Only the devil, p.6
Only the Devil, page 6
I rub the sleep out of my eyes and take stock. I don’t feel dazed now. No, if anything, I’m embarrassed by how I acted. Or no, annoyed with myself.
Mom found Uncle Alvin. I pushed her to go check on him and never even asked how she handled it. I should have. But she’d been worried about me and I never even thought to turn that around, to ask her how she was.
The police said he’d been dead for about a week by the time she found him.
I’d been the one to urge her to go check on him, but mainly because I’d ordered a birthday cake for him and he never called. When I had her check on him, I hadn’t been worried about his safety. I feared he’d gone back to the casino and was either sitting there day and night, or he’d lost everything and was too ashamed, so laying low, or worse, drinking himself into oblivion.
I didn’t arrive at his apartment until after his body had been removed. Mom had even cleaned out the refrigerator and straightened before I entered his place for the last time. And that had been hard enough. The space felt like he was still there—a time capsule of sorts. Like he was sitting in an adjacent room and would come around the corner, asking if I was hungry, if I needed a snack.
Jake’s hips shift and the subtle movement presses what I am absolutely positive is his morning wood against my backside. And that’s my signal to get moving. I’m careful to escape his clingy limbs without waking the sleeping giant, letting my feet fall silently on the cool hardwood floor. I stand there for a moment, admiring his ridiculously chiseled abs where his T-shirt rode up in his sleep, then snap out of it and get going. I’ve got to focus. A woman died, and besides, that’s not why he’s here and certainly not why I’m here.
When he wakes, I’ll thank him for sleeping with me. Of course, he didn’t sleep with me like that. He just slept in the bed, which I imagine is a lot more comfortable than the sofa in the loft area.
For all my griping about Rhodes being ridiculous, Jake’s actually been a pretty cool guy and he’s proven to be a considerate roommate. More considerate than me, if I’m honest. And, while I maintain I don’t need protection, I’m grateful he was with me yesterday. And last night.
As I descend the stairs to the main living area, slightly lightheaded and my muscles stiff, I can’t help but focus on the building across the street. It’s Saturday morning, and it’s eerily quiet.
I expect at some point today, there will be at the very least an ambulance. Unless they don’t call an ambulance for someone who is already dead. Who would they call then? The police? I’m not sure.
If I’d asked my mom for details, I would know.
Thinking back to that conversation, the phone call, I focused on the loss. When I close my eyes sometimes, I still see the faded blue concrete of the hollowed-out Hollywood Dreams apartment pool with the algae-infested puddles, and the folding chair with the seat indention that Uncle Alvin made by sitting every day looking over that pool, waiting for me to come home from school. No blood relation, but he’d been Uncle Alvin since maybe third grade. He was the best kind of family, the kind you chose.
It wasn’t until I was going through his stuff—his heavy wooden desk in particular—that I realized he’d lost everything. And he believed he’d been scammed, and he was doing something about it. He was the most frugal person I’ve ever met, so I thought he’d been flat broke, like us. But now I suspect when he’d buy my school supplies, my first computer, clothes—he wasn’t reaping veteran discounts. No, he was using his savings.
He had lost everything. The stack of overdue bills made that clear. But I’d had no clue. He never shared; never told me he needed money. I could’ve helped him out. But he never asked; never let me know. I had to find out when going through his crammed desk drawer.
Yesterday, if we had called 911 like Jake wanted, I would’ve learned the process when a dead body is found. But my instinct was a good one—I hope. I couldn’t explain why I found her. Being in the office? Sure. I left my headphones. An easy explanation. Being in a back hallway on the executive floor when no one else was there? No matter what I said, there would be suspicion.
After starting the coffee machine, I stretch on the floor as it gurgles. My muscles ache, and I deepen the stretch, but it’s amazing how much clearer my thoughts are after one night’s sleep. The scent of brewing java helps, too.
