Kindred: Kingpin (The Kindred Series Book 1) Page 3

  “Are you sure?”

  “Of course,” Lillian snaps, “I’m not letting you pursue a drug story without proper training.”

  Tara snickers, “Thanks. I’ll make sure to leave Nibbles to you in my will.”

  Lillian narrows her eyes and whacks her hand against Tara’s shoulder; hard, “That’s not funny,” she snaps but then her eyes soften, “And you know I can’t keep Nibbles, I’m allergic to fur.”

  Tara looks over at her cat with a mournful sigh, “Looks like you’ll be spending the rest of your life with grandpa, sweetie,” she says in the direction of the cat, “I hope you like fish because it’s the only thing you’ll ever eat there.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  Weeks pass and Tara gets swamped with work, focusing all her efforts on meeting their print deadline for that month that Tara forgets about every other responsibility she has; forgets about the van, the strange man and club Tempest.

  When Tara receives a call from officer Soran, she’s seated at her desk as she does the final checks for the magazine’s cover, “Hello?” Tara answers as she picks up her mug of now-cold coffee, sipping it forlornly and wondering if Eric will make her another cup.

  “Hey, Tara,” Soran greets, “I’m calling about that downtown murder, if you’re still working on it.”

  Tara perks up at his words, grabbing a pen and notepad as she says, “Yeah, I still am. Got anything for me?”

  “A name,” Soran tells her, “Nona Pivick…”

  Soran keeps speaking, telling her about the possibility of Nona’s death being more than a murder but Tara has stopped listening. Her hands begin to tremble as she runs the name through her head, over and over, recalling the woman’s face with such clarity that it’s as though she’s standing in front of the journalist now.

  “Thanks, Soran,” Tara tells him, “I’ll let you know if I find anything that can help with her case.”

  “Be careful, Tara,” Soran warns her, “I can’t be around to protect you every time you piss off someone you shouldn’t.”

  “Bye, Soran,” she says distractedly. She ends the call and clicks open her internet browser. A quick search of Nona’s full name directs her to the woman’s social media accounts and after a few minutes of searching, Tara finds a picture of her. She prints out the photo and rushes to Rossin’s office.

  “I’m stepping out for a bit,” Tara tells her boss, who looks as though she’s going to throw something at the journalist.

  “We need that cover finalized for tonight, Morrigan-”

  “I have a lead on the Downtown Murder,” Tara tells her, “I’ll check over the cover at home and send it to you before midnight today.”

  Rossin stares at her with narrowed eyes for a moment before she raises her hand and dismisses Tara with a careless wave of her hand, “By midnight, Morrigan. Or else you’re fired.”

  “I’m pretty sure that goes against our regulations but yes, by midnight tonight,” Tara tells her, rushing out of her office. On her way back to her desk, she picks up the photograph before stopping at her desk and throwing everything into her bag as fast as she can.

  “Where are you going?” Eric asks in panic, “We go to print, tomorrow.”

  “A lead,” Tara tells him, “I’ll have everything by tonight.”

  She doesn’t wait for a reply, simply makes her way over to the basement while filling out a form for one of the vehicles. Dominic doesn’t even look at the papers before he’s handing her a set of keys.

  It takes Tara around twenty minutes to get to the area. She pulls up into a vacant parking spot on the street, grabbing her things and ensuring that she has a photograph of Nona with her.

  She starts by going around the restaurants, asking if anyone remembers Nona. It takes a while and a few dead ends, but eventually someone points her in the direction of a nearby motel. The owner of the motel doesn’t recognize the name but he recognizes the woman, tells Tara that she’d signed in under another name and paid in cash. She’d been staying at the motel a few days prior to her death and her room had already been cleaned out by the police when they came looking for evidence. Tara leaves the motel and heads back to the company car. She’s so preoccupied with trying to figure out what’s happened that she almost doesn’t notice the black van following her back to the publications building.

  Once she heads inside the building, she goes straight to Rossin’s office to tell her boss about her findings.

  “I think Nona knew something about a drug trafficking ring and that’s why she was killed,” Tara says as soon as she enters Rossin’s office, “Also, I’m being followed.”

  “You’ve been gone for two hours,” Rossin says in a skeptical tone, “How’d you figure that out? And are you sure about being followed?”

  “The woman, Nona, came to me a few days before her death to tip me off about the club. That’s why Eric and I went to check it out. And I’m sure. I took a few back routes to get back here and I lost the van for a while but when I pulled up to the building, it was parked outside. Black, Rover, new model I think, the number plate is AZT 769,” she looks at Rossin expectantly.

  Her boss stands and wanders over to the window, making a show of opening it while she looks around and sure enough, the van sits outside. It doesn’t look out of place surrounded by the many corporate buildings their publication is located in.

  “Send the number plate through to the police; see if they can trace it for us. And have Lancaster take you home tonight, just to be safe.”

