Sacrifice Love: Saints Protection & Investigations by Maryann Jordan Page A
Authors: Maryann Jordan
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to hand it to her. Her eyes scanned the letter first, then lifted them to him for further explanation. He simply stood, smiling at her.
“Um, do you want to explain further?” she queried.
His brow furrowed in confusion. “Don’t that letter tell what happened?”
“It says that there was an attempted break-in to the facility and the cameras showed the person making it to Section 2B before the alarms sounded and they left.”
“Yep, that’s what happened,” the young man said proudly.
Lifting her eyebrow, she counted, not so patiently, to ten. “My unit is in Section 2B. Why was I not notified about this?”
“But you are being told. That’s what I’m doing now,” he said, confusion mixed now with irritation on his face.
“Yes, but this letter doesn’t say when it occurred. I should have been told immediately.”
“But it just happened last night,” he protested. “I can’t do nothin’ without the big guys at corporation telling me what to do.”
“Last night? Did you turn the security tapes over to the police?”
“Huh? Well, yeah, I guess,” he answered. “Some man came this afternoon and got ’em. But they were messed up, so I don’t think the tapes’ll do ’em much good.”
“Some man? Did he show identification?”
“Huh?” he asked again.
Oh, fuck. Save me from incompetence. Sucking in a deep breath, she asked, “How do you know who you turned them over to if the person did not show you a badge?”
“Well, why would someone come in and ask for the tapes if they weren’t no police? Anyway, I ain’t seen no regulation that says I can’t give it out.”
I’m pretty sure there’s a regulation, buddy , but realizing she was getting nowhere with her investigative, suspicious mind, she smiled and thanked him for the letter. I’m checking my unit and then I’ll call the police myself. Or maybe one of my FBI buddies.
Her heels clicking along was the only sound heard as she made her way down the long, empty hall of the indoor, climate-controlled storage facility. Turning onto Section 2B, she looked up at the security cameras in the corners. Unless they are state-of-the-art cameras, my unit in the center of the hall would not be very protected. Arriving at the door, she realized she had nothing of real value in the unit. So, why the fuck am I concerned? A thief could walk away with everything and I wouldn’t care! Convinced it was just the investigator in her, she unlocked the unit and raised the garage-like metal door.
The scent immediately hit her. The smell of musty cardboard…and Adam’s aftershave. She had her possessions and the few bits of furniture moved to her new home last month after two months of living with her parents. The only things left were the few boxes, labeled Adam or Work; she had not been emotionally ready to deal with them then. But now? I need to go through them, but not here. I need to do this in private.
She pulled her phone out and called the front desk. “I need you to bring a cart to unit 236 in Section 2B, please. I want to take my last boxes and close out my account.” She paused, listening. “Yes, I’m the lady you just spoke to. Please bring the cart now.” Disconnecting, she pinched the top of her nose in frustration.
In a few minutes, she heard the loud sound of squeaky wheels on tile and was grateful to see the young man rolling a long, flatbed cart toward her. As he arrived, he said, “I’m real sorry, but I ain’t supposed to help with any of your stuff. It’s against corporate policy.”
“No worries,” she assured him. “I’ve lifted much heavier boxes than these. Thank you, though, for bringing the cart.”
She walked in and lifted the first box to place it on the cart, then suddenly it was taken from her hands.
“Oh, hell, miss. My momma didn’t raise me to let a lady lift boxes while I stood around with my thumb up my ass.” He set the box on the cart and went back to get the next one.
She smiled and,
“Um, do you want to explain further?” she queried.
His brow furrowed in confusion. “Don’t that letter tell what happened?”
“It says that there was an attempted break-in to the facility and the cameras showed the person making it to Section 2B before the alarms sounded and they left.”
“Yep, that’s what happened,” the young man said proudly.
Lifting her eyebrow, she counted, not so patiently, to ten. “My unit is in Section 2B. Why was I not notified about this?”
“But you are being told. That’s what I’m doing now,” he said, confusion mixed now with irritation on his face.
“Yes, but this letter doesn’t say when it occurred. I should have been told immediately.”
“But it just happened last night,” he protested. “I can’t do nothin’ without the big guys at corporation telling me what to do.”
“Last night? Did you turn the security tapes over to the police?”
“Huh? Well, yeah, I guess,” he answered. “Some man came this afternoon and got ’em. But they were messed up, so I don’t think the tapes’ll do ’em much good.”
“Some man? Did he show identification?”
“Huh?” he asked again.
Oh, fuck. Save me from incompetence. Sucking in a deep breath, she asked, “How do you know who you turned them over to if the person did not show you a badge?”
“Well, why would someone come in and ask for the tapes if they weren’t no police? Anyway, I ain’t seen no regulation that says I can’t give it out.”
I’m pretty sure there’s a regulation, buddy , but realizing she was getting nowhere with her investigative, suspicious mind, she smiled and thanked him for the letter. I’m checking my unit and then I’ll call the police myself. Or maybe one of my FBI buddies.
Her heels clicking along was the only sound heard as she made her way down the long, empty hall of the indoor, climate-controlled storage facility. Turning onto Section 2B, she looked up at the security cameras in the corners. Unless they are state-of-the-art cameras, my unit in the center of the hall would not be very protected. Arriving at the door, she realized she had nothing of real value in the unit. So, why the fuck am I concerned? A thief could walk away with everything and I wouldn’t care! Convinced it was just the investigator in her, she unlocked the unit and raised the garage-like metal door.
The scent immediately hit her. The smell of musty cardboard…and Adam’s aftershave. She had her possessions and the few bits of furniture moved to her new home last month after two months of living with her parents. The only things left were the few boxes, labeled Adam or Work; she had not been emotionally ready to deal with them then. But now? I need to go through them, but not here. I need to do this in private.
She pulled her phone out and called the front desk. “I need you to bring a cart to unit 236 in Section 2B, please. I want to take my last boxes and close out my account.” She paused, listening. “Yes, I’m the lady you just spoke to. Please bring the cart now.” Disconnecting, she pinched the top of her nose in frustration.
In a few minutes, she heard the loud sound of squeaky wheels on tile and was grateful to see the young man rolling a long, flatbed cart toward her. As he arrived, he said, “I’m real sorry, but I ain’t supposed to help with any of your stuff. It’s against corporate policy.”
“No worries,” she assured him. “I’ve lifted much heavier boxes than these. Thank you, though, for bringing the cart.”
She walked in and lifted the first box to place it on the cart, then suddenly it was taken from her hands.
“Oh, hell, miss. My momma didn’t raise me to let a lady lift boxes while I stood around with my thumb up my ass.” He set the box on the cart and went back to get the next one.
She smiled and,
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