“One more thing. The guy left his card. Says he’d like to invest.”
“In my label?” I gush.
“In you.” Michie holds the business card between his fingers. As I reach for it, he smiles mischievously and pulls the card close to his chest. My uncertain expression reflects vividly in his wicked eyes. “Come back tomorrow night, Chevelle. Work for me again.”
Chapter 38
Leith
The next afternoon, I’ve taken a break from searching out Douglas Yates by grabbing lunch from In-n-Out. At the wooden table that sits in my auld, wee kitchen, I’m about to knuckle down when Chevelle calls. Shutting my laptop, I gulp down the crispy fries and wash it all down with the whiskey I’ve been nursing.
Closing my eyes, I heave a guilty sigh, then answer. “Hey, hen.”
She’s gabbing my ear off about something, and for the life of me, I can hardly focus. I’m in the middle of living a feckin’ lie. Placing the iPhone on speaker, I set it next to my laptop. My head falls back. I offer an “uhuh” or a thoughtful “ohh” every once in a while as a good husband would. Oil stains splotch the ceiling. The light fixture I never got around to cleaning after Chevelle’s hunner complaints has ten more layers of dust.
“Baby, the second you come home, I’ll tell you.”
“Nae. Tell me now.” I lick my lips. “I could use a surprise.”
“Now, how is that a surprise if I tell you? Hey, I don’t hear other nerds debating wizards and sorcery in the background.”
“Other nerds?” I cock a brow, shoveling more crisp fries into my mouth.
“Leith, there’s something I haven’t told you,” she whispers in a conspiratorial tone.
Feeling the warm smile in her voice, I settle my restless bones. Powering up my laptop, I ask, “Wit’s that?”
“You’re a computer geek, a nerd. So, are you at the office?”
“Hmmm.” I glance around me. The auld fridge still has some of the vacation magnets from when we backpacked through Europe. I tell a white lie out of the lot of extra devious ones. “I’m home.”
“Home?” she shrieks. “Leith, this is home, not Mable’s place.”
“Och, hen.” With my fingers hovering over the keyboard, I pause from typing and groan. “That’s not what I meant.”
“I know, baby. Uh . . .I have to take this call.”
“Chevelle—”
“I’m good.”
I settle back on the wooden chair. “Hen, when I come home this weekend, we’ll start the search for a spot for Mia’s Place. How ‘bout that?”
“Sounds great. Thank you, baby. But I honestly need to click over. Love ya. Bye.”
I pick up the phone, but Chevelle’s alluring voice is no longer on the opposite side of the speaker. She’s disconnected the call. For a couple of beats, I contemplate calling her arse back. Nae, Leith, yer just feeling guilty. She’s not mad. Either way, I let my hen motivate me to find Douglas Yates. I’m closer to him than a fly on a hairy cow.
“Yer deid,” I mutter, getting to work. My fingers move across the keyboard while I run several analytical scripts. Yates’ll be the last arsehole I murder, and I’m gonna savor every moment of his screaming. His death will purge the clan life I’ve denied myself of for years.
I’d found Douglas Yates’ hideaway a couple of hours ago. All this time, the bastard made like he had other goons on his team. Nae, it’s just as Wendy and I suspected. He weasels others into doing his dirty work for him. The last guy he set in his crosshairs was a rookie cop. The lad died mysteriously, right before the little shite reached out to me.
A few months before Yates started screwing with me, he moved into a seedy apartment in Panorama City. Hasn’t left since. Uber Eats and grocery runs are all completed under the name Tip Whistler. I dinna know where the hell he came up with the name, but it coincides with his hacker handle Whistletips69.
Fake plates are screwed onto the bumper of my Audi. I’ve parked two blocks away from his place. Crumpled stucco apartment buildings line every direction. It would’ve been less conspicuous to drive my Chevelle SS, but Chevelle’s car finally went in for the nasty scrape on its side. I’m pulling on a ski mask when I get a call. Since Camdyn has relentlessly texted for updates, I press the away button sight unseen. Too late, I notice it was my wife.
“Och, Chevelle.”
My hen will think I’ve blatantly ignored her call. I’m ‘bout as deid as this arsehole’s