Page 37 of Dominion's Guard
"Andy." My voice sounds different than it did a minute ago, the words landing steadier and colder. "Those camerasrecorded everyone who used those rooms, not just the people in Lawrence's folder."
His eyes narrow, and I can see him running the same calculation I just finished.
"If Ridgewater's archive is as comprehensive as we think it is, then whoever is working from that footage had access to weeks of recording," I continue. "Lawrence's photographs were the ones that I saw, but there's no reason to think the archive stops at four people. Those cameras ran every night, and anyone who booked a private session in rooms three, five, or eight during that window is on film."
"The blackmail targets could be a fraction of the total archive."
"And the four people in Lawrence's folder could be the first round, the test cases, the ones he started with because they had the most money and the most to lose." I push off the counter and cross to the table where Andy's notebook sits beside last night's coffee mugs, mine still close enough to his that the handles almost touch.
"If I'm right, there could be dozens more, people who haven't received demands yet, people being saved for later."
"Or people he's already contacted through channels we haven't found."
The possibility sits between us, ugly and logical.
"I need to think about this," I say. "I need to think about who used those rooms during the window when the cameras were active."
"Renata."
"I was behind that bar for every shift. I saw who went down that hallway and who came back. I know which members booked private rooms on which nights because I restocked the hallway bar cart throughout the evening, and every trip gave me a clear line on who went where."
The words come faster now, the burglar's brain igniting the way it does when a system reveals its structure and the vulnerabilities become visible.
"I can cross-reference whatever Margot pulls from the booking system. I saw who went through that hallway, who they were with, how they acted before and after. The logs will tell you which key card opened which door. I can tell you who looked nervous, who lingered, who showed up with someone different than the person they booked with."
"Margot's records and your memory."
"And Ridgewater had access to those same digital systems before Margot fired him. If he altered or scrubbed the logs before she changed the credentials, the booking records won't show everyone who used those rooms." I meet his eyes. "My memory will."
"You're asking me to build a case on what a bartender remembers."
"I'm asking you to cross-check Margot's records against what this bartender remembers, the one who never forgets a face, a drink order, or a room number. If the records and my memory don't match, that gap is your evidence that someone tampered with the system." I pull out a chair and sit, reaching for his notebook before he can. His hand lands on it first, fingers closing over the leather cover with the easy authority of a man who controls what belongs to him, and the look he gives me over the top of his reading glasses, which he has apparently already put on because the man sleeps in a state of professional readiness that borders on pathological, is pure Dom. He is steady and patient and absolutely certain that I'm going to let go.
I do let go, not because the look makes me want to comply, though it does, in a place low and warm that I'm choosing not to examine while people are dying. I let go because he's right, andthe notebook is his, and the investigation runs on his terms even when my brain is the one doing the heavy lifting.
He opens to a clean page and sets the pen on the table between us.
"Start whenever you're ready," he says.
"Are you going to be this gracious all morning, or is the bossy part coming later?"
"Start." He gives me one word, stripped of everything except the expectation that I will. His voice drops into the register that presses against the base of my ribs and stays there, the one that makes my hands want to be still and my mouth want to test how far I can push before the patience runs out.
I close my eyes and let the bar come back. Dominion's private hallway runs off the main floor past the lounge seating, a corridor lined with the custom wallcovering Margot replaced after the security breach and the amber sconce fixtures that cast warm pools at intervals. The hallway bar cart sits near the entrance, stocked with water, juice, and light snacks for members between sessions. I restocked that cart at the start of every shift and topped it off throughout the night, and the names come with drink orders and physical descriptions and behavioral patterns attached, because that's how my brain stores people.
I remember Thomas Arceneaux with his Maker's Mark, neat, third stool, fleur-de-lis tattoo. I remember a financial consultant whose name I'm holding back until I've worked through the full sequence of what I can recall. I remember a defense attorney who booked room eight on the same night every week and always left a generous tip on the cart, and a married couple who used room three for rope work and never spoke to anyone at the bar except each other.
Andy writes. He doesn't interrupt. He asks one question for every stretch of my talking, and each question is precise enoughto confirm he's tracking the pattern I'm building and specific enough to push me toward details I might have skipped.Which night of the week? Did they arrive alone or with a partner? Did you ever see them interact with staff you didn't recognize?
The coffee he made is good. He brought me a mug without asking and set it at my left hand while I was talking, and the gesture was proprietary in a way I would have resented from anyone else and noticed from him, stored under the growing pull between us that neither of us has been stupid enough to name out loud.
Names accumulate. By the time I open my eyes and reach for the mug, the notebook has pages of names and notes and the morning light has shifted from gold to white.
"There's more," I say.
Andy looks up from the notebook. His glasses are perched near the end of his nose, and behind them his eyes carry the gathered attention of a man who has been absorbing information without judgment for the better part of the morning and is waiting for the piece that changes the shape of everything he's just written.
"When I first came to Dominion, I used the private rooms."
