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For over two hours, I pace my house. From time to time, I reread her summary and revisit the numbers on the spreadsheets, still unable to believe Hugh would do this.
I've seen him do some unscrupulous things, but I never thought he'd screw me.
I need to call the FBI.
My reputation will never recover. I'll be associated with his embezzlement.
The SEC will have a field day.
I can't notify them.
But I can't let him get away with this.
Most people would turn the evidence over to the FBI and SEC, let Hugh rot in jail, and try to recover from the fallout.
Not me.
The longer I stew over it, the clearer it becomes. I grow more and more determined to make his life ten times worse than if the FBI and SEC went after him.
Hugh doesn't deserve a white-collar penitentiary.
Instead, I vow to destroy him, take anything close to his heart, and burn it to the ground until there's nothing left except ashes.
But how?
I spend another hour pacing, my mind spinning with questions about how to take him down. Then it hits me.
I pick up my phone and type in Jones. My time in Compton wasn't a total waste. Only a few people I know got out. Jones is one of them. And over the years, he's come in handy for some of my top-secret jobs. Plus, Hugh has never met him.
Something told me not to disclose my relationship with Jones to Hugh. I assumed it was because he was from my neighborhood, and I know how Hugh looks down on anyone not raised in Beverly Hills or a similar suburb. I was the exception. However, maybe it wasn't about that. Perhaps I kept Jones a secret because I knew deep down not to fully trust my partner.
Yet I did.
Did I?
I push the disturbing questions to the back of my mind and hit the dial button.
Jones answers, "It's been a long time, Riggs."
I run my hand through my hair, studying the waves, replying, "Indeed."
He continues, "I assume you have a job for me?"
He's always straight to the point. It's another reason I respect him. "Yes. It's extremely sensitive. Can you meet in the next hour?"
"I'm in Compton," he informs me.
I groan inside. One place I hate returning to is the old neighborhood. Jones may have survived, but he can't seem to leave it in the past. He owns an entire block, has fixed up the houses, and often uses one to do his work.
I don't get it. He could go anywhere. The guy's a millionaire and works off his laptop. Whenever I've asked him about it, he claims he likes to stay true to his roots.
I inquire, "Is your garage free? I'm not parking on the street."
He chuckles. "Maybe you should get an average car."
"Maybe you should do business somewhere else," I retort.
He snorts. "Still driving a Porsche?"
