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“Now the fun begins.”
Howard’s oldest is the head of a bank near here. White-collar, and clean background. He also doesn’t speak to his father much. And why would you? A sleezball tends to isolate himself, his beliefs outweigh all else.
“What the hell is going on here? Dad?”
“Junior Garcia?” I ask.
He eyes me, looking between me and his father a few times before nodding. “Yes?”
“Your father here has been lying, scheming, and not to mention stealing from his tenants. You didn’t think I saw how you were charging people late fees when they were on time, did you, Howard? Well, I did. I’ve had an inside man change the paperwork for this place and all Howard’s other holdings to his power of attorney, citing his recent diagnosis of dementia...”
Howard cuts me off, “I don’t have fucking dementia!”
I lift my gun, stepping into him and placing its cold barrel to his temple.
Howard winces, a cowardly tear slipping out of his eye.
“I knew he was running this place into the fucking ground, but I didn’t know how to get it away from him. My grandfather built this place, he’d be appalled,” Junior says, and Howard looks up, all anger washing out of his eyes, shock replacing it.
“Well, all you have to do is sign.” I text Trevor to send the paperwork to me, and I have Junior rattle off an email for him to e-sign the documents. Of course, Trevor has prepared them under our front company, created to look like a realty broker’s office. All above board on paper. Because he’s a wizard with computers and business. And because my father taught us all we know.
He'd be proud of what I’d done here today, and it doesn’t settle well in my stomach.
“Done,” Junior says, and I nod.
Handing Junior the key to his father’s handcuffs, I pat him on the shoulder. “He’s all yours.”
“Oh, right,” I say, turning back around and lifting my weapon to his father’s temple.
Junior shifts on his feet, wanting to defend his father, but knowing he’s earned everything coming to him.
“The name of thecopyou had oust the Bancrofts from their home?”
“R-Ryker Bardot!” Howard stutters.
I drop my gun. “Pleasure doing business with you. I do hope your son lets you keep your home. Would be a pity to see you on the streets, Mr. Garcia.”
Before I make it to the door, Junior steps into the living area. “Thank you. I know you’re some kind of vigilante, he’s talked about you before, and I thought he was losing it. But you did me, and the people of this building, a massive favor today. If I can ever repay the favor...”
I turn, cutting him off with the look on my face. “Never give the devil a favor, Mr. Garcia. Just take care of these people.”
He nods frantically. “I will. I promise.”
“It’s done,” I tell Trevor, letting my head hit my headrest in my car, air conditioning blasting the sweat on my face, making my skin tighten. “Where are the Bancrofts?”
“They used your card at the Hilton Garden Inn, on Boren Ave.”
“Ryker Bardot, send me all you can. Include an address.”
“Uhm, okay? What for?”
“House call isn’t complete.” I cut the call and speed away from the curb, headed to deliver the good news. The only good part of what I do.
* * *
I can’t fucking believemy eyes when I stop near Detective Dickhead’s house, and it’s the same address Trevor found for a Ryker Bardot. He was trying to save her from me, and yet, he’s dirty.
I shake my head.
