Surviving Ice (Burying Water #4)(50)

I smirk. “Something like that.”

“Well, don’t think I’m gonna pay you. I have no money for protection.”

“I seem to remember handing you fourteen hundred bucks today.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She gives me a sly smile, but then all amusement fades from her face. “Do you always carry a gun, even when you’re not working?”

I figured that would come up, eventually. “Yeah.” I hesitate but ask, “Does it bother you?”

She shakes her head and then dismisses the topic entirely. “Well, I’m going to the shop at nine in the morning to let the painters in. That’s”—she glances at the clock—“only five hours away.” She looks from the house back to me. I can’t tell if she’s just pointing out the obvious or fishing for me to stay. I don’t even think it’s about getting laid anymore. By the way she seemed to gravitate to my side for the past few hours, dealing with the cops, I think she just feels safer having me around. And that is why I’d love to say yes to her right now.

Pulling out my burner phone—idiot move but it’s the only phone I have on me—I demand, “Give me your number.”

She recites her number and then pushes open the door and climbs out.

I briefly consider grabbing her arm, pulling her back in to taste the last of the whiskey and Coke in her mouth, but I resist because I know where that’ll lead and I do need to go. “Get some sleep. I’ll come back in the morning,” I call out, watching her saunter up to the house with her duffel bag slung over her shoulder. The door opens and a pretty woman with long dark hair and tan skin appears in nothing but a nightshirt. She’s smiling wide, like she’s not at all bothered by the late arrival.

I wait until the door is closed, send her a quick generic “sleep well” text so she has my number, and then pull away.

Bentley answers the phone with a gruff, “Yeah?”

“You sent those f*ckers into her house!”

There’s a pause and then I hear rustling on the other end, followed by a muffled, “It’s not even five in the morning, John. Who’s calling?”

“It’s okay. It’s work.”

“What phone is that? That’s not your iPhone, is it?”

“Go back to sleep, Tuuli.” He heaves a sigh. Footfalls sound, and I can picture him trudging down the long hall to his office. Not until a door shuts does he speak again. “I warned you, didn’t I?”

“You said tomorrow, and you didn’t say anything about going into her house.”

“I changed my mind and had them go in to do a final sweep tonight. Figured we had to be sure.”

“That wasn’t a sweep, John. They ransacked it.”

“So the police will file a report and she’ll claim insurance. Not a big deal.”

I grit my teeth against the urge to yell. “You also said they’d stay away from me. One of those *s was ten feet away from me tonight. He followed her to the club.”

“Did he approach you?”

“No, but—”

“Then he followed orders and there’s nothing to discuss here, so stand down!” Bentley doesn’t like being questioned, and he’s not used to it coming from me.

“Don’t you think turning over a recently murdered man’s house will raise suspicions?”

“Maybe, but no one will have anything to go on and it’ll die down soon enough. It’s worth it, if it means finding that tape.”

“And did they?” I already know the answer, because I already searched the f*cking house!

A long pause. “No.”

“Keep them away from me. And her. If she has the tape, she doesn’t know.”

“How do you—”

“Because I’m good at what I do. I can read people, and I know that she had no f*cking clue why anyone would want to bust into her place tonight. If she were hiding a tape that got her uncle killed, she’d be freaking out and running. And now the cops have turned their attention to her, and they’re already starting to ask questions that tie back to her uncle.”

A quiet “shit” slips out of Bentley’s mouth.

Seriously, what did he think was going to happen when he told those guys to tail us? They’d already acted beyond the scope of his orders before. Stupid amateur move, Bentley.

“Just . . .” He sighs. “Keep an eye on her. You’re right. We don’t want her turning up dead right now.”

“Or ever.”

“Right.”

“And your guys?”

“They’ll stay away from you.” He’s awful quick to say that.

“If I see them again—”

“Just find that f*cking video and everyone will be happy and safe,” Bentley snaps.

The phone line goes dead. I toss it aside and stretch out on my bed. The center caves under my weight, but I barely give it any thought, my mind reeling over tonight’s developments, which veered in a much less enjoyable direction than they were supposed to.

As long as that videotape is out there, Ivy’s not safe, that much is clear. Tonight, Bentley’s other guys trashed her house for no good reason. I already searched that place top to bottom and told Bentley as much. He must be under a lot of stress here, to undermine me like that, to not trust me after bringing me here explicitly because I’m the only one he trusts. He’s not thinking rationally. Which means that tomorrow . . . who’s to stop him from telling these guys to go straight to Ivy?