  Tara nods obediently before clearing her throat, “I want to go back to the club,” Tara tells Rossin in a hesitant voice, “Do you think you can get me in again?”

  Rossin turns around slowly; face impassive as she regards Tara. She’s silent for a moment before she opens her mouth to say something, only Tara beats her to it, “I’ll find a way in, either way,” Tara says, “I was hoping you’d make it easy for me.”

  Her boss narrows her eyes, and the tell-tale tick of a vein in her jaw tells Tara that she’s maybe pushed too far, “You do realize that a drug scandal can go wrong very quickly? You could get yourself killed; you could get your sources killed.”

  “I’ll be careful,” Tara tells her, “And you know I wouldn’t put the lives of my sources at risk.”

  “Yes, well, Nona Pivick’s murder says otherwise,” Rossin knows that it’s an underhanded comment and she can already see the tears collect at the corners of Tara’s eyes but she wants the younger woman to realize what she’s getting herself into.

  “I’ll be careful,” Tara says again, in a quiet voice and Rossin sighs in defeat.

  “I won’t be able to get you in at night but I will get you an interview with someone during the day,” Rossin tells her.

  “Sola,” Tara tells her, “She’s one of the dancers. If you could arrange an interview with her, I’d be really grateful.”

  “Alright, fine,” Rossin sighs, “Now go and finish up the cover. I’ll take you off the other stories for the time being.”

  “Thanks,” Tara gives her boss a grateful smile before leaving her office. She makes her way over to her desk and finishes up the rest of her responsibilities with trembling fingers.

  When she and Eric leave their building, the van is long gone. Soran had run the plates earlier with no luck deeming them either incorrect or fake. Tara knows they aren’t incorrect, remembers triple checking them when she’d seen the van first.

  “So, are you going to tell me why you took me up on my offer for dinner?” Eric says in a seemingly casual tone as they pull out of the basement parking lot.

  “Was I that obvious?” Tara chuckles sheepishly.

  “You’ve rejected my offers ever since we met,” Eric chuckles, “And I get that, that’s cool but why now? So suddenly? I thought you were waiting for the one,” he says the last bit in a high-pitched imitation of Tara’s voice.

  She scoffs at his mockery, “Truthfully?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I needed a ride,�
� she shrugs and Eric laughs at her response.

  “So kissing you tonight would not be appreciated?”

  “Kiss me and I’ll kick your shins in,” Tara threatens with narrowed eyes.

  “Alright, duly noted,” Eric chuckles. After a moment, he says, “So, the story you’re working on-”

  “Need to know only,” Tara cuts him off, “I can’t tell you anything, sorry.”

  “Wouldn’t it be safer to have someone working on it with you?” Eric glances at her from the corner of his eye, worry evident in his expression.

  “I’m not sure just yet,” she tells him with a shrug, “Maybe Rossin will put you on it later down the line.”

  “If you need anyone to pretend to make-out with, I’m always free,” Eric quips with a cheeky grin and Tara has to stop herself from actively shoving him while he drives.

  Her cheeks heat up in embarrassment and she hides her face in her palms, “You’re unbelievable.”

  “And you’re not as good a kisser as I thought you’d be,” Eric chuckles when Tara yells in offense.

  They eat dinner at a nearby fast food store – burgers and fries – before Eric drops her off at her apartment, “Thank you. Let me know when you get home,” Tara tells him, “Drive safe.”

  She makes sure to school her expression until she’s sure Eric is gone before she turns and spots a familiar black van sitting across the street from her apartment complex.

  Mrs. Turner sits outside on one of the benches in the small playground, watching her grandchildren. When she spots Tara, she ushers the woman over, “How are you, my dear?” she asks Tara who mumbles out a shaky reply. The older woman doesn’t seem to notice, simply carrying on, “A handsome young man came looking for you, said he was a friend of yours. I told him to wait upstairs by your apartment until you came back.”

  Tara curses silently, thanking Mrs. Turner before she bids her farewell. Her heartbeat races, hands trembling as she gets out the bottle of pepper spray and walks up the stairs. Tara’s heart stops when she spots the door ajar as she nears her apartment. Holding the pepper spray out in front of her, she pushes it aside and swallows around the lump in her throat.

  “Hello?” she asks, “Anyone in here?” no one replies and Tara almost chances walking inside before in her gut stops her. She stills and listens for only a moment more before she turns and rushes down the stairs and to the complex owner’s section.

  She tells him about a break-in through stuttering sentences and he tells her to wait in his apartment while he checks. He grabs a steel baseball bat and slings it over his shoulder before setting off towards her apartment.

  Tara doesn’t know how a middle-aged man with a potbelly will fair against her intruder but she feels that he stands more of a chance than she does, with her slight frame and weak bones that can barely stand to lift the bat he was holding. She’s only had two defense classes and can barely remember anything she was taught.

  The owner comes down and tells her that no one was in the apartment but that he’ll check their security footage to see if he can spot anyone entering the building.

