Blitz (Emerald City/Black Family Saga Book 1) (10 page)

“You have a burner phone? Like in the movies?” I grin, down at her and she looks up to meet my gaze, her face flushing.
 

“Well…I’ve never actually used it. Just thought it would be…never mind.” She stretches her arms in the air. “I sound like a total nerd right now, huh?” She rakes her hands through her hair and pulls it up into a ponytail.
 

On the back of her neck is another small tattoo and I lean in closer to get a better look. “Is that a pipe?”

Sydney’s hand sneaks behind her neck, covering the tiny black markings. “My dad used to smoke one, then there’s the whole Sherlock Holmes thing.” She shrugs. “Weird right?”

“Not at all. When I was in high school I wanted a tattoo. But I always imagined my mom would have a nervous breakdown if I did.” I snort. “According to my sister she has one.”

“Your mom?” Sydney’s eyebrows shoot up.

I nod. “Something written on her collarbone. I’ve never seen it. I’m not even sure I believe it. Mariah used to make up all kinds of stuff to try and get the upper hand.”

“So why don’t you get one now?”

“I will, someday. Something meaningful. Like that.”

She strokes the ink with her fingers. “You should.”

I watch her type for a few more minutes until she gestures for me to join her at the computer.

“Okay, here we are. I’ve got eighteen listings of Mariah Carlson. Ten Facebook pages, three Twitter accounts, one LinkedIn, three MySpace—though I doubt any of those are active, a Goodreads account here. First step, take a look at the Facebook profiles. Let me know if you recognize anyone. There are two with no photos, and one whose married to a Noah Carlson, so that’s likely a dead end. But I’ll look into those no photo ones and the other accounts.”

She gets up, offering me her chair, then wanders over to the futon, eyes glued to the laptop screen.
 

I scroll through the profiles a stone in my gut. I’ve never bothered to do this before now. I’m not sure why. It’s the most logical step when you’re looking for people these days. She could have been right under my nose this whole time. But as I eliminate one picture after another, my hope begins to fade. Maybe this isn’t such a good idea. What if we just hit a dead end? What if I never hear from my sister again? Maybe the real reason I haven’t brought her up after all this time is out of fear. The fear that she might be gone forever.

“Any luck?” Sydney cuts into my thoughts.
 

I shake my head, my chest tightening. “Nothing. None of these girls are my sister.”

“That’s okay. We’ve still got a lot of digging to do. Remember people don’t always use their real photos. If finding someone were as easy as Facebook stalking, you wouldn’t need me.” She chuckles and relief washes over me.
 

She’s right. This is just the beginning.
 

“You can help yourself to a doughnut if you want,” Sydney says. “Best in the city. Well, at least my little pocket of the city. Sour cream dough, powdered and jelly filled. They practically melt in your mouth.” She takes a huge bite of one and licks her lips, nodding toward the box beside her.

“Probably shouldn’t.” I pat my stomach. “Any nearby coffee shops around here?”

Sydney scowls. “Right there.” She points toward an archway behind me that separates the rest of the apartment from the kitchen. “I keep the grounds in the freezer and the coffeemaker’s pretty straight forward.”

I rub my chin and follow the direction of her finger. I observe the tiny space surrounding me. The cold from gray tile floors permeates through my socks and I curl my toes as I make my way toward the fridge. In the freezer is a half open bag of coffee, a tray of ice, and a Popsicle. I glance over my shoulder, then open the bottom door a crack. A water jug, a brown banana and a slice of moldy pizza. I close it quietly and glance around the rest of the kitchen. There’s a stack of paper plates and a pile of napkins beside the coffeemaker. Several Styrofoam cups turned upside down on a drain rack in the sink. Other than that it’s empty. No kitchen table, no chairs. I don’t bother to open any of the cupboards but I wouldn’t be surprised to find them empty.
 

No wonder she looks like she does, she doesn’t eat. I watched her last night picking at her food, like she’d never eaten barbecue before. But considering she’s Texan I find that hard to believe.
 

“You okay in there?”

I clear my throat and scratch my head. “Uh, yeah.” Then I step back into the room. “So, it looks like you’re running low on coffee. I’m going to step out and find us some. You going to be okay?”

