* * * *
Fun fact about people: Everyone has a secret.
Something they want kept buried.
A skeleton knocking on the walls of their closet.
It’s the best part about investigative journalism. The dirt digging.
It took a little research, a few phone calls, and a quick trip to a sketchy part of town to get it all together, but by the time I’d gotten what I needed Evans had managed to convince A.I. to send another group of representatives.
They agreed under two conditions:
1. That they be allowed to bring their own security.
2. That they’d be meeting directly with Evans and not a subordinate.
I didn’t see a problem with it, but I advised Evans to make sure that Penelope Jensen was also present at the meeting; once all the terms were agreed to, we convened in Gabriel’s office. Even with the three people from A.I. and three security guards, there weren’t nearly enough of us to fill up all the seats at the overly large conference table. Seated at the head of the table, Evans looked perfectly at ease while the rest of us, Marcus included, seemed dwarfed by the sheer space. I was afraid we’d have to yell to be heard, but thankfully the acoustics in the room were nothing to sneeze at.
“What’s all this about?” Penelope Jensen spoke up almost as soon as Evans took a seat. “You don’t honestly think we’d listen to anything you had to say after what you did to Fredrichs this morning?”
As she spoke, I pulled a small digital recorder out of my purse and set it on the table. Then I shrugged. I’d asked Evans to let me lead things and he seemed content enough to do so.
Curious.
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Jensen,” I began, “but I’m afraid I don’t know who Fredrichs is.” I could only assume that he’d been the guy who’d gotten his ear bitten off before passing out, but no need to rehash the past. “I am, however, close friends with Georgina.”
At the name, she frowned, looking to her companions for clarification. I almost felt sorry for her. Penelope Jensen was an older woman, refined, poised. Her steel gray hair was cut into a flattering pixie cut and sources told me that her husband, Judge Jensen, was hoping to run for governor one day.
Fortunately for us, sources told me a lot of things.
Sources had big mouths.
“Please. This should explain everything.” I pressed play on the recorder and watched, emotionless, as Jensen’s complexion turned an alarming shade of puce. For a moment the room was silent, but for the hoarse pleas and moans coming from Judge Jensen as he was rammed from behind by Georgina, the six-foot tranny ho (I just called her Genie). The silence lasted until someone choked. It was Evans, and whatever struggle he was waging with himself lasted only until Judge Jensen’s orgasm had him singing a warbling, breathless rendition of “Part of Your World” from The Little Mermaid before he dissolved into outright raucous laughter.
I stopped the tape and Jensen looked at me as if she’d very much like to bury her stiletto in my eye. Smiling, I asked sweetly, “Does your husband often sing Disney when he comes?”
“There’s no proof it’s him,” she snapped. The attitude told me that he was indeed a fan of the Disney musicals. Eh. Not that I was judging. Some people were more “spank me, daddy; pull my hair” than “it’s better down where it's wetter.” But in the end, all of it was the same thing.
Dirty talk.
I shrugged. “No proof it isn’t, either,” I told her, not unkindly. “And Georgina can be very convincing when she wants to be. Things like this have a way of making life…difficult,” I warned her. “Aggravated assault charges are like that too. Unnecessary trouble.” I sent a significant glance towards a still laughing Evans, before raising a brow at Jensen. Then, popping the recorder open, I took out the mini tape and slid it across the table to her. “You can keep it. I have copies.”
Jensen’s jaw tightened, her teeth ground together, and her icy blue eyes spit rage.
“Where’s. The damn. Contract.”
Jackpot.
“No one ever sheds a tear for the wolf. Not anymore.”
—Sinclair Morrison
Chapter Five