Anarchy Found (SuperAlpha, #1)(14)

“Ah,” Mr. Montgomery says with a small chuckle. “Do you like it?”

I study the photo for a moment. He’s very handsome now and I’d peg him to be in his early thirties. But he was young in this picture. Early twenties, maybe. The hair was blonder, the eyes brighter, and the smile wider. There are no worry lines on his forehead on that day, just pure joy. It’s actually a series of pictures, four of them lined up horizontally along the wall, but contained within one expansive frame.

He’s surfing a giant wave in the second of the series and the caption says Monsoon Beach—wave height, forty feet. I’m no expert in surfing but that’s a big f*cking wave.

“It wasn’t even close to the biggest wave ever surfed, but it was a record for me. And I can tell you this, Detective, my heart was pounding so fast, I thought I might pass out before it was over.”

I look up at him and he’s smiling. He almost looks like the young man holding a trophy in the third image. “I bet,” I say, knowing what it’s like to put your life on the line for sport, “your mother was pissed.”

He laughs heartily. “Oh, you have no idea.” He puts a hand on my back and guides me forward into his private office. When we get inside there are more pictures of him. Snowboarding competitions, skiing down pristine, virgin mountains. Rock-climbing sheer cliff faces. Sailing. I pause on that one, trying to find the connection.

“Solo trip around the world,” Montgomery says, like he’s reading my mind. “I was seventeen and that boat was nothing but a twenty-four-foot sloop.”

“So it bit you early, huh?” I turn to look at him as he smiles at his younger self.

“What?” he asks, dragging his eyes away from the memory of that day.

“The X-bug.” He gives me a confused look. “That’s what I call it. My father was a stunt rider. I grew up in the circus. My brother and I followed in his footsteps until the unthinkable happened.”

Montgomery’s smile falters. He understands better than most, I bet. “I’m sorry.”

He probably is. He’s probably one of the few who know what it’s like to lose people in the game of daring. “The X-gene. The X-factor. The life of an extreme addict. It must’ve been difficult to settle down in this…” I look around at his office. “Prison.”

His laugh is uneasy, like I hit the nail on the head. “Well, you’re certainly perceptive, Detective Masters. Which is why I’m glad you’re here. I’m hoping you’ll be able to figure out if the last two suicides are related. And whether it’s something internal we need to deal with, or just a coincidence.”

“Well, I’m here to find the truth and nothing more, so take that any way you want.” It’s unnecessary to make an enemy out of him, but there’s this chip on my shoulder. It’s not easy being a woman in a world filled with men. It was difficult in the military, but they had discipline. And I’m starting to get the impression that the CCPD doesn’t give one f*ck about discipline. But at least Montgomery isn’t the pretentious * I imagined him being on the way over.

“Good,” he says, back to business. “Have a seat, Miss Masters.”

Ah, they always do that eventually. It was all Detective this and Detective that until I didn’t play along with the illusion that I’m at his beck and call. “Thank you, Atticus.”

His eyebrow shoots up but he keeps his mouth shut. Perhaps realizing he needs my services just as much as I need his cooperation.

“Why don’t you start from the beginning so we can get started?” I sit down and get my tablet out to take notes. “Who found the body?”

This is how it starts. This is why I do this job. I’ve always had this keen interest in figuring things out. Puzzles, the best way to do a trick on the bikes, and then later, security details to keep people safe. I was good at it. Very good. So good I was promoted after noticing something strange about a man during a highbrow politician’s inaugural speech a few years back. I saved the politician’s life and found a new passion at the same time. And this one simple question is the first step down the path of truth.

I live for it. I’d die for it, that’s how much I love getting to the bottom of things. I have never been tolerant of mysteries. I need answers and I need them immediately. But I force myself to be patient when I’m working. Force myself to be calm, and still, and quiet as I listen for lies, or missing truths, or wasted opportunities.

And Atticus Montgomery gives me all that and more. Because the first thing out of his mouth is, “We might have a problem.”

“How so?” I ask, leaning in.

“These two men started working for the company at the same time. Fifteen years ago, to be precise. And they were working on the same project.”

“What project is that?”

“I can’t tell you specifics, as it’s highly secret. But it’s enough of a coincidence that I’m worried.”

“Well, tell me everything you can and I’ll try to figure it out.”

He tells me some, but it’s mostly corporate double-talk. I might as well be a member of the press. So I leave there with no idea what’s going on and with no possibilities rambling around in my brain.

But I did get a name, and after a visit to the wife of the last suicide victim, an inkling. Top-secret project was all she knew. No specifics, so that was a dead end. But she did say the job was weighing on him and he had been feeling out of sorts. Irritability and loss of interest in her and their children. Hopelessness and insomnia. All typical signs of severe depression. This is something I have firsthand knowledge of.