“As always.”

“Alright,” I say, shoving my feet into my sneakers. “I’ll see you in a bit.”

As I make my way down the hall and toward the stairwell, a thought hits. Sydney, from what I can tell, is a hardworking girl. She’s young but she’s got at least one parent and a few friends that care about her. Mariah has no one. If she’s living like this while I’m living like that. I’ll never be able to forgive myself.

The moment Ray steps out the door I let out the breath I’ve pretty much been holding in since he arrived. I never have people in my apartment. Not even Reese. When she insists we get together, we hang out at her place.
 

What the hell was I thinking inviting him over here like that?
 

I’ve never been embarrassed about what I don’t have but, all of a sudden, it’s all I can think about. My lack of leather sofas and oak tables. The pile of unfolded laundry on my broken bed. God, and my obsession with stupid gadgets.
 

A burner? Fuck, Sydney. Learn when to shut the hell up.
 

He must have thought I was a total idiot. No wonder he left. I’d want to get away from a rambling fool too.

I spend the next twenty minutes opening file after file and scouring the back pages of every profile I can find. But I don’t come up lucky. Mariah Carlson isn’t hiding in plain sight. It seems to me she has no desire to be found. But based on everything I’ve been taught, everybody is findable. As long as you’re breathing, you can’t hide.

I shake my head and focus on the screen in front of me. A search like this could take weeks. I don’t have weeks. I have days, at best. And I need to get this particular one over with. Fast. I shift my gaze to my cell phone and stare it down, chewing on my bottom lip.

I shouldn’t. I can’t. But I can. And if I do, I can get this guy to sign the contract and get back to my life of solitude. I’ve got nothing to lose.
 

I groan as I reach for the phone. “Except my dignity.”

I punch the numbers in and squeeze my eyes shut as the phone rings out. This is incredibly lazy behavior for a bone fide sleuth. Which is probably why I’m not actually bone fide. Just persuasive. Maybe I should do like my mother always said, spend a shit load of money and become a lawyer.
 

I roll my eyes at the thought. I’m terrible when it comes to school. Not because I’m not smart or can’t handle the workload—I’m just not a people person. And, according to Reese, going to law school with a bunch of privileged kids—mostly lawyers’ children who are expected to and won’t have any problems carrying on the family name—isn’t exactly a cakewalk. When you don’t have much, you’re not thought of as much. It can be daunting and I try to avoid that shit as much as possible.

Marx picks up on the fifth ring. “Syd, hey.” His voice is low and soft, like he’s trying not to wake someone. “How’re you doing? How’s Reese?”

“Good,” I respond with a wide smile, doing my best to pour on the syrup like he was right here in front of me. “Thanks for asking. You know, it’s been….” I sniff. “It’s been rough. But we’re all hanging in there.”

This is going to be easier than I thought.
 

“Well that’s good to hear. It’s, uh, too bad we didn’t get to hang out the other night. I heard it was quite the party.”

Or not.

“It was…interesting.”

“I’ll say. You didn’t just find the scandal, you brought it.” Marx starts laughing on the other end and I grit my teeth.
 

I take a deep breath and hurtle into my request. “So, look, you know things are tight right now and these assholes at B&M are pretty much freezing me out…anyway, I got this new client and I was hoping you could give me a hand.”

“What do you need?”

“To find a girl. I think I’ve pretty much narrowed it down, but it’s between three different listings and you how this crap computer of mine is. It just can’t handle—”

“Say no more. What’s her name?”

I hesitate, swallowing back the information for more than one reason. Marx is ruthless. At one point, I aspired to be like him. I kind of still do. We actually went out once, but I quickly realized we were horrible for each other. A wannabe P.I. and a ruthless paparazzo shouldn’t spend anymore time together than is necessary.
 

He’s not a P.I.—even though he calls himself one. He can be a real idiot about this kind of stuff though. He’ll do anything for a story, even sell-out his own family. In fact, he moved here from Los Angeles after a major falling out with his sister—something about writing an exclusive that had her in the news for weeks. He’s a swindler. A trickster. An asshole. But when it comes to getting information fast, he’s the best bet.
 

“Hey, Syd. I’m gonna need a name.”

