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“Heard you have a new boss,” Franco said.
“How do you like working for the senator?”
“How do you like working for Bartlett?”
He’d trumped me there. “Are they dividing up the empire? Like Caesar, Pompey, and Crassus.”
“I’m impressed,” Franco said. “Most people forget the First Triumvirate.”
“Most people forget Crassus,” I said. “When he died, things went to shit between Caesar and Pompey.”
“For a cop, you’re well read.”
“Same for you as a bodyguard.”
Franco nodded toward town, which meant west. “You’ll find out soon enough, but the senator is discussing with the mayor and Cash Porter the plans for the old factory lot. Little ol’ Burney is going to have its very own Costco.”
I shuddered. Not just because the thought of the factory being torn down and replaced with that abomination would gut Liz, but I couldn’t get within a mile of one of those without experiencing dread. It was a circle of hell in my opinion.
“You’ll find out soon enough,” I said, “but Cash is in bed with the Iron Wolves. He’s got them all over the development. And he’s had O’Toole call us, the police, off jurisdiction. Whatever he’s up to with them, he does not want oversight. Do you have any?”
A tiny little line appeared above Franco’s sunglasses, which meant I’d scored.
“He’s in deep with them, Franco. And if he’s in deep, so is the senator.”
Several seconds passed as Franco processed that tidbit. I’d taken a chance and it appeared Francohadn’tknown, which meant the senator didn’t either. Cash had a secret, and it was an explosive one.
“How deep?” Franco finally asked, confirming what I’d thought.
“They’re providing security at River Vista.”
Franco shrugged. “A shakedown. The Wolves do that.”
“Oh, no, it’s more than that,” I said.
Franco folded his arms, waiting.
“Cleve Blue was in bed with the Wolves,” I told him.
“That was years ago.”
“And through Cleve, the senator’s dear, departed husband.”
“We don’t speak ill of the dead.”
“What if history is repeating itself?” I asked. “And the senator’s sleazy, not departed, lover Cash Porter is now laundering for the Wolves? Boy, if that came out, it would look bad.”
“You’re fishing,” Franco said. But there was an edge to his voice, probably because of my guess about lover for Cash.
“Really bad,” I said. “Not to mention when the news comes out that he hired Mickey Pitts to kill Thacker. Thacker was saying some nasty things about the senator.”
He shook his head. “Find another place to throw your hook or bring better bait. You got nothing.”
“I’ve got Jim Pitts killed in a hit and run right where you passed me. And Mickey Pitts killed in prison.”
“That’s got nothing to do with anything.”
“I think it’s got a lot to do,” I said, but I realized I was far afield without a solid course of action. It could work in an interrogation room with a suspect who was sweating, but not with Franco. I couldn’t be bad cop with him, and I was currently an adrift cop concerning this entire mess. I had the ledger, but that was something to be held in reserve until I learned more.
