Sugar Rush
Page 19

“Ten years ago, three men raped my girlfriend,” I say, and Dennis makes a sound of disgust deep in his throat. “She was drugged and couldn’t identify her attackers, but she did remember tiny bits and pieces. One was a distinctive tattoo of a red phoenix on one of her attackers’ rib cage.”
“She later saw that tattoo and was able to identify him,” Dennis surmises, his face now dipped again so he can type into his phone.
“It belongs to my partner, JT…otherwise known as Jonathon Townsend,” I say, and Dennis’ head snaps upward, his eyes wide with surprise.
“You’re fucking kidding me?” he practically chokes out.
“I wish I were,” I respond grimly. “But it was him, and one of the things I want you to do is look for one of the other suspects that had a matching tattoo on his wrist. It belongs to an inner ring of fraternity brothers.”
“I’ll need her to give me a drawing or something to go by,” Dennis says, still typing.
“No need. I have a matching one on the back of my shoulder.”
Again, Dennis’ head snaps up, but this time his eyes are angry. “What the fuck is going on here?”
“I was in the same fraternity as JT but three years behind him. Still in prep school when the rape happened, so you can get that look off your face. I’m not sure the tattoo has anything to do with the rape, but clearly at least two of my fraternity brothers were there. I want you to try to identify at least one of the others by the wrist tat. Sela doesn’t remember anything other than he was tan and had dark hair.”
And that he raped her ass, but I don’t tell him that.
“Understood,” he says. “What else?”
“I want you to dig deep into JT. Find out what crap he’s involved with outside of the business. I know he does drugs and still gets off on spiking women’s drinks to rape them, so I’m guessing he’s elbow deep in some dirty shit. I want anything I can use to ruin him.”
“Why don’t you just report the rape to the police?” Dennis asks.
“Sela’s considering it, but she’s afraid her memory is too spotty for them to investigate him. Also afraid he won’t roll on the others. We’d like to see if we can find out the identities of the others first and if there’s any other dirt on JT. The police are a last resort.”
“When do you want me to start?” he asks, flipping back through his phone…presumably for his calendar.
“The minute you walk out that door. And I want you on this exclusively. Turn down your other work or farm it out,” I say firmly.
“That’ll cost you big,” he warns.
I open my middle drawer and pull out my checkbook. It burns like acid deep in my gut knowing that I share DNA with my monster of a half brother, and I’m going to do whatever it takes to make him suffer. It’s a good thing I’m fucking rich, and I’d spend every dime I have to help Sela. After pulling a check off, I scratch my signature on the bottom line and hand it to him across the desk. “There’s a blank check. Fill in the amount.”
My move doesn’t seem to surprise Dennis, but he takes the check from me and tucks it into his pocket.
Standing up from his chair, he taps a finger on his phone and says, “Let me get a picture of that tattoo.”
Pulling my T-shirt up and over my head, I turn to give my back to Dennis. I hear the sound of his snapping shots before he says, “Got it. Give me two hours to get my desk cleared and I’m all yours until we find what we need.”
“Good deal,” I tell him with a relieved smile after I tug my shirt back on. I extend a hand to him and he gives it a firm shake.
I’ve got Dennis digging deep, a week away from the office, and a beautiful girl who wants to hop around Europe with me. For the first time in days, I feel like I can breathe.
I gently tap my spoon against the shell of the soft-boiled egg, which is perched in a white porcelain egg cup. When it was set before me, I didn’t have a clue what to do with it. I looked across the table at Beck, who eyed his just as suspiciously. The waitress, however, was not immune to our helpless looks and had clearly encountered her share of ignorant American tourists, and showed Beck how to tap through the top quarter of the shell and twist it off so he could get to the egg inside.
We’re sitting at a coveted window table in the Café Schwarzenberg, one of the first true Viennese coffeehouses, which was built in 1861. We missed our connecting flight from Zurich to Vienna, which precipitated a four-hour delay whereby we had to hang out in the airport, only to learn when we arrived at the Grand Hotel Wein early this morning that our room wasn’t ready. Apparently some Arab sheik was also staying at the hotel and our room had been mistakenly given to one of his security detail. We were assured they would ready another room for us immediately and suggested we have some breakfast at Café Schwarzenberg, which was just down the block off the Kärntner Ring. I was skeptical about the sheik story, but just as we were making our way out the front double doors, we were astounded to see about twenty reporters spring up from chairs all around the lobby and scurry toward the bank of elevators. Sure enough, a man dressed in full Lawrence of Arabia style stepped out surrounded by five bodyguards dressed in black suits, black sunglasses, and wire mics in their ears. They pushed their way through the crowd and Beck took my elbow, pulling me backward to give them passage. The sheik walked right out the door and into an awaiting nondescript black car, with two identical cars behind that carried his bodyguards.
With a sharp whack against my egg, which causes a piece of shell to shoot across the table, I blow off the top of my egg, causing yellow yolk to leak all over the place. I give a disgruntled sigh as Beck laughs at me and push the egg cup away. Instead, I pull a croissant off the side plate and break off a piece.
And oh God…I’m not sure anything more delicious has ever been in my mouth. I stifle a moan and put a larger piece between my lips before chewing on it slowly so I can savor.
“What do you think we should do today?” Beck asks as he takes the tiny egg spoon and pulls out some of the white flesh covered in warm yolk from the inside of the shell.
“I’m tired as hell,” I say after swallowing, and then punctuate it with a yawn. “But I’m excited to get out and explore. Maybe just walk around the city a bit. Nap in the afternoon so we can get our inner clocks adjusted.”