After snagging her briefcase off the ground where my entryway table once stood and detouring past the kitchen to snatch up the half-consumed bottle of whiskey, she retakes her seat next to me. “If you were manufacturing babies for well-to-do clients who either were infertile or didn’t want to ruin years of plastic surgery by growing their own baby, what services would be on your speed-dial list?”
A normal person would automatically say an obstetrician. I’m not close to ordinary. Mr. Gregg taught me to think outside of the box, which is precisely what I do in this situation.
“A pharmacist?” I suggest a few seconds later. “They have access to fertility drugs without needing a prescription, meaning there won’t be a messy paper trail for authorities to find.”
“Exactly.” The whiskey burns my throat for a second time when Phillipa places an employee identification card next to our empty glasses. Although I only spent twelve hours with the woman smiling up at me from on the card, I’ll never forget her face. She’s one of a handful of people I blame for ruining my life.
I want to believe the evidence Phillipa is presenting, but with my trust low, I have to remain cautious. “Olivia…” I stop, then correct, “Ophelia has only been ‘deceased’ for six years. Julian is a decade older than her. Your dates don’t add up, Phillipa. You’re missing a huge chunk of the timeline.”
She smiles, pleased with herself. “I would say you’re smarter than you look, BJ, but you rock the smart, cutie vibe as well, so I won’t mess with your head.” She places a second ID card onto the first. This one is from many decades ago.
“Ophelia’s mom was a pharmacist.” Since I’m not asking a question, it doesn’t sound like one. “Do you believe she was running the same scheme as Oli… Ophelia?”
“I don’t think. I know.” She hands me a bunch of autopsy reports. “Drugs found in the older victims’ autopsies were matched to prescriptions filled at the drug store Lana worked at.” When she locks her eyes with mine, the confidence in them is nearly enough to put me on my ass. “The Petrettis were working with the Castros. I’m confident of it.”
When I take a moment to work the facts through my head, the pause in time awards me more confusion.
“There’s something we’re missing. Dimitri would never work with the Castros.” I don’t disclose how I know he hates them with every fiber of his being, but I do disclose we’ve had private conversations. “He’s also unaware Ophelia is alive. If your beliefs are true, Dimitri is in the dark about it all.” I am shocked I’m standing up for a criminal, but at the end of the day, Dimitri isn’t in the wrong—this time.
“I guess time will tell.” Phillipa balances on the edge of my couch before digging her hand into her briefcase. “We have surveillance in place for Ophelia.”
“When were these taken?” I ask when she dumps a file full of still images onto the coffee table.
As she pours us another generous serving of whiskey, I rummage through the photographs. “My guy has been there since dawn…” Her words trail off when I curse under my breath. “What?”
“That’s Isabelle.” I point to a photograph in the middle of the stack, cursing for the second time when I recall Isabelle’s sudden desire for a trip to Tiburon. “I told Izzy Ophelia was alive. I gave her a photo from Tobias’s folders.”
Phillipa looks a cross between wanting to strangle me and hug me. “Brandon, why would you do that?”
“I had no clue she’d seek her out.” That’s a lie. I knew the instant I showed Isabelle the picture, she’d do everything in her power to locate Ophelia as it’s exactly what I would have done if I were in the same situation. “I’ve got to go. Can you show yourself out?” Not waiting for her to answer me, I race to my front door.
“Where are you going?” Phillipa shouts as I jab my finger into the elevator call button.
As I dash into the awaiting cart, I answer, “To fix a fuck-up.”
One of many I’ve made the past two weeks.
Thirty minutes later, I pull my BMW into the driveway of Isaac’s private residence. No one had knowledge this property existed until Alex tailed Isaac and Isabelle home from his penthouse apartment a couple of months ago. I was in awe of the architect when I arrived to catalog evidence following the execution