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Curious, I glance to Fletch.Why the fuck would anyone grant us full cooperation for no reason but kindness? It’s just not done.
“Your reputation precedes you, Detective.” She brings us into an office suite boasting glass-walled conference rooms and sitting areas with comfortable couches and tables. Turning back, she focuses on me. “Mr. Whittaker has business dealings in New York City, and a relationship with your family.”
Instantly, my eyes narrow. So he’s tangled up with the mob, likely launders money through the Malones, and has a hand in the movement of powder across this country.
Fucking awesome.
I firm my lips, because I have no comment on the matter. Especially not when I’m on the clock and working to solve a murder. So I make my way toward a little round table surrounded by three wingback chairs. “When he’s ready, then.” I sit down and tap my knees. “Please let him know we’re in a hurry. And prepare the team. We’d like to speak with them, too.”
“Of course.” She looks to Cato and lingers for a moment more. But she’s quick. World-experienced. And fully aware of Whittaker’s dealings, if she knows about his relationship with New York.
“She’s hot.” Cato takes the chair on my right, while Fletch sits on my left. “You think she’s available?” He tilts his head to the side and watches her walk all the way to the hall. “A little young,” he concedes. “Not even fully grown yet. But her eyes say she knows what’s up, and her lips would feel good wrapped around—”
“She’s got dealings with the mob,” I grit out. “Stay away.”
He chokes out a laugh that has all the Beckys looking our way. “Ihave dealings with the mob. Iamthe mob, bitch. I think I’m exactly her type.”
“Did you know the Condors are in bed with the Malones?” Fletch leans closer to murmur in my ear. “Has that been going on for a while?”
I shake my head side to side and keep my lips shut as the phones fall quiet for a synchronized second. When they start again, I reply, “I didn’t know. But I left a long time ago, so I have no fuckin’ clue what Tim was doing.”
“It wasn’t Dad,” Cato inserts. “Never before this second did I know we were affiliated.”
Suspicious, I straighten my leg and take out my phone, then opening my text screen, I find Felix’s name and quickly type:Are you in bed with the Condors because Cato wants to play?
Hitting send, I start typing again:He needs to earn it, Lix. He’ll enjoy it more if he works for it. Giving it to him for free is useless.
“Gentlemen?” Jenna saunters closer again, smiling as we rise from our seats. “Mr. Whittaker will see you now.” She turns her back on us with full confidence we’ll follow.
Which we do, of course. And because we’re here professionally, I hold Cato back and make damn sure he doesn’t touch the first girl in his own age bracket he’s actually attracted to.
Who the fuck am I? Since when did I agree to parent this asshole?
Jenna leads us through a hallway lined with framed player photos. Their most valuable players getting recognition and, no doubt, the salaries that go with it.
While Cato studies Jenna’s brown curls and long, trim thighs, I read Fabian Sandhurst’s name above a picture of him. Unlike much of his team, he’s white-skinned, and on the shorter side. He wears a mustache straight out of the seventies, but somehow makes it look almost contemporary.
Duke Bowie is one of the younger team members. Six foot three. Dark, African skin, and a shaved fade.
Jaylon Dominick. Same coloring, same body composition. But his hair is worn in a twisted high top, with bleached ends.
Players range from twenty-two years old to thirty-four. Mathew Frederick is both the oldest on the team, and married. So as Jenna brings them all through, he’s one I’ll look at a little longer.
I bring my attention away from the wall and to Jenna’s back as she pauses at the end of the hall. She nods just once, then enters and holds the door for the rest of us to pass through.
Richard Whittaker is old, short, round, and pasty white. But he’s rich as the devil, and seemingly happy we’re here.
“Detectives Fletcher and Malone,” Jenna announces. Then she looks to Cato curiously and adds, “And their friend.”
“Detectives.” Whittaker comes around his massive wooden desk in a three-piece suit and with diamond-encrusted rings on most of his fat fingers. He fixes the button on his jacket and comes to a stop just two feet from where I stand.
I don’t offer my hand, but he takes it anyway and pumps once, twice, three times, until my shoulder tweaks from the movement. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Detective Malone. I’ve enjoyed my business relationship with your family to date.”
“I do not represent my family when I wear this badge.” I tug my hand from his grasp and wipe my palm on my jeans. “In fact, I do not represent my family at all. Truthfully, the fact you have dealings with them is a concerning admission to make to an on-duty cop.”
He points at me, waggling his finger as he laughs, then turns on his heels. He doesn’t shake Fletch or Cato’s hands, though I figure he would stop for Cato if he knew his name. “I trust we can remain amicable, Detective.” He nods for Jenna. “Coffee please, darlin’.”
As she takes her leave, Whittaker sits behind his desk with a noisyharumph,and steeples his fingers. “I cannot for the life of me make a reasonable guess as to why you’re here, Detectives. Off-duty…” he nods. ‘Sure, I’d get that. But on duty?” He shakes his head. “I can’t even hazard to speculate.”
