling my eyes at the man’s ignorance as I nudge Den to the side. “I just want to ask you a couple of questions about some past tenants, Mr. Snitch. How long have you worked here?”

  “That’s Fritch. Assholes keep marking up my sign,” he spits angrily, then gives me a wary look. “I’ve been here fifteen years. Nobody’s gonna do a better job collecting rent from these shit-for-tenants, so tell Mr. Harmon I said to fuck off. No one’s getting my job.”

  “Mr. Fritch. I’m not here on Mr. Harmon’s behalf. I’m here for my own purpose.”

  He tilts his head. “And what might that be? You sure as hell—” The fighting couple above us have gotten so loud, the manager pauses to hit the bat three times on the ceiling. “Pipe down or I’m calling the cops!” Turning back to me, he continues as if he’d never stopped talking, “—don’t look like you belong here.” His gaze skims from my silk blouse down to my heels. “Those fancy clothes probably cost more than my rent.”

  I take a breath and ignore his resentful comment. “I’d just like to know if you remember a couple of tenants, a woman named Brenna Slawson and her son Tommy?”

  “Nope, don’t remember.” He starts to close the door, but Den puts his leather shoe out to block it at the same time he rips the bat from the man’s hand.

  “Answer the lady’s question truthfully, or
I’ll happily demonstrate what an S.I.S.-trained Brit can do with this bat.”

  Fritch glares at Den, then shifts his squirrely gaze to me. “Yeah, I remember the scrawny kid and his bitch of a mother. Why?”

  My stomach tenses. At least I’m getting somewhere. “Do you know if they had any relatives?”

  “What do I look like, a family reunion rep? How the hell should I know?” His gaze narrows suspiciously. “Are you some kind of reporter? I heard the kid turned out to be a freaking serial killer. That true?”

  I shrug. “I’m not here about that. I’m just doing some research for a project I’m working on. So no one else lived with them?”

  “Bet he’s the one who killed his mom all those years ago. Left a fucking bloody mess, whoever did it,” he murmurs, then waves his hand, answering my question dismissively. “Just her freeloader boyfriend.”

  I latch onto the possible lead. “Can you tell me the boyfriend’s name?”

  “Asshole,” he deadpans, then snorts as he digs spindly fingers into his armpit, his nails leaving trails against the robe’s velour nap. “The lease was in her name, so I didn’t give a damn who else stayed there as long as she paid. Though, now that I think of it, he stopped coming around after a while.”

  I suppress a sigh of frustration. “Can you at least tell me what he looked like?”

  Fritch holds his hand a couple inches above my heeled height of five-nine. “He was about here. Average height for a guy. Brown-ish hair, regular build. Constant scowl. That pretty much covers it.”

  “No tattoos or anything else that stands out?”

  He shakes his head. “Nope. Like I said. Just your average, clompy Joe-Asshole. I couldn’t pick him out of a crowd if I tried.”

  “Clompy?”

  “Yeah, I sure as hell don’t miss hearing his footfalls dragging up the stairs at one in the morning. Bastard always woke me up.”

  Picking out a heavy walker in a crowd won’t be easy either. I sigh inwardly. “Thanks for your help.”