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“Of course. Your lawyer, Mr. Tweedy, kindly responded to our information request hoping to clear your name,” I say, folding my hands, leaning forward into his I-will-kill-you stare. “As you know, Oklahoma City Police have arrested a number of laundromat owners in the area this past year with evidence of illegal weapons deals and large caches of methamphetamine. What’s curious is this—your name comes up as a repair contractor for all six businesses. However, considering their accounts omit any references to receipts paid to Pickett and Fix-It Appliance Repair…we’re wondering how that works.”
“Objection!” Tweedy sits up, stiff as a board. “My client overpaid his taxes the last three years, as the returns show. There’s hardly anything suspicious about messy bookkeeping for a man as busy as Jake Pickett and the fine establishments he services, so I’d argue the nonexistent receipts, invoices, or whatever paperwork you’re looking for simply isn’t relevant.”
Prick.
“We’re also wonderin’ why trucks registered to you showed up overnight on cameras at several of the places, and pretty darn consistently too,” Ted, the investigator, says at my side. “Just how often, Mr. Pickett, do laundry machines need servicin’?”
I turn slowly. I’d expected Ted to save the real gotcha question for the end, like we’d discussed. The fact that he’s dragging it out into the open now seems risky.
Still, I nod firmly, playing my favorite role as bad cop.
“Pretty damn often if they’re as old and shitty and run-down as the units around here. You boys stupid or something? Do you know how many loads those places handle every single day?” Jake glowers, his brow furrowed, completely ignoring the puppy dog looks from his lawyer to keep his mouth shut.
Keep talking, asshole. Help us dig your grave, I think to myself.
“Interesting,” I whisper, flipping through a couple pages in front of me. “Because it says right here, the Bumblebee Laundromat in Midtown got all new high-capacity machines a couple years ago. And they came with warranties from the supplier. So, Mr. Pickett, you care to explain why your repair crews showed up there five times last month?”
Pickett’s greyish blue eyes go a shade darker and those long, snake-like fingers on one hand coil into a fist.
For a second, I wonder if I’m about to hear an angry rattle. He looks at his lawyer, beaming him an obvious do something, jackass.
“Gentleman, I believe my client prefers not to be badgered over minor details of routine business operations without his records in front of him. That’s beyond the scope of this entirely voluntary sit-down in good faith, and you’ve produced no reason to detain my client,” Tweedy says in typical lawyer-speak, adjusting his spectacles. “We’re awful thankful for your time, but since there’s no warrant issued by a judge, I think we’ll conclude this effort to settle any—”
“You done with these jackoffs? Let’s fucking go,” Pickett snaps, ripping his chair back and standing to his full intimidating height.
Again, I’m staring up at a man-eating giant, and every instinct I have tells me this won’t be the last I’ll ever see of him.
I’m also a little pissed because I knew they’d cut and run if we dropped that question on their heads up front. Sure, we’ll be going right for that warrant next to make Jake Pickett’s next Q&A less than voluntary, but fuck.
What was Goode thinking?
For what it’s worth, he’s slumped in his chair, his mustache twitching, this hangdog look like he knows he messed up.
I stay riveted to my seat, glaring silently as Tweedy gathers up his folder of strong-arm legalese meant to protect human trash.
Jake leers at me with those pale-blue eyes as he rounds the table with his lawyer, no doubt wishing he could burn me down to ash with nothing more than a nasty look.
Fuck him. We’ve still got something up our sleeve no judge will balk at—a criminal witness.
His woman.
She’s been making noise about talking to us, but I’m afraid for her if she does, so that’s one reason I tried to trap this overgrown rat into slipping up.
If only I’d tried harder.
Because less than a week later, I’d be seeing the freak again, this time with bullets flying.
And at our next meeting, those long, savage fingers of his would rip my world to shreds.
Present
I throw down a rumpled twenty to pay Grady for the beers in front of me, Ridge, and Drake.
They’ve all been helping me look for Marvin, local hands on deck I can trust in case my old contacts at the Bureau don’t come through with solid intel.
I’d barely even asked the boys. They’d just stepped up and volunteered the second I hinted at trouble, without asking questions.
Damn. I hate pulling anybody else into this hell, but since Tory’s already been dragged in the muck, I’ll accept their help without complaint.
“I installed a camera at Granny Coffey’s place for good measure,” Drake says while setting up the remote camera app on my phone for viewing. “I’m labeling it Granny’s.”