The sunlight peeking through the partially closed blinds casts geometric shapes on the wall. It feels like a new day, but that new day feeling dissipates with one glance at the glass structure across the street.
Walking in and discovering that woman really threw me.
Who was she? I read her nameplate on the way into the office. Jocelyn Faribault. I wonder what she did. She had to have been an executive, right? She had an office on the executive floor.
I pull out my laptop and check the Sterling Financial website, reading through the About Us section. There’s no mention of her, but they don’t provide a public employee listing.
LinkedIn will have her. I’m already connected to Ms. Weaver. My knee bounces in time with rapid-fire of keyboard keys.
And there she is. Ms. Faribault. She lists her current title as corporate comptroller, and she seems to be the type who would keep her LinkedIn profile up-to-date.
Does ARGUS have a corporate comptroller?
A quick search tells me the corporate comptroller oversees accounting, financial reporting, and internal controls, and typically reports to the CFO.
If I’m right that Sterling Financial is as crooked as spaghetti code, then that’s a precarious position to hold.
Suspicious. But it’s not like she was bludgeoned to death. Or shot.
Uncle Alvin died of natural causes; we presume heart but we’re waiting on the autopsy report. Mom said she was told that there’s always a wait for autopsy results, unless I guess foul play is suspected.
If Jocelyn had been murdered, they wouldn’t have just left her body. Would they? And wouldn’t there have been a sign of a struggle?
The empty query field begs for searches, so I search away. High profile deaths. The search leads me to celebrities and murders. But what about financial firms? So I search high profile deaths at fintech companies.
An article comes up with the title “19 execs who died last year.” Interesting. Who knew financial companies were this dangerous to your health?
One death jumps out at me. The CFO of Sterling Financial’s Singapore office. Three years ago. Suspicious circumstances. There are no follow-up articles, but the one I’m reading says that it’s common for a spate of suicides during times of economic turmoil.
Nothing after the first wave—classic. Headlines, then silence.
Are there others associated with Sterling that died by suicide? Did I overlook more connections?
I need to access ARGUS. I rush up the stairs to grab my phone where I left it charging. I’ll need the phone for double authentication.
Am I looking for connections where none exist? Possibly. Uncle Alvin was eighty-three. And we didn’t see any sign of injury on Jocelyn.
The bedroom door is ajar, and I push it open, only to stop feet from my phone. The bathroom door is wide open, and the shower’s running, the small bathroom’s steam creating a dreamlike haze.
I should back up now—close my eyes.
Jake’s in the shower, back to me. The water streams down his back, down his bare—and I must say, muscular—ass, but it’s the placement of his hand. His body is angled, giving me a view as he strokes himself, from his base to his tip. He’s thick and hard and my clit awakens at the sight, the sensation subtle but undeniable.
I should back out of the room and reposition the door so he doesn’t know I entered. I should not stare.
Yet the action of his hand mesmerizes. Propped up by one arm, head bent down, he’s watching the action too. His hand works the length; his thumb circles the crown. His fist tightens—and thick, white ribbons jet. My pulse hammers, rude and insistent. The strokes slow and my heartbeat thuds, riveted to the scene I shouldn’t see.
His neck bends, and his eyes close as he bows before the shower head. He backs away, wipes his eyes, and shakes his head, sending water droplets against the tile and glass.
Awareness I’m about to get caught watching like a perv, jolts me into action. I spin and slam straight into the door. Hard.
Fuck that hurt.
I rub my forehead, but don’t slow, instead rushing down the stairs, leaving my phone right where it was on the floor, charging.
Dammit. What the hell?
It’s not until I’m on the ground floor that my heart rate slows to normal and I take in the building across the street. Still no sirens or activity.
That’s where my focus should be. The dead woman across the street. Not the hot muscle-bound guy who’s here to collect a paycheck under the guise of keeping me safe.
I am probably just horny because my emotions were knocked out of whack yesterday, and I shared a bed with all that muscle last night.
“You okay?”
