Cruel Paradise

3

After he lowers his considerable bulk into the chair and gets settled, he strums his fingers thoughtfully on the closed lid of the Mac in his lap. “You believe in astrology?”

I say drily, “Sure. That and Big Foot, too.”

“Big Foot could be a real thing. I saw a show on the telly once—”

“Declan.”

“Sorry. Where was I?”

“About to get your block knocked off.”

“Oh, right. Astrology.” He pauses to look at me meaningfully. “Mercury is in retrograde.”

I gaze at him steadily from under lowered brows. “You’re aware, I assume, that I’m in possession of an extremely short temper and a large collection of guns? Several of which are within reach?”

Ignoring my threat, Declan continues. “The thing about Mercury is that it can be a trickster. Especially when in retrograde. Everything gets f****d up. Computers crash, flights get cancelled, contracts fall through.”

He takes another meaningful pause. “Things are backward.”

“You have three seconds to make your point before I put a bullet between your eyes.”

Declan smiles. “What would be the most backward thing you could think of about a man who’d steal a truckload of diapers?”

Honestly, if Liam didn’t like him so much, Declan would already be bleeding out on the Turkish rug.

Before I can riddle his body with bullet holes, he pronounces, “If the man were a woman.”

I take a moment to gauge if he’s joking. “A woman?”

Looking inexplicably pleased, he nods. “And not only one of them.”

When he doesn’t continue, I say, “If it takes you more than a single word to tell me how many women stole a goddamn truck full of goddamn diapers from me, I’ll separate your head from your body.” “Two.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

We stare at each other. Finally, I say, “You enjoy annoying me, don’t you?”

He shrugs. “Aye. Don’t take it personally. I just like to poke bears.”

My tone bone dry, I say, “Lucky me.”

“It took Liam about a decade to get used to me, so.” He shrugs again.

“A word of advice, Declan: my brother has all the patience in the family. I’m the one with the hair-trigger temper.”

He makes a face and shakes his head. “That’s what you want people to think. From what I’ve seen, you’re extremely methodical and precise. When you kill someone, you’ve been planning it for a long time.”

I resist the urge to sigh. Instead, I lean back in my chair, fold my hands over my stomach, and gaze at him.

After a while, he says, “Okay, so I’m thinking that look means you’ve already figured out how you’re going to kill me, and the next time I irritate you, I’ll find myself swinging from the rafters.”

“And the noose will be made of your own bowels.”

Picturing it, he grimaces. “Wow. You’re going full Hannibal Lecter on me.”

I allow my lips to curve into a faint, evil smile. “Aye. In several more minutes, I might be wearing your face as a mask. Tell me about the women.”

With a grudging grunt, he sits forward, sets the laptop on my desk, and opens it. He types on the keyboard for a moment, then turns the screen toward me.

I’m looking at a closeup of a large delivery truck. The shot is from the front. It’s grainy, but visible through the windshield are the driver and passenger of the truck.

The driver is a blonde. The passenger is a brunette. They’re not gazing out the windshield, but instead are looking at each other.

Looking at each other and laughing.

Hard.

I glance up at Declan. He puts his hands in the air, like, I’ve got nothin’.

I turn my attention back to the screen. It’s hard to discern their features, but it’s obvious both women are young.

And, judging by their uproarious laughter, probably high on drugs.

“These are the diaper thieves.”

“Aye.”

“Do you recognize either one of them?”

“Nope. No hits in any database on their faces, either, though that could be due to the angle. Hit the right arrow key.”

When I do, another still shot appears. This time I’m looking at the same truck, but from the rear. It’s parked in the middle of a grassy field, tailgate lowered, back doors wide open.

It’s empty.

Declan says, “They offloaded the haul in a rural area about thirty minutes outside the city and abandoned the truck. Tire tracks coming into and going out of the field suggest multiple smaller vehicles were involved.”

I don’t have to ask to know that he tracked the truck to the field by hacking into streetlight cameras near the warehouse, but I do have another question.

“Where did those smaller vehicles go from there?”

“No idea.”

Surprised, I look up at him. He says, “They cut the feed to all the traffic cameras within miles of that field.”

He sounds impressed, which irks me. “So hack a satellite to find out where they went.” He blinks.

Looks like I’ll have to do the heavy lifting myself. “Forget it. I still don’t understand the diaper angle. If they wanted to steal something from me, there are far more valuable hauls they could’ve gone after.”

“Assuming they even knew you owned that factory.” His cell phone dings. He digs it from his pocket, looks at it, and frowns.

“What is it?”

Instead of answering, he stands and walks to the coffee table in front of the sofa across the room. He picks up the TV remote and hits a button. The television comes on to the local news station.