Dimitri’s apprehension returned. “Not really.”
There was another pause and the sound of his mother’s movements ceasing. “Why’s that?”
“Because I may or may not have pulled a knife on said ex-boyfriend earlier in the day when he was threatening Arlo.”
“On camera?” his mother whispered into the phone.
Dimitri sighed. “Yeah.”
“Dimitri.” The way she said his name dripped with disappointment.
“Sorry, Mom,” he said, not really sorry at all.
“You better hope their video surveillance is on the cloud,” she muttered, the sound of her walking filling his ears once more. “You’re lucky I’m still at the office. I was supposed to be at a fundraiser for work.”
“Which work?” Dimitri asked.
His mom had two jobs, both high-paying, neither of them exactly legal. To casual acquaintances, she was a cyber-crimes analyst for a security company called Elite Protection Services. To those in the know, she was a black hat hacker doing all the shady things their golden boy Webster couldn’t.
Her other job was less a job and more a calling. She was the Charlie to Dr. Thomas Mulvaney’s psychopathic angels, helping clean up their homicidal messes. His mother was uniquely qualified to help Dimitri with this particular problem.
“I’m at Elite. I was supposed to MC the gala for cystic fibrosis,” his mother said, her voice thick with the soft southern drawl she tended to put on for the outside world.
His mother was many things but, mostly, she was a chameleon. She’d gone to work for Thomas Mulvaney in exchange for help with Dimitri. After all, nobody knew psychopaths better than a man raising seven of them. When Thomas had heard his mentor’s son, Jayne Shepherd, would be leaving a paramilitary group to join Elite’s team, he’d sent his mother to work for the owner, Jackson Avery, to see whether his mentor had truly managed to tame her son’s homicidal impulses.
It had taken longer than either Thomas or his mother had anticipated for Shepherd to arrive at Elite. In the meantime, Jackson had sent his mother undercover as the campaign manager for Senator Monty Edgeworth to ensure the man didn’t harm his son. She’d almost quit over that assignment. But even after Thomas told her she no longer needed to spy, she found she didn’t want to leave the Elite team. So, now, she did both.
His mother was the living embodiment of tinker, tailer, soldier, spy. A double agent. Hell, maybe even a triple agent. But, in the end, his mother only worked for herself. Nobody gave her orders. “What do we do, Mom?”
Her voice immediately softened at his tone. “You’re sure he’s dead?”
Dimitri nudged his corpse. “Very.”
“Good. Dead is easier to fix than almost dead. Is his car there?”
Dimitri almost laughed at his mother’s casual dismissal of Holden’s death. Almost. Until he glimpsed Arlo, who sat chewing on his thumbnail, tears streaming down his face for the second time that day.
“Is his car here?” Dimitri asked Arlo.
Arlo’s head snapped up, his gaze darting around, peering into the darkness. He pointed off to some point in the distance. “Yeah. Over there.”
“You’re not alone?” Calliope snapped.
“No, Mom. Arlo is here. Please, stop yelling and help us before the blood starts to coagulate. The car’s here.”
“Good. Do you have a tarp?”
Dimitri frowned, trying to imagine anything tarp-like in the coffee shop. “Um, no. I don’t think so.”
“Okay. Trash bags?”
They had huge trash bags. Industrial size. “Um, yeah. Lots of those.”
“It’s a bakery, right? Do you have gloves? Hair nets?”
“Yeah.”
“Cover your hair and hands. Wrap the body in as many trash bags as it takes to ensure nothing is leaking. Put him in his own trunk. Be very aware of what you touch. If you have to move the seat to drive it, make sure you return it back exactly where it was. We’re on the clock now, baby. I hope you’re ready.”
