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“And Randall knew what Aguilar was into,” Harris said. There was an unasked question in her tone.
Rose sighed. “Yes. Look, Randall was a good person, but he was impulsive. He was scared I was going to leave him, so he took a job with Aguilar. I don’t know how he even knew him in the first place. Maybe the guy had met Randall somewhere and offered him a job that he’d refused. Anyway, he went back to Aguilar and agreed to work for him. He knew Aguilar was shady, but I don’t think he had any idea what he was really into. If he did, he wouldn’t have agreed to it. I know he wouldn’t.”
“I don’t think so either,” Harris said. “I met Randall once. He cared about you. About his family. He knew it was a bad idea to cross Aguilar, but he did it because it was the right thing to do.”
“And look where it got him.”
“The best thing we can do is make sure Aguilar doesn’t hurt anyone else.” Harris hesitated, and Cassie could tell she was weighing her words. Rose was opening up to them, but still looked ready to bolt. “What else did Randall tell you?”
“Little things. Times where he’d figure out Aguilar was moving some big shipment or something. When he got paid a lot of money, it was hard to say no. We really wanted kids. And we wanted them better off than we were.” She rubbed her stomach absentmindedly. “But he got scared. He wouldn’t tell me, but I think Aguilar made him keep track of other things. Bad things. That’s when Randall decided he’d had enough.”
“What happened?”
“We talked about it for a while. He knew Aguilar had people in the police department working for him. But there was one guy who was different from the others. He didn’t want to be there. Like he was being blackmailed or something. Randall sent him anonymous letters at first. And once he decided he could trust the guy, they began working together.”
“Who was it? The cop?”
Rose looked confused for a second. “Detective Klein. Didn’t you know he was working with Aguilar?”
Harris stood up, and Cassie jumped. “David wasn’t undercover for Aguilar.”
“Not undercover.” Rose glanced at the door, like she was gauging how far away it was in case she had to escape. “He was working for him. I think he was paying down some sort of debt.”
“A debt?” Harris’s entire body went stiff. “What kind of debt?”
“I don’t know. All Randall told me was that Detective Klein had asked Aguilar for a favor. He spent years paying it off.”
“Years?”
“Yeah.”
Harris looked like she was going to be sick. “Do you have any idea—I mean, do you know when David asked for this favor?”
“Not exactly.” Rose glanced between Harris and Cassie, looking just as confused as Cassie felt. “But definitely several years ago. Randall had known about Detective Klein for a while before he reached out.”
“Adelaide.” Cassie couldn’t keep the warble out of her voice. “What’s going on?”
“It’s all my fault.” Harris looked close to crying. “That deal David made with Aguilar.” She looked up, and Cassie had to blink back her own tears. She’d never seen such sadness in the detective’s eyes. “I think it’s because of something I did.”
28
Zbirak stood back along the wall, careful not to lean against it. The basement he had acquired for this job was not the cleanest, and he wished to keep up his own appearances. It would be difficult to spot residue on the black button-down shirt and slacks he’d recently purchased, but he would know it was there. And that was enough.
The room was small. Cramped. There was a hint of mildew in the air, covered by the searing scent of bleach and the putrid stench of something else. He glared at Mr. Thompson for the third or fourth time that evening. When he’d told Mr. Thompson to clean the room, Zbirak thought the man would hire a legitimate cleaning crew. It never occurred to him Thompson would simply pour bleach on the floor and wipe it around for a few minutes.
What was
the point in cleaning for their guest if this was the result?
Zbirak turned his attention back to Robert Sherman. Or Bob, as he preferred. What a congenial, utterly boring name. Bob. It didn’t feel right coming out of his mouth. It felt too simple, too plebian. He’d call him Mr. Sherman. It was decided.
Zbirak stepped forward. “Mr. Sherman, I hate to be so heavy-handed. I hope you know that.”
Sherman flinched, but otherwise did not respond. He was tied to a chair made from cherry wood. Zbirak had seen it in an antique store and couldn’t resist its charm. Of course, he hadn’t intended to use it during an interrogation, but he enjoyed putting it to good use. He had warned Thompson not to damage it, but that was likely a lost cause. Thompson didn’t have the lightest of touches.
“But time is of the essence here. I need answers.”
“I told you everything.” Mr. Sherman’s voice was husky from yelling. “Please. I don’t know anything else.”
