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“Three dead bodies were found in your establishment. No, we’re not almost done here. We haven’t even begun.” The detective snorts as he turns his attention back to his page, giving his bushy mustache a twitch with his fingers. “And before you ask, no, you won’t be opening your club tonight, or any other day this week. Maybe not even this month.”
“Can we at least go in to collect a few—”
“Nope. Your office is a crime scene, and we can’t risk contaminating it any more than it was when your bar manager went in there.” His smile is toothy and fake. “Now, the sooner you cooperate with the investigation, the sooner we might be able to get out of your hair.”
“And how exactly are we not cooperating, detective?” Caleb sidles up beside me, his arms folded across his chest. I guess his attempt to woo the female officer into letting us upstairs didn't go as planned. “We’ve given you guys access codes to the security cameras; we’ve answered all your questions. What more do you want?”
“All of them, huh?” The detective snorts. “You really think this is a robbery gone bad?”
“Well, I don’t know. Is the safe cracked?” Caleb retorts.
“Nah. Untouched.”
“Then I guess not, detective.”
I fight the urge to elbow my brother. Hostility will not help us here. But I know he’s only lashing out to hide the fact that he’s devastated. Mike may have been our club manager, but he was more than that—he was a friend.
Another dead friend because of our father.
Huxley scans his page. “Tell me about Jimmy Jones and Ivan Clark.”
Fuck. So that’s who the other two bodies were. From what Ryley told us through hysterical sobs, the men’s faces wouldn’t have been recognizable. The cops must have run fingerprints on the bodies to identify them. Both would show up quickly in the database.
“Don’t know ‘em,” Caleb claims before I get a chance to speak.
I stifle my sigh. It would take even a mediocre detective an hour to poke holes in that claim. “We know of them. What do you want to know?”
“They didn’t work for you?”
“For us? No. They both used to work for our father at his banquet halls.” Before the feds shut them down. “Not sure what Ivan has been up to lately.” Besides managing all the drug-running for the greater Phoenix area and being one of my father and Peter’s most trusted men. “And last I heard, JJ was doing odd jobs.” Like sneaking down to Mexico to burn down a cartel’s drug operation warehouse in Hermosillo. That must be why Navarro targeted them. Or maybe they made themselves easy victims, though I’d be surprised. They’ve been in this game long enough. But maybe they would have benefited from one of Vlad Easton’s lessons on watching their backs.
“So, they were a part of the family business, is what you’re saying.” A knowing gleam shines in the detective’s eyes. Of course he knows who JJ and Ivan were. He was merely testing us.
Caleb flashes a toothy grin. “The Easton family is full of entrepreneurs. Not sure which business you’re referring to, Detective Huxley. Sorry, I didn’t catch your first name.”
For fuck’s sakes, Caleb. Now is not the time for intimidation tactics.
Huxley’s jaw tenses as he and my brother lock gazes for one… two… three beats, before he shifts his attention to me. “How did JJ and Ivan know Mike Stoll?”
“No idea.” They didn’t. They’d never met. This was Navarro, sending a message to my father, a retaliatory move that says all Eastons are fair game and his reach can be just as damaging. Mike was a pillar at Empire and a major reason the club has done as well as it has. Business-wise, losing him is a major blow.
“So then, if he didn’t know them and they didn’t work here, what were those two doing in your club, after hours, with your club manager?” Huxley presses.
I shake my head. “Like I said, no idea. Wasn’t anything to do with the club.”
“Huxley!” someone calls out.
Huxley seeks out the voice. “Give me a minute, will ya? I’ll be right back.” He lumbers away.
“Dad wanted to start a war? He’s got one,” Caleb growls, just loud enough for me to hear. “I’m going to fucking kill him, and then we’re going after Navarro.”
My stomach tenses. That is exactly what can’t happen. “And where does it end?”
“I don’t give a shit.”
“Well, I do.” Because it’s not just our lives on the line anymore, and this life that is starting to take shape in the recesses of my mind—still blurry except for one very clear image, or rather face—can’t happen if we let ourselves get dragged deeper in.
“So, what the fuck are we supposed to do then? Bend over and take it up the ass? They fucking killed Mike, Gabe. Mike!”
