Page 17 of Lethal Obsession

“I did nothing,” I say now, in a belated attempt to lighten the mood. I swallow a mouthful of beer. “Remember?”

Neither of us ever told a soul about that night, and we both swore we never would. A month later, I gave Renata enough money to get to New York, even though I was living on a pittance at the time.

“Sorry.” She leans in, nudging me with her shoulder. “I shouldn’t have brought it up.”

“Brought what up?” I force a smile. “But this can’t be good, if you’re even thinking about shit like that. Not to mention downing beers so fast.” I nod at her empty bottle.

“It’s not.” Renata climbs over the back of the boat and pulls out two more bottles, then throws one to me. “Several days ago, about the time Ron Watkins showed up here, Miami Congressman Martin Hunter Jr. contacted you.” Her flat statement isn’t a question.

I conceal my surprise. “Why would you think that?”

“Because you wound up on tape, fuckface.” Giving me a dry look, she hits play on a voice recording.

And she’s right: it really isn’t good.

“I’ll make sure Ron Watkins won’t supply anyone else, ever again,” I hear myself say coldly. “Consider it taken care of.”

An indistinct voice asks a question that isn’t audible.

My answer to it, however, is court-evidence clear: “Nobody deals in my clubs without my permission. I said I’d take care of it, and I will. Watkins will be gator bait inside the week.”

Renata cuts the recording. For a moment we sit there, rustling saw grass the only sound.

“Well,” I say finally. “Fuck.”

Renata nods slowly. “Yup.”

“Although if you really think about it, it’s not that bad.” I dangle the bottle between my fingers. “Marty boy isn’t going to be an issue.” I grin at her skeptical expression. “Marty Hunter Jr. is filthier than a Miami sewer. I can do him a thousand times over, worse than he can do me, and he knows it.”

She grimaces. “Maybe not this time, Lex.” She glances at me. “I’ll give you one guess who Ron Watkins was supposed to be giving evidence against.”

My hand on the bottle stills, my eye narrowing. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me. He was witness in a case against Hunter?”

Renata clinks her bottle against mine. “Bingo.”

Fuck.

“Want to explain why Marty Hunter Jr. was calling you about Ron Watkins?” she asks dryly. “Off the record, which I probably don’t need to say, given that this conversation has already violated a dozen federal statutes.”

“Watkins dealt drugs to Kristi Hunter, the congressman’s daughter, in one of my clubs.” I swallow a mouthful of beer. “According to Marty Hunter Jr., Kristi almost died of an overdose that night. Hunter didn’t want the cops involved. Obviously.” I smile sourly. “Bad publicity and all that. He came to me instead.”

“Did you actually see Kristi Hunter overdose?”

“Not exactly.” I frown. “But I saw video footage of her deal with Watkins. She left the club before taking the drugs.”

“Or rather, she didn’t take the drugs at all.” Renata shakes her head. “Less than twenty-four hours after the so-called overdose, she was randomly selected for drug testing before a track meet at Miami U. She passed with flying colors.” She meets my eyes. “Marty Hunter Jr. played you. He needed Watkins gone, and he used you to do it. Now he’s framing you for it to cover his tracks.”

Motherfucker. “He’s a fucking dead man.”

Renata winces. “Unfortunately, I suspect that might be a problem, Lex.”

I turn to her, frowning. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Marty Jr. is up for reelection next year. He’s propped up by half the biggest crime bosses in Miami, my family included. The FBI have been closing in on him for months. Watkins was part of that operation. Now he’s dead—and you’re firmly in the FBI’s crosshairs.”

Fuck.

I have a lot of law enforcement on my payroll, and more than enough dignitaries to dig my way out of most of the shit that inevitably comes my way.