7 Kills + An Apple

Twenty-Three: A Burglary

"What painting?"

"A Picasso," she answers, throwing designer pantsuits in her suitcase without a care. "I lost a Picasso, all of my wine collection, millions of dollars in cash, and my grandmother's jewelry. In one stupid night. Do you realize how valuable they are?"

"Worth millions of dollars?"

"Three hundred million," she corrects, her voice flat. "A little close to four hundred. Technically, my grandmother's jewelry isn't mine, because it has been placed in my care. My wine collection... Poof. Gone." She then sinks to the floor, looking smaller than every possible. "Gone, gone, gone."

"What are you going to do now?"

"Try to not get into any more trouble." Then she laughs, though it isn't really a laugh. She stands back up and goes into her walk-in closet. "I guess I might need some other things." Then she comes back out, carrying a black box.

"What is that?" I peer over her shoulder.

She opens it, and a black device stares back out at me. She grabs the handle of the gun and unloads it in a smooth, calculated movement. "I never know when I might get into too much trouble."

A Glock 17. A familiar sight, because I have one myself.

"A firearm?" My jaw drops. "Why is this necessary?"

"You never know." She then puts the magazine and the gun in her suitcase. "Sometimes, the world can be a very dangerous place for those who aren't prepared." She then closes it and rolls it outside. We walk down the stairs, and she carries it with ease.

I examine her closely. I never notice her being strong.

"You know how to use a gun?"

"If I don't, do you think I would be dumb enough to carry it?" she asks, calmly moving through the police and investigators. She ignores the press outside of her gates. She walks to her waiting driver, and I follow her into the car. Together, we watch the yelling press go by.

"Who taught you how to use a gun?" I inquire. I saw a gun permit, but I didn't realize she is that good with the gun. I can easily remember the way she holds it, the way she knows it, and the way she unloads it. "Your bodyguard?"

"An old friend," she simply answers. "A very old friend."

"Do you know self-defense?"

"Yes."

"How long have you known it?"

"Years." She only raises an eyebrow, and then dials up another number on her phone. She says, "Hello. This is Kalypso Queen. I need to talk to him. Yes, right away. I don't care what time it is in the morning. He will reply to me right now or I will fire his ass right now."

I jump, surprised to hear a cuss word out of her mouth. She doesn't use them frequently, but when she does, everyone pays attention—which is probably why she doesn't use them frequently. It is a huge and complicated circle with no beginning or ending.

"I don't care. Get me him right now. You haven't heard? Well, you are going to hear it right now," she says, anger rising in her veins. "My house was just robbed. Robbed. Now, I have three hundred million worth of possessions gone in a single night. I don't care what is going on about your dog, but I want him on your phone in two minutes."

A pause.

Then softening, she adds, "What do you mean his son ran off to Vegas?"

She listens for a long minute. Then she shakily hangs up.

"Whose son ran off to Vegas?"

"It is a long story," she says, staring out of the window. The sky is dark, and the stars are blinking at the two of us—uncaring and so hopeful. "It is a very, very, very long story, Paxton. Have you ever had a very long year without a single good day?"

I think for a long moment. I have been working at the FBI since I was twenty-four years old. I have been there for almost three years, and I haven't stopped once. There is always some new cases, some old rich guy who has been breaking rules, and some person who thinks they can get away with it. I have been undercover many times, and I will continue working until I can rise up through the ranks. I certainly have good days. There are good moments and times with Brigham, Gabi, Tami, and my other coworkers. We aren't alone. We always have each other.

But Kalypso Queen is different. She is all alone at the top. Her fellow executives are willing to backstab her, and most of them dislike her immensely. The Board is willing to put up with her as long as she continues making them enough money. But they still control her, and they don't want her on the loose. From what I have seen, she is always working—never stopping for a single moment. She is like me. But she is different, still.

I answer, "I had good days. Friends come over to my old home and have parties together. I miss them a lot."

"You never talked about your past."

"You never let me talk very often," I counter, looking at her suitcase in the seat between us. "You never let me speak. You're always giving orders, and I'm always taking them."

A pause. "That is right." Another pause. "In the time of over ten years, I never had a good day. I always had bad days and worse days. Never a good day."

"You sound like you need a vacation," I muse. "Why not run to France for a single day and drink the day and night away? It isn't so hard. Just a little sip and you're gone."

"No. I can't do that. This company requires every bit of attention," she says. Then she picks up her Blackberry and dials up someone. "Helen, I need you to look up all the financial records from both of the Mexican wineries. Yes, right away. Email them. Get all of the necessary information. I also need my house in Napa Valley to be opened. Yes, I know there is a wine tasting party tomorrow night. Yes, I need it open. Thank you."

Then she turns off her phone.

"So many calls," I mutter. "Why so many of them?"

"Some are from international. Others are from vintners who want my opinion on certain bottles. Others are clients who haven't received their cases yet. I had Helen deal with a Saudi Prince who refuses to pay us the owed fourteen million dollars. He kept on drinking our wine as if it's water."

I snort. "That sounds pleasant."

"He has an expensive taste," she says. "And it is a taste that helps business move along. I'm always waiting for calls to come, and I'm always calling someone. Every single day."

"Who ran to Vegas?" I ask, after a long moment of silence.

Funny, it is Nathan who answers. "Peter, Mister Mekal. Kalypso's boyfriend, Peter Fowler, just ran to Las Vegas to elope."

"With whom?" I blink. I check Kalypso. She is still there, alright. That means it isn't her Peter Fowler is planning to marry. "With whom?"

"Not me," she says.

"Mark Stokes," answers Nathan. He meets Kalypso's eyes in the rear view mirror. "I'm sorry, Miss Queen. I didn't warn you ahead of time. I delivered him myself to SFO, and Mark Stokes was there as well. They decide that they are going to elope with each other."

"And does Peter's father know?"

"He'll find out on TMZ," Nathan only replies. Then he makes a turn onto the freeway.

"Who is Mark Stokes?" I want to scratch my head and bash my brains on the trunk of the car. How come his name sounds so familiar yet I can't recall a face?

"He is Capello International's HR Director," Kalypso answers, her hands sneaking towards the iPhone on her lap. She clenches her fists, as if stopping herself from calling another person. "I hope he has a lot of wedding pictures."

"You're not mad at Peter?" I raise my eyebrow.

"I knew for years."

"And I knew too," adds in Nathan. "After all, I was the one who kept on taking Mister Peter to the secret meetings and dance clubs and master—"

"Don't finish that sentence!" hollers Kalypso.