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Only he’s more like a vulture.
“Might head down to Destin for my retirement, do some deep-sea fishing, find me a Floridian honey. I’ll send you a postcard.”
“Don’t bother. But if you break our deal, not only will I hunt you down, they will hear all about your fatherly ways in Destin or wherever the fuck you go.”
“Yeah…yeah… you got me on tape. Relax, Cujo. I know the terms. Just get me my money. All of it upfront and I’ll be on my way.”
“You’ll get it as soon as your resignation is announced and the deed to the house is mine.”
“How do I know that you’ll pay up?”
“I want you gone, that’s how you know.”
“Still…gotta protect myself.”
“I’ll put the money in escrow and have the papers drawn up. But if you don’t sign them and tender your resignation by Friday, the deal’s off.”
“You finally got balls, son. Kinda admire that.”
Like hell he does. “Friday, Malcolm.”
“Friday it is.”
I disconnect and spear a hand through my damp hair. “He’s taking the deal.”
“That’s good news, Mick.”
“It doesn’t feel right. I threaten to expose him, to take away his power hold as sheriff, and just like that he agrees without a fight.”
“You took away the power he has over you. That’s what he thrived on. Without it, why not leave? $5 million is a lot of money for a new start.”
“It just seems too good to be true.”
She lays her suit on the bed and crosses to me. Her hands brace my jaw, bringing my face down to hers. There’s love and pride in her eyes. The things I treasure like air. “You’re free of him, Mick. You did that, whether he leaves or not. You’ve slayed your dragon. It’s over.”
Then why doesn’t it feel over? I circle her waist and draw Dee close, fighting off the ominous dread that I could still lose all this.
ChapterTwenty-Nine
Dee
The law office of Bryant, Jackson & McGuire is located in the heart of downtown in a nineteenth-century brick-and-terracotta building that had been restored back in 2002. I’d agreed to meet Thomas Jackson on his turf, allowing him the illusion of the home-court advantage.
Calista won’t be joining me. We’d debated it before coming to the conclusion that a one-on-one with Jackson would be more effective.
Armed and ready, I’m seated in an ornate lobby. Flaunting affluence and old-world tradition, it’s decorated with dark wood, marble statues, and tufted couches. Given my impression of the pompous attorney, the cliché environment fits to a tee, right down to the young, bombshell receptionist.
For the meeting, I’d chosen a gray tweed suit, white blouse, and low-heel pumps. My hair is pulled back in a bun and pearl studs adorn my ears. Mick had teased me this morning about hiding my kick-ass under a bushel.
It was good to see him smiling and playful again. He’d been unusually quiet and distracted these last few days. Aside from the case, I know his distrust of Malcolm’s intentions is weighing heavy on his mind.
At ten o’clock, an assistant in classic Chanel approaches with polite efficiency. “Mr. Jackson will see you now.”
She leads me down a mahogany-paneled hallway, passing offices and framed art renditions of the three male partners. When she opens the last door at the end, I hear voices. Sitting at a long, polished boardroom table are Jackson at the helm and Mr. and Mrs. Franklin to his left.
I hadn’t expected them. Their obvious intention. But if they thought intimidation came in numbers, then they are the ones in for a surprise.
“Ms. Chase.” Jackson stands, expertly coiffed, not a single strand of silver hair out of place. He offers a manicured hand. “Good to see you.”
