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“I don’t like being lied to.”
Sherman finally looked up. For the first time since he’d returned, Zbirak saw the extent of the man’s injuries. Thompson had concentrated his blows on the man’s face, giving him two black eyes and a split lip. Blood trickled from his nose, but it didn’t look broken. Zbirak had instructed Thompson to rough the man up, but he didn’t want to leave him with any lasting injuries. Not yet.
“I’m not lying.” Sherman wept. “Please.”
“Let’s go over what we know so far, shall we? Just in case you’re feeling a little behind the rest of the class.” Zbirak paced back and forth, ticking items off his fingers. “Rose contacted you because you are Randall’s cousin. She trusted you because you and Randall used to run in similar circles before you got a corporate job, though you weren’t above helping him out once in a while for a little extra cash. Georgie needs to go to a good college, right?” He paused to level a look at Sherman before continuing. “You put Rose up in a hotel room for a few days. However, when Thompson went to check, she wasn’t there. We’re left with one of two options. You either lied about the room number, or you somehow warned her ahead of time. As you’ve been here without your phone for the last two hours, I suspect it’s the first option.”
“Please. I didn’t lie. I swear I told you the truth. Room 1075. At the Hyatt Regency. That’s where I left her.”
Thompson emerged from the shadows with a growl in his voice. “You calling me a liar?”
Sherman flinched again. “No. No. I’m just s-saying. S-She was there. That w-was her room number.”
“Mr. Thompson, let’s go over the details of your investigation again, just so Mr. Sherman is on the same page.”
Thompson turned toward Zbirak with a sneer. The man always sneered. He had the blackest eyes Zbirak had ever seen, like a shark who smelled blood in the water. Where Zbirak was tall and lean, Thompson was short and stocky. Zbirak did not fear the man, but he had no interest in tangling with him. There was no doubt in Zbirak’s mind that he’d win, but Thompson would land some heavy punches along the way. It was best to keep the man happy. Or as happy as someone like him could be.
“Mr. Thompson,” Zbirak started. “You went to Rose Sherman’s room? Number 1075?”
“Yes,” Thompson replied.
“And what did you find inside?”
“Nothing.”
“Not a single person?”
“No.”
“Any belongings, or was the room empty and clean?”
“A duffel bag. Women’s clothing.”
Sherman’s head snapped up. “See? It was her room. P-please—”
“But no indication that the clothes belonged to Rose Sherman?” Zbirak continued, as though he hadn’t been interrupted.
“None.” The growl in Thompson’s voice was sadistic, as though he looked forward to what came next.
And how could Zbirak deny him what he wanted?
“Mr. Sherman, it seems we do not have proof enough that you’ve given us the correct information. We need more from you.”
“I don’t know anything else. Please.” He looked up at Zbirak with pleading eyes. “Please, I’ll do anything. Money? Whatever your boss is paying you, I’ll double it. Triple it.”
“You couldn’t afford me.” It was Zbirak’s turn to sneer now. He hated when his guests turned into sniveling beggars. Didn’t anyone have a backbone anymore? “No, I need more information.”
“I’ve told you everything!” Sherman roared, rocking back and forth in the chair, struggling against his bonds. He tipped to the left, and then too far to the right. Gravity took him to the floor, and he landed with a grunt.
Zbirak forced himself not to wince. The chair didn’t look broken, but he was out of patience. “Mr. Thompson, please pick him up.” Zbirak waited until it was done. “Mr. Sherman, if you do that again, I will be forced to cut a limb from your body.” Was it overkill? Perhaps. But he was fond of that chair, and the man needed to know that Zbirak was serious. “If you will not cooperate of your own volition, I’ll hand the reins over to Mr. Thompson.”
That’s all Thompson needed to hear. He stepped forward, reared back, and slammed his fist into Sherman’s nose. There was a crunch and a cry of pain before blood exploded from his face. Thompson looked down in satisfaction before pulling out a rag from his back pocket and wiping his knuckles clean.
“Look at that.” Thompson pointed to a mermaid tattoo on his arm. “You made a mess of Betsy. You’ll pay for that.”
Betsy? Zbirak rolled his eyes. A stupid name for a stupid tattoo. But he wouldn’t interrupt the other man’s work. Whatever mind games Thompson wanted to play were fine with Zbirak. As long as it got him results. But he wouldn’t stand idly by.
“If you won’t talk, Mr. Sherman, then I’ll find another way to get the information I want. I believe your wife is still at home, awaiting your return. With little Georgie by her side. Something tells me she’ll be more than cooperative.”
