CHAPTER SIX
The area my mysterious caller told me to meet him in his is one usually reserved for hotel staff or other locals who actually have vehicles to drive. Some of the spectators rented cars, but this area does not normally see this level of tourism, so those of us who did not absolutely need a vehicle were asked to abstain. From the look of the mostly empty lot, it seems people listened.
A gust of wind whips its way to the second level, and I stand by the column I was directed to. With a scarf bundled up around my face, and a hunched-over guard waiting in the shadows, this whole thing reminds me of a scene out of a movie or the handoff for the Nixon documents.
I stomp my feet trying to bring back some warmth to my toes and check my watch. My own personal Deep Throat is late.He gets exactly five more minutes and then…well frankly I don’t have an “and then.” I don’t know what I’ll do. I can’t let these images go to the media, but I also can’t stand out here until I get frostbite. I like my toes.
A cough echoes through the underground parking garage, and I search around finding the source. It’s a few columns behind me. Also labeled as C2.
“Deep Throat?” I ask, slowlywalking in the direction of the cough trying to be casual and not scream in panic.
No one laughs, but I could swear it is the same cough I heard on the phone. Although I guess in a way all coughs sound the same even if this one is phlegm filled like the other.
I’d been so focused on getting the money and making it here on time I haven’t had the opportunity to properly freak out over what I’mabout to do. It’s not until right now I realize how stupid this is. People die in parking lots. Raped, robbed, murdered — I don’t want to be any of those things. What am I doing here alone?
Okay, I’m not technically alone. Dexler and Asbell required a security guard to come with me. He’s stationed around a corner, but he’s so damn far away I could be kidnapped before he made it to where I am.Five minutes ago I told him to keep his distance because I was feeling confident, but now? Now he needs to get his ass over here so he can shoot someone if he needs to.
“Do you think this is funny, Miss Marston?” A tall man wearing a black beanie over his hair and a pair of large blacked out sunglasses steps away from the wall.
My first reaction is to come back with something snotty. After allhe’s the one who made us meet in the dank parking garage. But, I don’t think it’s the time to get into it. He could have a gun.
“No, I don’t think this is funny. Do you have the pictures?” I stop a few feet from him not wanting to get too close.
He breathes deeply, causing himself to cough. “Of course I have the pictures. Why would I get you all the way here if I didn’t have pictures?” he asks,as if I’m the complete moron, but I distinctly remember a situation similar to this one where the person did not bring actual photo proof. Not all journalists are smart. If he even is a journalist.
From the inside of his jacket he pulls out a long manila envelope and hands it to me. I open the top and allow a few traditionally size photos to fall into my hands.
Fucking Oliver.
I flip througheach picture. At first glance anger bubbles over in my stomach causing my free fist to clench, crinkling the envelope.
Laid out directly in front of me in photographic proof is Oliver san shirt fast asleep in his bed. Next to him, sharing the space on his pillow, is the beautiful woman I saw leaving his room this morning. In one picture she lies there, her head facing him, with her eyes closedas it looks like she sleeps peacefully beside him.
But something is off about the photo. Who smiles while asleep?
I flip through the photos again. They’re all of Oliver sleeping. In one or two of them, the mysterious girl’s eyes are open and she stares lovingly at the sleeping athlete beside her. Nowhere in the stack of pictures is there one of Oliver with his eyes open. Or anything where theyare engaged in activities of any sort. Even talking. Let alone the sexualized scandalous sexual pictures I expected.
The more I look through each of these photos, the more I believe Oliver’s story. Although, what athlete sleeps so hard you wouldn’t notice a woman lying next to you taking pictures? It seems a little unbelievable. A bit too perfect. But if this mysterious woman was all about gettingpictures and selling them for money, she would have made him take one together. A smiling selfie or lovers cuddle.
Except there isn’t one.
Something is not right. Twirling a piece of hair on my finger and thinking quietly, I do my best to remember the scene from this morning. There’s isn’t anything new from what I already remember.
Ultimately, I guess it doesn’t matter. Even if they are fakepictures they don’t look good. One chance to print these and the story will be all over the Internet by tomorrow morning. That is not publicity an athlete needs to wake up to on the day of their big event. Even if this is an elaborate scheme to earn some money, there’s nothing I can do but pay it. At least until the US Committee takes a no hostage approach. Which I don’t see happening.
“Fine,I’ll pay the money. But I want all the copies.” Asbell was not happy when I went to his office and asked for thirty thousand dollars to buy off suspicious pictures for Oliver. I’m pretty sure Oliver’s going to get a bill for this expense when he gets home. With interest.
Asbell planned to come with me to make sure I didn’t screw this up either — his words, not mine. But there was some kind ofscuffle between two women athletes. Someone slept with someone else and he had to break it up before any real damage was done. Pro athletes don’t pull hair and slap. They know how to throw a punch and have the muscles to do it well. He did, however, look me directly in the eyes and tell me if I didn’t guarantee I got every single piece of photo evidence, I’d find my ass on a plane back home. Thenhe took Dexler with him and left me with the skinny security guard who listened to me when I told him to wait in the shadows. He’s obviously setting me up for failure.
But for the first time, I don’t want to find my ass on a plane back home so I need to hurry and get this fixed.
“So the rest of them? USBs. Negatives. Where did you get them developed?” I ask tapping the stack of photos I haveagainst an open palm. He’s not getting these back, but I’m also not fool enough to believe he doesn’t have more.
The mysterious man smiles. “You do know what you’re doing after all.” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a Ziploc baggie with two grey thumb drives inside.
As he passes the thumb drives across the space to me I hurry and snatch a photo of him with my phone. It’s not the greatestpicture. He still has on his huge sunglasses. But I hope it will do what I need it to do.
“What the fuck?” He takes a step toward me.
