Read Online Beg Me by Lisa Lawrence - Free Book Online
Authors: Lisa Lawrence
Tags: Fiction
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kids’ books. You’re poking around, trying to sniff out something. What are you? Some kind of detective? What is it you’re after, Teresa?”
2
M y breath caught for a second, and then there was nothing to do but come clean. How the hell…? I folded my arms and let my boot heel click on the unfinished floor.
“Truth? I
do
like you, Oliver. But I am after something—”
“Son of a bitch! I was hoping to be wrong. Goddammit!”
“How did you learn about me?”
He laughed in my face. “I may never have got to England, baby, but I got friends there. My boy out front? He works here just two or three days a week, doing me a favor. His main gig is working for a buddy of mine who owns an African art gallery in Sugar Hill. They sell to Europe, so I got him to check out your name with a couple of dealers in London. You’re known. You’re quite the legend, Teresa. They say you gallivant all over God’s creation helping people ‘solve problems.’ What I want to know is: What are you doing in my business?”
I didn’t have much choice. He was my one lead, and my instincts told me he was an innocent in all this. So I laid it all out for him. Learning of Anna’s death, going to Bangkok and meeting with Jeff Lee, and tracing his store through the photograph.
“Anna’s dead?” he whispered, and he slowly leaned back against his desk.
“You didn’t know?” I asked incredulously. “It must have been in the papers.”
He shook his head and looked up at me with genuine embarrassment. “I stopped reading stuff about murders and mayhem. I never pick up the
Post.
I read the
Times.
I remember seeing something about a girl in an alley, but they hadn’t identified her when that story came out. That was—that was Anna? Oh, God.”
“You did know her, then?”
“She was a friend,” he answered, and the feeling bled out of his voice.
“Well, she was my friend too, and the sister of my client. Someone—someone I bet you know, Oliver—dumped her like trash in an alley.”
“Oh, Jesus…”
“I want to know who these people are, Oliver.”
“No, you don’t, Teresa. Believe me. They are scary-ass fuckers, and I am
lucky
I got away from them. Your Chinese buddy was right. They’re a cult. They are crazy. They’re scary way past street-gang shit right into the Darth Vader zone, you know what I’m saying? I am not involved with them anymore, and I don’t want to be ever again!”
I put my hand on his shoulder and said, “Then why did you help Craig Padmore?”
“Who?”
“Come on, Oliver. I’ve got my sources too. They murdered him as well.”
“Oh, man…”
“You sold him a French book about Vietnam. What did he want with that? He could have got it from anyplace, so why come to you for it?”
He looked up at me, and I couldn’t tell whether he was measuring me for the sake of trust or honestly trying to think of the answer. “I don’t know.”
“Oliver!”
“Teresa, all he wanted was to take his girlfriend back home with him, but Anna wouldn’t go. It was around the time I was extricating myself. He came to my store one afternoon, asked me a whole bunch of questions about the group’s leader and about…”
He hesitated a second. “Padmore picked up that book
himself.
He came back the next day to say good-bye and leave a message to Anna for me to pass on, that he’d welcome her back in London, pay her way if she needed him to.”
“It sounds like he was really worried about her,” I suggested. “How could he just up and leave her in their clutches? This was his girlfriend.”
“What’s the man going to do?” argued Oliver. “His contract’s up, his work visa’s expiring, and she says, ‘Go home, I’m happy here.’ Doesn’t want to listen to him. You think she’d kiss and make up with him if he dropped a dime on her to immigration? So he tried another tack. Prove they didn’t deserve her faith. Like I said, he asked me questions, bought the book—made a big deal
2
M y breath caught for a second, and then there was nothing to do but come clean. How the hell…? I folded my arms and let my boot heel click on the unfinished floor.
“Truth? I
do
like you, Oliver. But I am after something—”
“Son of a bitch! I was hoping to be wrong. Goddammit!”
“How did you learn about me?”
He laughed in my face. “I may never have got to England, baby, but I got friends there. My boy out front? He works here just two or three days a week, doing me a favor. His main gig is working for a buddy of mine who owns an African art gallery in Sugar Hill. They sell to Europe, so I got him to check out your name with a couple of dealers in London. You’re known. You’re quite the legend, Teresa. They say you gallivant all over God’s creation helping people ‘solve problems.’ What I want to know is: What are you doing in my business?”
I didn’t have much choice. He was my one lead, and my instincts told me he was an innocent in all this. So I laid it all out for him. Learning of Anna’s death, going to Bangkok and meeting with Jeff Lee, and tracing his store through the photograph.
“Anna’s dead?” he whispered, and he slowly leaned back against his desk.
“You didn’t know?” I asked incredulously. “It must have been in the papers.”
He shook his head and looked up at me with genuine embarrassment. “I stopped reading stuff about murders and mayhem. I never pick up the
Post.
I read the
Times.
I remember seeing something about a girl in an alley, but they hadn’t identified her when that story came out. That was—that was Anna? Oh, God.”
“You did know her, then?”
“She was a friend,” he answered, and the feeling bled out of his voice.
“Well, she was my friend too, and the sister of my client. Someone—someone I bet you know, Oliver—dumped her like trash in an alley.”
“Oh, Jesus…”
“I want to know who these people are, Oliver.”
“No, you don’t, Teresa. Believe me. They are scary-ass fuckers, and I am
lucky
I got away from them. Your Chinese buddy was right. They’re a cult. They are crazy. They’re scary way past street-gang shit right into the Darth Vader zone, you know what I’m saying? I am not involved with them anymore, and I don’t want to be ever again!”
I put my hand on his shoulder and said, “Then why did you help Craig Padmore?”
“Who?”
“Come on, Oliver. I’ve got my sources too. They murdered him as well.”
“Oh, man…”
“You sold him a French book about Vietnam. What did he want with that? He could have got it from anyplace, so why come to you for it?”
He looked up at me, and I couldn’t tell whether he was measuring me for the sake of trust or honestly trying to think of the answer. “I don’t know.”
“Oliver!”
“Teresa, all he wanted was to take his girlfriend back home with him, but Anna wouldn’t go. It was around the time I was extricating myself. He came to my store one afternoon, asked me a whole bunch of questions about the group’s leader and about…”
He hesitated a second. “Padmore picked up that book
himself.
He came back the next day to say good-bye and leave a message to Anna for me to pass on, that he’d welcome her back in London, pay her way if she needed him to.”
“It sounds like he was really worried about her,” I suggested. “How could he just up and leave her in their clutches? This was his girlfriend.”
“What’s the man going to do?” argued Oliver. “His contract’s up, his work visa’s expiring, and she says, ‘Go home, I’m happy here.’ Doesn’t want to listen to him. You think she’d kiss and make up with him if he dropped a dime on her to immigration? So he tried another tack. Prove they didn’t deserve her faith. Like I said, he asked me questions, bought the book—made a big deal
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