Page 28 of Done Dirty

“Speaking of,” Jack said. “What’d you find out about our angry husband?”

“That he’s always been angry,” Martinez said, coming into the office and handing Jack a file. “Starting back pretty early. He’s got a couple of aggravated assault charges from his early twenties. Both look like bar fights. Did community service. No time served. Got a couple calls for domestics with his girlfriend. Both called in by neighbors. Girlfriend didn’t file charges. Said he’s just loud when he’s angry. Got another assault charge about ten years ago. Road rage. Guy cut him off and Ferriday railroaded him into the barrier and then pulled the guy out of his truck and punched his lights out. Ferriday agreed to anger management and served ten days in county.”

“Sounds like a standup kinda guy,” Jack said.

“Maybe the anger management worked,” Martinez said. “His record is clean since then.”

“Doesn’t sound like it. He threatened to kill our victim.”

“Sometimes they just get smarter about not getting caught.” Martinez shrugged. “You need anything else from me on this? I’m available.”

“No, we’re good. Thanks for this. Enjoy your weekend off.”

He smiled and said, “Oh, I plan to. Gym girl is smoking hot and a thoracic surgeon. My goal is to talk her into an impromptu trip to the Keys after dinner tonight. Wish me luck.” He saluted and headed out.

“Ah, to be young and carefree,” I said. “They grow up so fast.”

“Come on,” Jack said. “Let’s go talk to Holt Ferriday.”

Ferriday Development was on a corner in King George Proper, a two-story brick building with a painted sign and a parking lot around back that held three trucks and a backhoe. The diner next door smelled like coffee and bacon from across the street.

“I’m starving,” I said.

“You literally just said you’d get something after.”

“That was twenty minutes ago.”

“We’ve still got Sloane Ferriday after this.” He pulled into a spot and cut the engine. “I’ll order pizza when we get home.”

“What kind?”

“Whatever kind you want.”

“I guess it doesn’t matter. I’ll get heartburn no matter what.” I opened the door. “Come on. I want to meet this guy. I have a picture in my head and I want to see if it matches real life.”

We got out of the car.

Inside, the front desk was empty and the only light on was coming from the back office. The waiting area had a leather sofa and a coffee table with a couple of trade magazines on it, and one full wall was covered in project photos—renderings and before-and-afters, all of them with Ferriday Development stamped in the corner. Through the open back office door I could see a heavy oak desk covered in blueprints, a half-eaten sandwich on the corner, and a desk lamp that was the only light on in the place.

Holt Ferriday appeared in the doorway of the back office before we’d made it halfway across the room. He was in jeans and a Ferriday Development polo, dark haired, maybe six two, with the kind of shoulders that make doorframes look undersized. His hands were big enough to palm a basketball and his knuckles had been split open more than once. Brown eyes, close set, watching us the way men watch things they’re deciding whether to deal with. If I’d met him in a parking garage at night I would have taken the stairs.

“Can I help you?” His voice said he doubted it.

“Mr. Ferriday,” Jack said, flashing his badge. “I’m Sheriff Lawson. This is Dr. Graves.”

His eyes went to the badge and whatever he’d been about to say rerouted into something worse. He pointed a finger at Jack before he’d said another word. “If this is about the Donaldson site, I’ve already filed my response with the county. That complaint is garbage and whoever signed off on it doesn’t know the first thing about commercial grading. I’ve been doing this for fifteen years and I don’t need some pencil-neck bureaucrat telling me how to run a job site.”

“We’re not here about a job site,” Jack said.

“Then what?” He was already loud and getting louder. The temperature in the room had gone up three degrees in thirty seconds. I could feel it on the back of my neck. “Because if someone filed another noise complaint on the Hensley project I swear to God I’ll⁠—”

“Wade Rivers,” Jack said.

He went still for about two seconds. Then the volume came back up. “What the hell does Wade Rivers have to do with anything?”

“He’s dead.”

He stared at Jack. A muscle jumped in his jaw. His hands closed into fists and then opened again.