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His silent laugh is acceptance enough of my veiled compliment. As I look around, taking in his office, I admit it’s probably a highly profitable business. Wonder how much he pulls in. “Did you see the shooter?”
“No, and neither did the cameras.” He turns a computer screen toward me. “This person either got lucky, or he knew where to stand to avoid being recorded.”
I watch the footage. Four different angles play on a loop, ending when mass hysteria hits, and patrons rush toward the exits. “Slow it down some.”
He does, and I move closer to the screen, zeroing in on the perps. I watch a waitress deliver their drinks, slide her hand along the tabletop, then seconds later, they hit the floor. Pop pop. Clean. Disciplined. There’s no question they were the intended targets.
There’s no footage of the shooter, like Reed said. To get two clean shots like that…from that distance in a crowded club…he’s a pro. One that has inside knowledge of Reed’s club.
Striking similarity, again, to the previous case, but it’s hardly déjà vu. The Alpha and Wells were connected.
I narrow my gaze on Reed. “How did the shooter know?”
At the knock at the door, he nods for me to halt my questioning, then opens the door to accept a coffee. He hands it to me.
“Thanks.” I take a sip and then jump right back in. “How did the shooter know?”
He doesn’t try to feign ignorance. He gets a smidgen of my esteem. “My brother,” he says simply. “Julian was being blackmailed by Price Wells. My brother had a sickness. Underage girls.” Shame pulls his gaze toward the floor. “Wells knew the inner-workings of the club, could exploit it. That’s how he stalked Sadie. I assume, he passed that knowledge on to the Alpha.”
Christ. I set the coffee on the desk and scrub a hand down my face. Julian was also represented by Larkin’s firm. With the connections among all the players, it’s like we’re bound in some macabre soap opera.
These are the Ties that Bind Us…
“But that’s not why we’re here,” Reed says, turning the laptop around to him. He taps the keys, working my patience. “We’re secure.”
But he’s not talking to me. As I head around the desk, I see Jefferson’s face on the monitor. Reed’s roommate and Larkin’s personal driver. I still refuse to believe it’s a coincidence. I don’t believe in coincidences. It’s too convenient.
I put my speculations aside as the view shifts, then Larkin appears on-screen. Son of a bitch.
Larkin’s jeering smile sets my jaw. “I heard you’ve had quite a night, detective,” he says.
“Cut the shit,” I say. “There’s no chessboard in front of us now. Don’t waste my time.”
His grin spreads. “In spite of your piss-poor attitude, I’ve always liked you, Quinn. That’s why I first came to you. I’ve decided to take you up on your offer, as long as Alexis is guaranteed protection. You have to assure me that if anything…transpires,” he trails off obscurely. “I want your word that I’ll be charged, not her.”
I look at Reed. “How secure is this?”
It’s Jefferson who answers. “Not even the Feds can crack my system.”
I drive a hand through my hair, feeling the weight of what’s about to come. For all Larkin’s pretentious bullshit, I respect his commitment to protect Alexis. I can relate.
“You have my word. If it’s within my power to do so, Alexis won’t have any charges brought against her.” Not knowing the pending charges, however, makes this a difficult vow. I hope I won’t have to go back on my word.
Good enough for Larkin, he says, “Don’t disappoint me, detective.” He then apprises me on how he and Alexis came to be involved with the crime lord known as the Alpha. Confirming his late partner to be dead rather than missing, Larkin divulges that Mason framed his clients for rapes Mason committed, and then in turn was taken out by the Alpha’s right-hand man, Mr. Omega, or otherwise exposed to be, Alex King.
“During King’s second visit, he threatened to pin Mason’s murder on Alexis, unless I brought Maddox in as a named partner, giving him access to The Firm.”
I’m a cop. It’s in my blood, so I have to ask. “What proof does he have?”
Larkin contemplates revealing evidence to a member of the ACPD, before he says, “She was shot, her arm wounded, during the confrontation.” I recall the bandage she wore during our first meeting. “When I went to recover the bullets from the elevator, well—”
“They were removed,” I conclude.
“Precisely.”
Deeper and deeper down the fucking rabbit hole. My head should be spinning, but as convol
uted as the story is, I’m seeing things a whole hell of a lot clearer. “And you’re telling this to me now because…?”
