The Job (Auctioned), Cara Dee [ebook reader wifi TXT] 📗

cocked my head. The image of AJ Lange was becoming clearer. Tiny metal figurines in various martial arts poses stood on the table, and it wouldn’t surprise me if AJ had training in that. In fact, it would make more sense than a past in the military.

Deciding that one of the chairs was a good place to get audio, I fished out the little transmitter and peeled off the adhesive film. Then I attached it to the underside of the leather chair, on the inside at the base of one of the legs.

I heard Boone coming up the stairs as I moved on to take more photos of the grand desk. It was the one piece of furniture that didn’t fit in. There was nothing new and trendy about it. The opposite. It looked like it belonged in a dusty old English castle. Big and sturdy, dark wood, intricate details.

It’d be fun if there were any hidden drawers.

“You didn’t run up the stairs, so I assume there’s no immediate danger,” I said, squatting down to peer under the desk.

“No, I think we’re good,” Boone replied. “There’s an explanation for the open window.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah.” He came over to me and handed me a note. “Found this on the kitchen counter.”

I accepted the note and appreciated my brother’s forethought—and thoroughness. There wasn’t actually anything written on the note, but there’d been a message on the sheet above this one on the notepad, and Boone had used a pencil to give the paper a darker shade. It made it easier to see what AJ had written on another note.

I squinted.

It was addressed to an Irene, and it seemed… “Wait. Irene is from the maid service?”

“That’s what it looks like to me too.”

Huh. So AJ was on a first-name basis with the woman who cleaned here, and it looked like it was more than that. He sounded almost apologetic when mentioning he’d smoked a cigar in his study—but he’d left the windows open. That was hella interesting. We knew the cleaning service had been here yesterday—every Saturday at ten in the morning while AJ was at work. Because the guy didn’t have a life.

There were instructions too, and it confirmed my suspicion about where AJ’s parents were gonna stay. Irene was told to prepare the main guest room. Who else could it be for if not his folks?

“AJ’s still at the golf course, so I thought I’d check out the guest rooms,” Boone said. “There’s nothing else to see downstairs. I took some photos.”

“Okay, cool. Thanks.” I handed the note back to him. “Save that.”

He nodded and walked out.

Well, that was a relief. Even though it made me all the more curious. It appeared AJ did have a life; he just hid it very well.

I got behind the desk and sat down in the chair, and I started opening the drawers. There was surprisingly little inside them, so it wasn’t difficult to put stuff back the way it was. Except… I sucked my teeth and stared at the second bundle of cash I’d seen in as many minutes. A handful of crumpled fifty-dollar bills. I knew I’d said we weren’t taking anything this time around. We’d get our shot after Darius had taken over. But goddamn.

My fingers got a little sticky.

I only took two bills. A hundred bucks was nothing. “Okay, back to work,” I mumbled to myself.

More pictures. Now wasn’t the time to read the folders that I flipped through—I only took pictures. All the pictures. And fuck, more money. Was he just throwing it in here? There were several hundred dollars in each drawer. Focus on pictures! And checking to see if there were any—fucking bingo! The bottom of the last drawer definitely had a secret compartment.

Getting down on one knee in front of the drawer, I carefully lifted the bottom and grinned. Score.

It wasn’t money—or diamonds, for that matter—but if someone put something in a hidden compartment, it meant they didn’t want anyone to see it. I retrieved the envelopes and opened them.

I furrowed my brow and tilted my head. Tiny photos, upside down. I took one out and—immediately felt nauseated. Holy fuck. Oh holy fucking shit.

You sick motherfucker.

I killed the music, then began emptying the envelopes on the desk, creating a picture grid from hell.

“Oi!” Boone hollered down the hall. “I found his safe in the walk-in in his bedroom.”

“Be there in a minute,” I answered absentmindedly. Not all the photos fit on the work surface. Far from it. There had to be over fifty in total. I had to call Darius. Right now. Swallowing the queasiness, I scrolled down to his number and called.

Jesus Christ, this was something else. Boone and I were no angels and rarely held the moral high ground, but this… Fuck me, it made me sick to my stomach.

“Casey,” Darius greeted.

I had to swallow again. “I, uh… We’re at his house. I found something. Can we talk?”

There was some rustling in the background, and I assumed he was going to a quieter place for privacy.

“Something wrong?” he asked.

You could say that.

“I found photos in his office,” I stated. “I’d call them mugshots, but I have a feeling they’re all innocent.” Mugshot was only fitting because of how the young men and women were posing. Half of them looked drugged. Many were malnourished. Most of them had bruises and cuts all over their bodies. “I think they’re trafficking victims. Men and women—all on the young side, maybe older teens, early twenties—beaten up, starved, holding up signs with serial numbers.”

I was met with silence.

I couldn’t blame him.

Wanting to get it all out as fast as possible, I told him where I’d found the photos, approximately how many there were, that I was using gloves, and that I was currently taking pictures of them to forward to him. And I explained that I wanted to tell him right away in case he had instructions for me, because this went beyond merely casing the joint. This was damning evidence