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“I sent Tam and a couple of the Disciples to go check his place out,” he explains. “They said it was empty but still looked like someone was living there. Luca’s car was gone. Tam posted up and kept an eye on the place. Didn’t take long before someone showed up that evening. Some young woman. He talked to her. She said she had met Luca, he let her stay there, and she didn’t know where he went. Tam says he thinks she’s telling the truth.”
“That’s it?” I say.
“Yeah. What else is there?” He shrugs.
I have to close my eyes and take a breath before I respond. It reminds me how different we are. How many details he just doesn’t bother to pay attention to. I trust that Damien’s telling me everything he knows. He’s not very reliable, but he’s not a liar. He doesn’t filter his feelings or anything else. Which is how I know there’s no way he’d ever be able to do my job. There’s also no way we’d ever be able to make him take it.
Dario’s probably the only one more honest than Damien in our family. Clearly, Damien didn’t ask Tam any follow up questions. He didn’t even think to find out if Tam figured anything else out. Like that the girl staying in Luca’s house is working for him.
It seems like Tam might have left out that information intentionally. But he told Klein about her. He was hesitant, but he told her. Maybe Klein is better at getting information out of people than I have suspected. But it wouldn’t be hard to beat Damien at that game, so it’s not exactly great evidence.
I’m curious to see what we find out about this girl when we meet with her.
I don’t bother telling Damien that this girl works at Saints, or that Klein and I will be there to speak with her. It’s better not to give him a heads-up. The occasional surprise inspection isn’t a bad thing for any project Damien is involved in. It’s probably why he dreads talking to me, but that’s how we are.
I stand up behind my desk. “Let me know if you find anything else out.” I turn to Raf. “Let me know if anything out-of-the ordinary happens in the new territories.”
Damien and Raf both stand. Raf nods at the instructions.
Before leaving, Damien walks to the tall windows and admires the view.
“Not bad,” he says. There’s a slight tone of mockery in his voice. He’s standing with his hands clasped behind his back. He’s slightly rocking back on his heels and nodding as he scans the horizon.
Damien leans forward as he looks down to the city below. I see him freeze. He’s looking down at the church across the street. Damien turns slowly to look at me. I can see questions in his eyes. But he doesn’t say anything.
“It is a nice view,” he says. No mockery in his voice. No emotion behind it either.
I nod back to him.
He follows Raf out of the office.
15
KLEIN
I setup a meeting with Charles Castille over my lunch hour on Friday. He’s campaigning against Nicoletti for the DA seat in the fall. I can’t outright ask him if he had anything to do with the attack on the courthouse. He’s not a strong suspect, but still, it’s worth meeting with him. My list of suspects is getting shorter and I’m no closer to an answer than I was the day of the attack.
The law offices of Castille, Kneass, & Mann are only a few blocks from the DA’s office. The receptionist has me wait in Castille’s office.
“He’s just finishing up a meeting. He’ll join you shortly,” she says as she closes the door behind her, leaving me in his office alone.
Castille has many items on display in his office. It makes me wonder how often he has people wait in here for him. My eyes are immediately drawn to the corner where Castille’s military past is commemorated. I don’t think that’s an accident. It’s subtle, but irresistible. Like the way the eyes of a painting might seem to follow you from any viewpoint.
He was a Marine. Served in the Gulf War. There are pictures of him in uniform, a picture of a group of men standing in front of a tank and a shadowbox frame containing medals and ribbons, including a Purple Heart and a Bronze Star. The collection definitely establishes an air of authority about him.
I hear the door open behind me and I turn away from the display to see the man himself framed in the doorway.
Charles Castille enters, closing the door behind him. He shakes my hand and introduces himself. He’s heavier and older than he is in his military photos, with graying hair and a face that’s become redder and fuller with age. Still, he’s easily recognizable.
“Klein McKenna,” I respond as I shake his hand. “Thank you for taking time to meet with me.”
Castille nods and then looks at the wall behind me with his military history.
“2ndMarine Division, 4thTanks,” he says, pointing at the framed insignia. “Operation Desert Shield and Operation Desert Storm.” He points to a picture of men grouped around the gun barrel of a tank. “Longest confirmed live kill. 3,750 meters. Almost two and a half miles.”
“Impressive,” I reply.
“Take a seat, Ms. McKenna,” Castille says, gesturing to the chair in front of his desk and then walking around the desk to sit in his own his chair.
