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“But Beau’s made me promise not to,” I add.
He shoots his eyes my way. “She did?”
“She won’t marry me otherwise.”
“Oh . . .” Lawrence breathes, eyes darting, my bombshell sinking into his head. After a few, silent seconds, he looks at me again. “Who’s The Bear?”
“I don’t know,” I confess, realizing I’m still holding his hand. And yet I can’t bring myself to pull it away when he’s clenching it with force, like a lifeline. “He’s at the top of the Miami criminal pecking order. I think Jaz figured out who he was and that Dexter had been corrupted, hence—”
“He had her killed.” Lawrence shows me the first sign of anger, and I can’t help but think it’s a good thing. He needs anger to extinguish the grief. Anger will help. So I fuel it.
“But it was Dexter who made it happen, Lawrence. It was Dexter who tampered with the evidence and hid the footage that proved it wasn’t an accident. It was Dexter who killed Jaz and nearly Beau too.” I do something I hadn’t planned, standing and releasing his hand. I turn and pull my shirt up, showing him the mess that is my back. His gasp is weary, weak, and as shocked as it should be.
“You tried to save them,” he whispers.
“I will find out who The Bear is. I will kill him, Lawrence.” I drop my shirt and face him, our talk stoking the anger within. “I need to be on my A-game and worrying whether you’re going to try and top yourself again and distress Beau isn’t going to help me. So do whatever it is you need to do—put your stockings on, your makeup, your fucking wig, I do not care, but now’s the time to pick yourself up.”
I see something lift in the frail man, something significant, and yet I can’t cling to it. Not yet. Not until I see him make moves to rectify this shitstorm he’s caused. A sharp nod. A sniffle. A rough wipe of his eyes. He can’t give me much more in this moment, only an execution.
“I’ll leave you to rest,” I say, giving Lawrence space to mentally stock up on strength. I take a few moments outside his bedroom to cool my hot head before picking up my feet. I pass Esther on the stairs, a tray in her hand. “She’s resting.”
“This is for Lawrence. Doc said some tea and toast would probably go down well. Daniel’s eating his dinner with Rose.”
I smile. Tea. A good old British cup of tea, and Danny’s mum makes a cracking one. “Thanks, Esther.”
“You’re welcome, James. I’ll check in on Beau too. The men just went into Danny’s office.” She continues up the stairs, and I go find the men, bowling into Danny’s office . . .
At the exact moment he swipes a machete and takes off the head of a man.
I stop where I am, avoiding the spray of blood, and watch as the head rolls across the carpet. It slows, doing a little twirl, before coming to a gradual stop at my feet. Eyes on me.
I look up at Danny. “Feel better?” I ask, stepping over the dismembered head, hearing the muffled sound of retching. I peek out the corner of my eye and see Goldie barely containing her need to throw up all over the place. I smile to myself, dropping to the couch. “What did I miss?”
Danny holds out the blade and Ringo is quick to relieve him of it. He looks down at his shirt, flicking at the spots of blood. “Well, Spittle’s dead.”
“So you obviously decided what to do with him.” I look across to his head, thinking Spittle might have been better off letting me at him. “You sure Doc can’t work his magic?”
Danny smirks, dark and dirty, and pulls his cigarettes out, lighting one and exhaling over his words. “He was no good to us anymore.” He toes Spittle’s body with his dress shoe, his lip curling. “Otto got into his bank accounts. A deposit landed yesterday. Two hundred grand.”
I nod, thoughtful. “Payment for services rendered, or services to be rendered?” I muse, wondering—or knowing—if Spittle’s failure to advise Danny that Volodya is still breathing may have also contributed to his gruesome death. “How?” Danny’s had him watched like a hawk since he kindly removed his cock from the meat slicer. How stupid can a man be? Or desperate.
“Otto disabled his mobile phone,” Danny says. “So when he was seen talking on one, it roused suspicion.” He swipes up a clear plastic bag from his desk, and I lean forward, trying to see what’s in it.
“A mobile?”
“Spittle, God bless his heart,” Danny muses, taking another drag of his cigarette, “tried to hide it when he saw Len coming at him. Hid in a cubicle of the men’s restroom at the restaurant he was in. When Len kicked the door in, no mobile phone.”