I close my eyes, breathing in deeply. Please to the gods above tell me he didn’t see me.
Jake’s on the landing, white towel wrapped low on his waist, water droplets dripping from his shoulders, down his insanely defined pecs to perfectly toned and rippled abs.
Holy moses, the man should model for avatar designers.
A fact I should not know.
“Daisy? Everything alright?”
“Yeah, yeah. I’m good. Good… morning?”
His eyes narrow and he rubs his beard. It’s most likely still drenched.
“Yeah. Thought I heard you.” He tilts his head and that’s my cue to stare out the window.
CHAPTER 8
JAKE
“Go get dressed. I found some stuff we should go over.”
With her back to me, my gaze travels down the harmless tee she’s wearing; to the hem draping her bottom; to her bare, lean legs.
Legs that moments ago I fantasized wrapping around my waist. My dick jerks with the memory, and I’m reminded all I have covering me is a thin white bath towel.
Christ, get your head in the game.
“What stuff?”
“Sterling. Jocelyn. If you don’t mind, I’d like to talk it through.”
She’s keeping her back to me, treating me like I’m out of line to be standing in a towel, but I thought I heard something. Wanted to check it out.
I allow myself one last lingering glance, but I’m here to protect her, not screw her—even if I’d very much like to do exactly that—so I quietly turn on my heel and follow orders.
Up in the loft, far enough away from the balcony edge to ensure privacy, I slip on shorts, a tee, and the slides I wear after a workout. They make flopping noises all the way down the stairs, which catches her attention.
“Want me to go grab breakfast? We can get some coffee and food before we jump into things.”
Outside, it’s an overcast morning. We might get a passing shower. When she faces me, the first thing I notice is her dark brown eyes, then how she’s sucking on her bottom lip, then of course, because I’m me, my gaze continues downward, dropping to her tits. “If you want to get dressed, we can go out together.”
And of course, I’m speaking to her tits because obviously my shower routine did nothing to realign my brain.
“There’s a bodega with breakfast sandwiches.” I point it out, and this action has the benefit of breaking my way too obvious stare. “No one’s sitting at the table out front.”
There are actually two round tables to the side of the bodega, but the sidewalk doesn’t qualify as desirable outdoor seating. I hardly ever see anyone eating there.
“Maybe in a bit. I made coffee, if you want some,” she says. “But let me bring you up to speed on what I’ve found.”
“Online research?” I ask while heading in the direction of the coffee, inhaling deeply to breathe in that fresh coffee scent.
That’s what I need. With a fresh cup of joe, I’ll wake up, snap out of it, and stop gawking at my roommate like some hormone-addled college kid.
With my back to her as I pour my coffee, she says, “Jocelyn Faribault worked in accounting. Or finance. It might be the same department. I’m assuming she reported to the CFO, which is Walter Langdon, at least, according to the website. I haven’t met him. Given what they hired me for, that’s not surprising. And it’s likely he’s based in New York.”
“How many people does Sterling Financial employ?”
“They had about two hundred and fifty people. But they’re down to a little over a hundred now.”
I whistle. A cut like that guts morale. “Anyone this past week mention the layoffs?”
“No, but the layoffs happened in January, so that’s like over half a year ago. It’s not like it would still be office conversation—especially with a new employee.”
I open the fridge to dig for milk, head cocked to catch every word.
“Almost everyone is down in Virginia, but there’s a handful of executives that remain based in New York. When they first started, everyone was in New York. Then they opened the office in Virginia five years ago. Sterling spends time in both offices.”
“Why keep the New York office? That’s gotta be expensive.”
“There are some who believe if you’re in finance, you need a New York address. I imagine it makes recruiting easier too. Not everyone’s willing to leave New York. I don’t find anything suspicious about that. If ARGUS didn’t allow remote workers, Rhodes likely would’ve opened multiple offices by now. But, what I keep coming back to is that both this comptroller, Jocelyn, and Alvin Reed, died. And there’s this CFO from Singapore. I found an article on her that labeled her death as mysterious.”