  “Whoever was in there trashed the place,” he tells her, “You might want to check if anything is missing, and also maybe go make sure that cat of yours is okay; he kept hissing at me when I went in.”

  At the mention of Nibbles, Tara streaks up the stairs and rushes to her apartment, calling for him as she enters. He comes meowing pitifully and she picks him up, cradles him in her arms and strokes his head, “You’re okay,” she tells him in a soothing voice, “You’re okay now.”

  She looks around and takes in the broken furniture, her things strewn about the place, and sighs to herself. She begins cleaning up, sorting through the broken things and the things that made it through unscathed. Nothing seems to be missing so she knows someone hasn’t broken in to rob the place. She knows it has something to do with the black van that’s been following her, with Nona Pivick’s death. Something in her gut tells her that it has a lot to do with that club she went to and she contemplates dropping the story altogether.

  Against her better judgment, Tara shows up at Tempest the next afternoon for her scheduled interview with Sola. The club hasn’t opened yet but staff are in the process of setting up and Tara marvels at how different it looks during the day.

  It’s the bartender that greets her with a worried frown when she arrives, telling her to leave before someone notices that she’s there. She looks at him with furrowed brows, a question on the tip of her tongue but suddenly she’s yanked to the side, a strong grip on her shoulders. She turns to the bartender for help but he just shakes his head and glances down with a guilty frown.

  She feels a sharp pang of betrayal, quickly replaced with fear as the staff around her pay her no mind.

  The tall stranger pulls her towards the back end of the club. She’s about to yell for help when a hand clamps around her mouth, harshly gripping her jaws shut. Tara puts up a fight as she’s ushered up three flights of stairs but the stranger barely notices, scoffing when she tries to land a punch to his chest.

  He leads her down a dimly lit corridor and eventually stops at the end of it, pushing through the slightly ajar door in front of them. The door opens up to what appears to be some sort of waiting room, fruit paintings and plants decorating the interior. A door stands at the end of the room and he strides up to it and knocks, “Mr. Park, I have her.”

  “Let her in,” a light voice says and the bouncer opens the door and carries a panicking Tara into the room.

  The door pulls shut behind them, the man setting her down once again. She feels trapped as she stares at the two men in the room. One of them is seated behind a large oak desk and dread consumes her when she recognizes him from the night at the bar. The man standing behind him is the same one from the bus stop what feels like ages ago. She feels her soul Mark begin to thrum as she nears them. Both of them pay her tear-streaked face and disarrayed state no mind.

  “Welcome to my office, Miss. Morrigan,” the man sitting at the desk brandishes his hand in a lazy wave, “Please, have a seat.”

  His hair is black and pushed back over his forehead, revealing cold and calculating eyes. His face is impassive and his body language gives nothing away as he stares at her with a bored expression.

  She glances at the chair in front of the desk like it might set her on fire if she nears it, before glancing back towards the man, “What do you want?” she asks in as stable a voice as she can manage.

  One trimmed eyebrow quirks up and the corners of his lips tug upwards for a moment before he sighs, “My name is June Park. I’m the owner of this club,” She nods in understanding, already having done a background check on the club’s famous owner, something of a womanizing business man turned celebrity, “You’ve been snooping around my club and I’d like to know why,” he scoffs at the way her eyes widen, “You weren’t exactly that subtle about it.”

  She raises a hand to run it through her hair – a nervous tick – and June’s eyes fall to the flash of skin she exposes on her collarbone. His eyes narrow suspiciously for a moment before the expression falls away and he gives her a blank stare.

  She remains silent, hands trembling as she feels a heavy feeling settle in her stomach.

  He sighs in annoyance, “Is your story really worth dying for?” he asks instead, “Worth your family dying for?”

  “Excuse me?” she narrows her eyes, anger simmering within her chest at his words. She knows she’s being reckless, that her temper will do more harm than good but the man in front of her has indirectly threatened her family and she’s beginning to see red.

  June doesn’t reply immediately. He pulls open a desk drawer and picks out a brown paper envelope, A4 sized, and Tara has to consciously stop herself from rolling her eyes at the cliché-ness situation. He slides the envelope over to her before his eyes flit up to her face again, his expression impassive, “Look inside.”

  Inside are pictures of her father and little sister.
They’re taken from afar, action shots capturing her family on their way to work or school. One of them captures her father entering Tara’s family home in the countryside and a cold dread settles in her veins. The last few pictures in the pile are of Tara’s own apartment in the city, shots of her eating dinner and playing with her cat. The last one is of her ruined apartment.

  Her hands tremble as she slides the pictures back into the envelope, “What do you want?”

  “I have a proposition for you,” June tells her, clasping his hands together and leaning his chin on them. She’d first thought the man attractive when she’d first seen him, with plump cherubic cheeks and a pretty smile. Now that she can actually look into his eyes, she wants to shy away from the dead look in them.