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“Anytime today,” he mutters as I pass him, going to the Range Rover.
“I’m here.”
“Where have you been?”
“Checking on Nolan.” I look at him, irritated. “You got a problem with that?”
“None at all.”
“Good, let’s go sort this shit out.” I get in the passenger seat next to James, and Danny gets in the back. Ringo, Otto, and Goldie are in a car behind with Lennox. “How’s Rose?”
Danny huffs. “Pissy.”
I smile to myself. “And she’s still not going?”
“No. I’ll try again when my nose can take it,” he muses, feeling at the bridge. “You said anything to Beau yet?” he asks James.
“Not yet. Probably don’t need to now, do I?”
Danny laughs sardonically. “Probably not.”
I’m not worried about telling Pearl she’s going to St. Lucia. Whenever that might be. Sooner rather than later, obviously, but . . . well, that depends on Danny’s nose. My apprehension about telling everyone I have feelings for her? Yeah, not looking forward to the backlash at all. Or the insults that’ll come at me. I know what they’ll say. “How’s Lennox?” I ask, pushing that dilemma back for another day.
“Shitting himself,” James says.
“He made the call?”
“Not yet. Best from his house in case they spring any surprises.”
“Like showing up promptly to collect?”
“Exactly.”
“Stating the fucking obvious again,” Danny mutters from the back. “Why the fuck isn’t Higham answering my calls?”
Which reminds me . . . I turn in my seat to face him. “Who’s Richard Bean?”
“I don’t fucking know,” Danny snaps, hitting the screen of his phone. “If he answers, I’ll ask him.”
Higham’s phone goes to voicemail again and Danny curses, sinking back in his seat, thoughtful. James looks up at the rearview mirror as he slows to a stop outside the gates. He’s thinking what I’m thinking.
The start of a fractured relationship between a criminal and a bent cop is the bent cop avoiding the criminal.
We pull onto Lennox’s driveway as the garage door starts to rise. James tucks his Range Rover to the left, leaving Goldie room to park beside him. No one gets out until the doors slide back down. Then Ringo goes to the door into the house, unlocking it as he pulls his gun from the back of his pants, right as we all check ours. It’s a tense few minutes until he appears at the door and signals the all clear, before he starts pulling canisters of gas out of the trunks of each car.
“Let’s go,” Danny says, getting out and leading. Lennox follows, not surprisingly looking apprehensive. Danny dumps the bag of money on the coffee table in the lounge and takes a picture on Lennox’s phone. “Only send the picture if they ask for it,” he says, handing the phone to him. He nods and sends a text, and a second later, it chimes. He looks up. “He wants proof. Send the picture?”
“Send the picture.” Danny lowers to the couch, and I perch on the arm while Lennox does as he’s bid. His phone chimes again. “He’s sending someone to pick it up.”
“There will be more than someone,” I muse. “How long?”
“I don’t know.” Lennox shakes his head, lowering to a chair. “Do I invite them in?”
“No, we’ll torture the fuckers on your front lawn.” I stand, feeling restless. “Of course invite them in.” I start to pace. Don’t get shot. I laugh to myself. I’ve taken more than my fair share of bullets. “Anyone bring any vests?”
“Since when do you want a vest?” Danny asks.
“Since now.”