“Define mysterious.” I sip my coffee, eyeing her over the rim of the mug.
“Not sure.” She pulls out a barstool and sits. “That’s how the paper described it and there was no follow-up article that I could find. There were facts and figures about suicides and finance at the bottom of the article, which makes me think they believed it was suicide.”
“Why not say that? Why use the word mysterious?”
“I’m not sure. Maybe a cultural thing? It was a Singapore paper. Never made the US news, at least that came up in a search. When I first searched in ARGUS, the results labeled it suicide.”
Her perky nipples jut from her faded Matrix T-shirt in a way that beg for attention.
Of course, I shouldn’t be looking at her chest and aim to focus on her face but fail. Repeatedly.
She’s beautiful, smart, and completely off-limits. Perfect combination for disaster.
“It’s just…these deaths… Am I looking for connections where they don’t exist?” She chews her nail, then drops her hand. “Am I connecting ghosts?”
She’s basically just bouncing ideas off me. I get that, but if I’m going to be useful, I need a better understanding.
“Look, I get that you think there’s a scam going on, but I don’t understand what it is. I’ve spent two days watching your colleagues across the street—they aren’t thugs. Can you tell me exactly what crime they’re doing?”
She sits up on the kitchen counter, coffee mug in hand, and to avoid staring at her bare thighs I pull out a kitchen chair and angle it to the window with a view of the glistening glass building across the street.
“I get it. It’s financial corruption. You believe Reed lost everything. He must have something to his case ’cause he was collecting names of others similarly impacted. But explain the crime to me. Tell it to me like I’m a third-grader. Pretend I’m your slow student. Big crayons.”
“Okay. You mean aside from targeting unsophisticated investors?”
I give a quick nod and take another sip of coffee.
She crosses one thigh over the other, and I can see the wheels turning as she tries to dumb it down, which is fine because my gaze can’t stop tracking her creamy, pale skin along that long stretch of thigh.
“Sterling pitches themselves as the future of finance—safe, exchange-traded crypto funds. Think S&P or Nasdaq trackers,” she says.
I set my mug down, watching the glass building across the street throw back a dull, pewter sky.
“They tell investors their baskets are weighted to Bitcoin and Ethereum,” she goes on, “diversified among them to spread risk. The AI project I’m hired for? ‘Next-gen’—auto-rebalance to keep everything ‘stable and low-risk.’”
I nod, ankle to knee. “And actually?”
She drums her fingers against the counter. “Actually, the allocations don’t match the pitch. The test baskets? Meme tokens. Joke coins. PooCoin. Fartcoin. Garlicoin. Some with no liquidity. Some dead. No longer in existence. My uncle’s fund was one of Sterling’s first offerings. He thought he was getting a safe, Bitcoin-weighted ETF. What he really got was garbage—meme coins disguised as ‘diversification.’ The fund collapsed, and he lost everything.”
I angle my chair away from her bare legs and toward the window. “So Reed bought a Bitcoin-heavy ETF and got a clown car.”
“Exactly.” She taps the mug, thinking. “Legally? They might be covered. The paperwork says high-risk assets may be included. That’s the catch.”
The AC kicks on; a distant siren fades. “So you haven’t uncovered a crime.”
“Not yet.” She crosses one thigh over the other. “But it smells like a pump-and-dump in drag—inflate volume, offload before collapse. I can’t prove it. Not yet.”
“And the deaths?”
She exhales. “That’s what I’m trying to figure out. Look at these three deaths. Alvin Reed—a man actively seeking other investors who lost money. The CFO in Singapore. The comptroller here. Three dots, three years, two countries. Maybe coincidence. But it’s a pattern.”
“True enough.” I cross an ankle over my knee, sitting back, mulling it over. “I mean, do I believe in coincidences? No. But we’re talking about three deaths over a three-year period in three different cities and two different countries.”
