Finally, Paul came back over. He looked frustrated.
“What happened to the house?” he asked. “It looks like someone has turned it over already.”
Clay shrugged. “I lost my shit,” he said. “Trashed the place. I got PTSD and a drink problem, Paul. Shit like that happens.”
“Sounds healthy,” Paul said. He turned to go, but Clay whistled him back.
“You know this is bullshit, right?” he asked.
Paul hooked his thumb into his gun belt and looked down at Clay. “I know you’re criminals.”
Clay shrugged that off. “Prove it,” he said. “But no judge should have OK’d a warrant like this for… what? A fishing trip?”
Paul licked his lips and looked away. “It’s unusual,” he admitted. “That’s why we’re doing it by the book. You want a chair?”
Clay shook his head. “I’m fine,” he said. “How was Ezra when you did him?”
Paul turned on his heel and stalked away.
“What was that?” Grade asked.
“He’s Ezra’s ex,” Clay said, “so that wouldn’t have been awkwardat all.”
Grade raised his eyebrows as he absorbed that bit of information. Before he could say anything, Reyes—based on the dog—came back around. He stopped to talk briefly to Paul and a visibly pissed-off Fowler, and finally shook his head and shrugged.
“Huh,” Clay said. “Did you pay off the dog?”
Grade scooted forward to the edge of the hood and leaned down. “It’s a drug dog,” he said. “Most of them aren’t double trained as cadaver dogs, especially if that’s not what their trainer wants from them. I was mostly worried that whoever owned the van before it got to the lot had stashed weed in it somewhere.”
The search didn’t last long after that. No one apologized for the inconvenience before they left, but they did unlock the cuffs, so Grade supposed he couldn’t complain.
He waited until the final cop car had driven out of there and then turned to Clay.
“What now?”
“We wait for the laptop,” he said. “And you keep your nose clean, because the sheriff’s department is going to be up our ass until we deal with Charity.”
***
The sticker was gone, but other than that, the laptop looked good as new.
It had arrived that morning, delivered by private courier, in a box. The passcode and their report had been taped to the front of it.
“What does he fucking mean? There’s nothing on here?” Ezra asked. He picked up the laptop and waved it around in frustration. “There has to be fucking something. Otherwise, why is Charity willing to kill for it? Is she just so cheap she doesn’t want to pay for a new one?”
Grade hung back and listened while Clay flicked through the breakdown of what Angel had found on the laptop.
“I don’t fucking know,” Clay said. “Photos, letters to the various governing bodies, and a screenplay about a brave lawyer who was railroaded by the system, but that’s it.”
Grade tucked his hands into his pockets.
“Maybe there was a clue in the screenplay?”
Clay shook his head. “It was apparently ‘not bad,’ and he could see Sandra Bullock in the lead role, but it wasn’t finished. The story ends when the lawyer is fired. No hint as to how she got her own back.”
Ezra stalked away from the table. “So it’s fucking useless?” he said as he threw the laptop on the top of the bar. It skidded along the polished wood and knocked over a few shot glasses. Ezra ignored the clatter as he grabbed a beer from the shelf. He tossed it to Clay and then got another for himself. “The Slap has been closed down three times in the last week. It ain’t even worth opening the Choke because no one wants to drive past three patrol cars before they can get their titty fix. And you know what?”
He popped the cap off the bottle against the bar and took a swig, then wiped his mouth on the back of his arm.
