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“That’s mighty trusting of you, Sheriff.” His tone came out flat and lacking in life, so not all that removed from him after all.
The sheriff shook his head, as if somehow disappointed, all while he tapped the end of his pen against the mostly blank page before him. “Cut the bullshit, Holloway, and while you’re at it, maybe tell me who you were working—”
“His name is Luciano Conti.”
The sheriff’s face turned still and pale, as though he hadn’t expected to get the answer so easily, or maybe because he recognized the name. Still, just to be sure, Dean added, “He’s the ringleader for a West Coast crime syndicate. Though believe me, any kind of half-hearted digging will show that syndicate is much bigger than just Luciano.”
“Why are you telling me this?” The sheriff’s expression hardened again. “I would have thought you’d bargain for some kind of legal leniency before you offered that information.”
“You think one name is all the information I have?” Dean drew his jaw tight, a dull pain radiating through his teeth.
Even if he was unlikely to survive his next prison stint, he wasn’t about to take any extra hits protecting an asshole like Luciano, not when he could take the man down with him. The man had knowingly put him in an unstable situation with Anthony. Twice. All for greed. All to add more money to his already ludicrous pile. And then the audacity to hurt anyone who no longer wanted a piece of that action… Luciano was spineless. A bully.
Dean relaxed his jaw, resigned to explaining further. “I’ve seen eight men try to leave the syndicate and die for their trouble. Luciano can rot in hell as far as I care, but a prison cell will have to do. If it makes more sense to you, then call this my last chance to make the world better for having had me in it.”
The sheriff held a pensive stare before peering down and scribbling in his book. “Seems Mr. Stucco did most of the dirty work in both your interactions. I’d also say there’s a statute of limitations that’s probably lapsed from your work with him from ten years ago…”
Dean sat quiet for a while again, this conversation far too polite for his comfort. “Is this you trying to help me?”
If so, why?
The sheriff put his pen down and peered up again. “Let’s just say I didn’t trust your first story weeks ago, so I did a little research.”
Dean scoffed. “You must have found something glowing in that research that I don’t know about.”
“Not glowing, Mr. Holloway. Inconsistent.” The sheriff narrowed his eyes, his attention sweeping over Dean again, as though he questioned whatever he had to say next. “Don’t fool yourself into thinking you’re not in trouble here, son. You’re in a whole heap of it, and a prison van will be here within the hour to take you far from Harlow.”
He leaned in and pointed Dean’s way, the man’s focus zeroing in. “But you’re also one lucky son-of-a-gun, because in all of this, there’s one person who’s defied all common sense and done something to help you.”