“Uh,” I sigh. “It’s, um, Mariah Carlson.”

“Got a D.O.B to go with that?”

“Born December 28th, 1992 in Pullman, Washington.” I glance down at the paper Ray gave me, remembering the conversation we had not ten minutes before. It’s heartbreaking to say out loud. “Parents names are Shannon Carlson and Lucas Black. Both deceased.”

“Hold on. Carlson? Any relation to StingRay?”

Exactly the kind of ammo he doesn’t need.

“Um…I don’t know. That’s just the name I got. If I could’ve looked it up myself I would have but—”

“You needed my skills. I get it.”

I roll my eyes. He’s better with a computer than I am, but that doesn’t make him better. Put Marx in the field and he’s like a fish out of water.
 

“Email it to me when you get it okay?”

“Come on now, Sydney B. You know who I am. Who am I?”

“I know who you are Marx and I’m on a deadline.”

“I need to hear you say it.”

God, he’s such a cheese ball.
 

“You’re the number one hacker.”

“What was that?”

“Seriously?”

“Heart attack serious. I need to hear the magic words,” he says in a singsong voice.

“You’re the number one hacker in Emerald City.” I pause, forcing the stupid words from my mouth. “The god damn wizard himself.”

Marx’s obnoxious laugh filters through the phone and I hold it away from my ear.
 
“Expect it within the hour,” he says and I hang up.

I lie back on my bed and stare up at the ceiling. There is a hollow feeling in my chest, one I know won’t disappear for a few days. The truth is I didn’t need Marx. I could have done this myself. Should have. I’m no cheater. I’ve always worked hard, but there are times when I need to take care of myself. Even if it means doing undesirable things in the process.
 

The door to my apartment opens and Ray pushes his way in, his back to me.
 

“How’s the search going?” he asks.
 

I gaze at the over stuffed paper bags in his arms. “What…?”

“Groceries.” He grins, kicks off his shoes and heads toward the kitchen. “I figured since we’ll be shacked up in here for who-knows-how-long, it’s the least I could do,” he calls over his shoulder.
 

Well, if I wasn’t embarrassed before…

“Oh, jeez. Ray, you didn’t have to. I’m not really one to stock up. Everything always goes bad.”

I trail behind him, my face on fire.

He’s seen my cupboards. He thinks I’m poor. Okay, technically I am, but it’s not exactly something I like to broadcast. Not even my own family knows. I’ve successfully managed to keep them out of here ever since moving in. The last thing I want is pity. How have I managed to earn it from someone who is nearly a complete stranger?

“You really didn’t need to do this,” I say, watching as he empties the bags. “What is all this stuff?”

 
“Chicken, a few basics, a couple essential herbs and spices, onions, garlic, white wine, pasta. A couple of pots and pans.” His blue eyes shine as he turns to face me.

“You bought me pots and pans?”

 
“Well, I’ve gotta make your lunch in something.”

I raise an eyebrow.
 

“My famous chicken cacciatore,” Ray says. “Okay, so it’ s not technically my recipe, I saw it on Everyday Italian, but I’m really good at making it, so you have to let me. Besides, it’ll make up for the blow up of a dinner last night.”

I sigh staring at the food littering the counter. “I haven’t had a home cooked Italian meal in…a long time. My dad used to…” I pull a shuddering breath through my nose.

“I’ll take that as a yes. Now if you’ll just allow me to have free reign of your kitchen, we should be ready to eat in about an hour. That sound good?”

I nod. The timing couldn’t be better.

#

I shove the last forkful of food in my mouth and sigh. Sitting back, I lean up against the futon and place a hand over my bloated stomach. “Oh, my God, Ray. You give good pasta.” I lick a drop of tomato sauce from my finger and push my plate across the floor. “You need to teach me how to do that,” I say. Then hold up my hand. “Actually, forget it. I hate to cook. I just need to move you in here and have you cook like that all the time. What are your terms? I’d do anything to come home to a meal like that every night.”

“And here I thought you didn’t like to eat.”

“Are you kidding me? Food and I are best friends.”

Ray chugs his water, then tosses me a confused frown. “You barely touched your barbecue last night and you’ve been snacking on nothing but doughnuts all morning.”