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As he scurries off doing that, I turn around and continue toward the conference room. I’m in no mood for a meeting with anybody, but I’m also not about to cancel so last minute. It’ll serve as a distraction ’til the others return with Delphine. Otherwise, I’ll be pacing the whole length of the loft.
“Salvatore,” Suarez says with a respectful nod as I enter the room. He’s come alone, dressed in slacks and a simple white shirt that’s got a duck tail in the back. He rises to shake my hand with a nervous smile flitting across his face.
“Sit.”
He does as I say… almost too eagerly. He plops down in his chair. Meeting his gaze, my bullshit radar goes off. My gut instinct pulls at me, vague, but adamant that I pay close attention.
I sit down opposite him at the long conference table and take a laidback approach. My anger is erased, my face no longer clenched, and I let cool indifference lead the way.
“So,” I say, “you’ve got updates?”
“Uh… yes. I have conducted a search far and wide to find out what’s happening with the distribution and the thieves that stole some of the product.”
“And?”
“And,” he continues with a clear of his throat, “it appears to be nobody of importance. No official entity. Just street criminals. They were caught. See for yourself.”
I sit up slightly in the leather chair to glance at the printed photographs and newspaper clippings he slides across the table. There are several of them showing a shot-by-shot depiction of an arrest that was made. Some guys I’ve never seen in my life—and who look like rookies to the letter—are being led away in handcuffs by the police.
The last photograph shows the product that’s been stolen, now in the custody of the police.
“It should never happen again,” Suarez says.
“And have the police traced back where the product originates from?”
“No, not as of yet. Every cartel active in the country sells this product. None of them will cooperate. Neither will I, nor other distributors. It’s a dead end for them.”
“That’s very… neat.”
His tan skin develops a sickly sheen. “Uh, neat? As in, what?”
“As in… that’s awfully neat. Wrapped up in a nice package. It’s all worked out.”
“Salvatore,” he gives off a laugh, “I’m not sure what—”
“This arrest. It was made by the South Valley PD?”
“Y-yes… and… and your point?”
“I thought you said the product was stolen in Lunsbury.”
“I did. But… but the thieves got away. They escaped the city.”
“Is that why the article clipping you provided says the assailants robbed a truck in South Valley before SVPD apprehended them?”
“Well… it originated in South Valley. Then there was a high speed chase.”
“That lasted the four hours it takes to get from Lunsbury to South Valley? That’s a long high speed chase. You’d think it’d be included in the details of the article.”
“Four hours away? That wouldn’t be their jurisdiction.”
Suarez stammers a couple nonsensical words out. Stuff like, “err” and “uhh” that go nowhere.
I tap the photograph that shows the stolen supply. “This is a almost a full truckload that these assailants took. A lot more than what was stolen from us. We only lost five percent. Did you think I wouldn’t notice?”
“I must’ve brought the wrong photos and news story,” he mumbles, leaning over the table to collect the evidence. “I… I must be mistaken. I apologize for wasting your time.”
As his hand moves over to the photographs and newspaper clipping, I snap up myself. I slam down his hand, trapping it against the table with my Balisong knife. The scream of absolute pain that Suarez releases lives in the air for several seconds to come. It bounces off walls and travels outside the room.
