look.
Finnegan, who seemed to feel he’d overstepped his boundaries, gave him an apologetic grin. “So what do you want me to do? Keep following them around? Snap some more shots?” He seemed very eager, and Grover reflected that here was a man who loved his job, which was pretty rare.
“No, that’s all right. I’ll pay you whatever I owe you and let it go at that,” he said, half to himself and half to the guy. He needed to think. Needed to figure out what to do next. He disliked scandals. If word got out about this, it would reflect badly on both himself and his business, and he couldn’t afford that. No, he needed to think before he acted. So he gave the detective a feeble smile. “Thank you, Mr. Finnegan. I’ll show you out.”
“No worries, Mr. Calypso,” said the man. “I know the way.” Then, as he walked away, he turned. “Oh, just one more thing, sir.”
“Mh? What’s that?”
“I overheard Mrs. Calypso and this guy talking about a pregnancy? So now I’m wondering if this is your baby she was talking about or…” He didn’t complete the sentence, for Grover had uttered a startled cry.
God, no. Was Emilia pregnant? That did it. It sure as heck wasn’t his baby. He quickly changed his mind. “Keep on following her,” he instructed, “and gather all the evidence you can about this baby.”
“Will do, sir,” said the detective, well pleased.
Five minutes later, Grover was talking to Chazz Falcone, his best friend and fellow billionaire, requesting an urgent meeting. If there was anyone in the world who would understand his plight, it was Chazz. And another five minutes later, he was walking briskly, on his way to The Parton, the club he and Chazz shared on the corner of 69th Street. Emilia had taken things too far. He could forgive her this dalliance, for the sake of his business and his family. But he couldn’t forgive her saddling him with a child that wasn’t his.
Chapter 15
I t didn’t take Reece long before he realized he’d been knocked out again. Now he was strapped to a table, ankles and wrists tied, and a weird guy stood bent over him, studying him carefully through horn-rimmed glasses. He was rangy, and his face looked like skin stretched over angular bone.
The moment the guy noticed his subject was awake, he grinned sheepishly. “Sorry about that,” he said with a chuckle. “Big guy like you might put up some resistance, so my daughter decided not to take chances.”
“What’s going on?” Reece asked groggily.
It just went to show that he wasn’t Chuck MacLachlan but an actor playing a part. If he was Chuck, he’d have managed to get rid of these restraints and would have kicked this guy to kingdom come already. As it was, he simply lay there, wondering why he felt like a bug being dissected.
If this were a Crunch Time movie, the guy would be a crazy scientist, subjecting him to some medical experiment, possibly injecting some experimental substance into his bloodstream that would turn him into a mindless robot doing the bidding of the next Adolf Hitler. But this was real life, which was why he decided to ask the question. “Who are you?”
“I’m Dr. Cieslok,” said the man with a proud smile, “Dr. Anselm Cieslok. And I’m a taxidermist.”
Taxidermist. The word sounded familiar, but since he didn’t bring his dictionary—and they’d taken his phone—he decided to probe further. “So you’re one of those Uber guys, huh?” he ventured. “Taxi driver?”
The man seemed unsurprised that Reece was unaware of the meaning to the word. “A taxidermist is an artist, my friend. An artist whose work often goes unnoticed and unappreciated. My specialty is the stuffing of humans. I used to do animals, of course, but I found stuffing humans a more rewarding pastime, so that has become my specialty. Most fascinating work indeed.”
Reece frowned. “Lemme see if I get this straight. You stuff humans—as in, you take a human being and you… stuff
Finnegan, who seemed to feel he’d overstepped his boundaries, gave him an apologetic grin. “So what do you want me to do? Keep following them around? Snap some more shots?” He seemed very eager, and Grover reflected that here was a man who loved his job, which was pretty rare.
“No, that’s all right. I’ll pay you whatever I owe you and let it go at that,” he said, half to himself and half to the guy. He needed to think. Needed to figure out what to do next. He disliked scandals. If word got out about this, it would reflect badly on both himself and his business, and he couldn’t afford that. No, he needed to think before he acted. So he gave the detective a feeble smile. “Thank you, Mr. Finnegan. I’ll show you out.”
“No worries, Mr. Calypso,” said the man. “I know the way.” Then, as he walked away, he turned. “Oh, just one more thing, sir.”
“Mh? What’s that?”
“I overheard Mrs. Calypso and this guy talking about a pregnancy? So now I’m wondering if this is your baby she was talking about or…” He didn’t complete the sentence, for Grover had uttered a startled cry.
God, no. Was Emilia pregnant? That did it. It sure as heck wasn’t his baby. He quickly changed his mind. “Keep on following her,” he instructed, “and gather all the evidence you can about this baby.”
“Will do, sir,” said the detective, well pleased.
Five minutes later, Grover was talking to Chazz Falcone, his best friend and fellow billionaire, requesting an urgent meeting. If there was anyone in the world who would understand his plight, it was Chazz. And another five minutes later, he was walking briskly, on his way to The Parton, the club he and Chazz shared on the corner of 69th Street. Emilia had taken things too far. He could forgive her this dalliance, for the sake of his business and his family. But he couldn’t forgive her saddling him with a child that wasn’t his.
Chapter 15
I t didn’t take Reece long before he realized he’d been knocked out again. Now he was strapped to a table, ankles and wrists tied, and a weird guy stood bent over him, studying him carefully through horn-rimmed glasses. He was rangy, and his face looked like skin stretched over angular bone.
The moment the guy noticed his subject was awake, he grinned sheepishly. “Sorry about that,” he said with a chuckle. “Big guy like you might put up some resistance, so my daughter decided not to take chances.”
“What’s going on?” Reece asked groggily.
It just went to show that he wasn’t Chuck MacLachlan but an actor playing a part. If he was Chuck, he’d have managed to get rid of these restraints and would have kicked this guy to kingdom come already. As it was, he simply lay there, wondering why he felt like a bug being dissected.
If this were a Crunch Time movie, the guy would be a crazy scientist, subjecting him to some medical experiment, possibly injecting some experimental substance into his bloodstream that would turn him into a mindless robot doing the bidding of the next Adolf Hitler. But this was real life, which was why he decided to ask the question. “Who are you?”
“I’m Dr. Cieslok,” said the man with a proud smile, “Dr. Anselm Cieslok. And I’m a taxidermist.”
Taxidermist. The word sounded familiar, but since he didn’t bring his dictionary—and they’d taken his phone—he decided to probe further. “So you’re one of those Uber guys, huh?” he ventured. “Taxi driver?”
The man seemed unsurprised that Reece was unaware of the meaning to the word. “A taxidermist is an artist, my friend. An artist whose work often goes unnoticed and unappreciated. My specialty is the stuffing of humans. I used to do animals, of course, but I found stuffing humans a more rewarding pastime, so that has become my specialty. Most fascinating work indeed.”
Reece frowned. “Lemme see if I get this straight. You stuff humans—as in, you take a human being and you… stuff
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