“Have you been here this whole time?” I ask, gratefully reaching for the water he offers me.
Dmitri shrugs, nodding at a laptop sitting on the recliner. “I had some work to catch up on. I didn't feel like going home.” That makes warm, fuzzy feelings spread through me and I quickly shut that shit right down.
He is an investigator. I remind myself. He wants to crush these trafficking bastards.God,almost as much as I want him to.
“Have you found anything out yet?” I ask. “Caught any bad guys? Beat the hell out of them with brass knuckles that the police aren’t supposed to have but we know they do?”
A slight frown appears between his exquisitely shaped brows. I would like to believe he gets them waxed but I know he doesn’t. The rest of him is too symmetrical and perfect to be brought down by something like poorly-shaped brows. They’re natural.
Fuck, Ava! Focus.
“We found a lot of what isn't rather than what is,” Dmitri says.
“Such as?”
“There is no Cynthia Watkins,” he says. “Not in relation to The McManus at any rate. In fact, there's only one Cynthia Watkins listed as a real estate broker in five boroughs and she's 63 and close to retirement.” He shows me a picture on his phone.
“No, that's definitely not her,” I sigh. My head’s beginning to throb again. I knew this was an after-effect from those electrical shocks. I also knew this will be one of many headaches I’ll have to endure for a long time.
“You're also not listed on any lease at The McManus,” he continues. “There's no record of that apartment having been purchased.”
My heart sinks. “What about the man I…” I look down at my hands. I'd pledged to heal with those hands and instead I killed that man.
I wasn't sorry. I almost enjoyed it.
Clearing my throat, “Um, what about the man I killed?”
“He had a couple of identifying tattoos,” Dmitri says.
“What, like gang tattoos or something?”
“We think he's a member of a Romanian mafia,” he says. “He would just be a thug though, he wouldn't have any high-level information. Fortunately, we were able to get a clear image of the gray-haired woman.”
I shudder, cold sweat beading on my forehead. His hand lands lightly on my shoulder for a moment. “Did she ever give you a name?”
“Oh yes,” I say, giving a bitter laugh that tastes like ashes. “She told me to call her Mistress.” His fingers tighten just slightly before he removes them. I regret him taking his hand away.
“We have an excellent tracking system with facial recognition software that the Department of Defense could only dream of,” he says. “We’ll get her.”
“Do you know anything about the man who claimed he bought me?”
He smiles, and it’s not a pleasant one. The sharp points of his canines show, giving him a wolfish cast that was distinctly threatening… though I felt certain it wasn’t to me. “Robert Meyers. He works for an equity group in Manhattan.”
I snort. “I knew it.”
“What?” he asks.
“Helookedlike a douchebag stockbroker. You know, the suit and the pinky ring?”
His smile is more restrained this time. “I know that type. He's being pulled in for questioning as we speak.”
“I'm so glad.” I pull my knees up, resting my forehead on them. “I'm so glad you’re getting him. I hope you can get him to tell you more about where to find the bastards that created this shit show in the first place.”
Then, I remember work. What the hell iswrongwith me? That should've been my first thought when I woke up again.
“Could I use your phone?” I ask. “I have to call Bellevue and let them know what's happened. It's been almost four days now. I'm sure my friend Priya is freaking out.”
He sits on my bed, just one hip, carefully watching my reaction to make sure I’m not cringing away from him. “We contacted Bellevue on your behalf,” he says gravely. “To let them know you’d been a victim of a crime. They claimed that you sent a resignation letter four days ago stating your intention to leave the state and practice medicine elsewhere.”
