Indian Hill, Ohio
Sunday, March 17, 11:05 a.m.
Grant slunk down behind the steering wheel as a bright blue Mini Cooper pulled into the driveway of Richard Fischer’s gated Indian Hill home. He was glad it was too early for the trees to have leaves, because he could just see the huge, sprawling house from where he sat. The garage alone must have held six cars.
A tall, curvy blonde hopped out of the Mini Cooper and tapped a code into the security panel mounted on the big iron gates. Getting back into her car, she drove through the gates, but they didn’t close behind her.
Not giving himself time to second-guess, he followed her through the gate, but stopped just inside while she continued up to the house. The driveway curved, so she couldn’t see that he’d driven in after her.
He inched his car up the drive until she was once again in view. She’d gotten out of the car and was stalking up to the front door. She rang the bell, then waited, arms crossed over her chest, foot tapping.
Grant got out of his car and, after hesitating a moment, slowly approached the woman, who was now banging on the front door with both fists and screaming for Richard to “Open up, you fucking asshole!”
Either Richard wasn’t home or he was deliberately not answering the door. Given the woman’s wrath, Grant wasn’t sure he’d have answered the door, either.
“Excuse me, ma’am,” Grant said and the woman spun around, a gasp on her lips and her hand pressed to her heart.
“Fucking hell,” she hissed. “You scared the shit out of me.”
Grant tried to smile. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to frighten you. I take it that you’re trying to talk to Mr. Fischer?”
She snorted in a very unladylike way. “Give the man a gold star,” she said sarcastically, then narrowed her eyes. “Who are you?”
He nearly gave her his real name. Then he thought of all the pains Wes had taken to hide his identity. If this woman was a cohort of Richard’s and if Richard was somehow involved in Wes’s disappearance, Grant would follow his brother’s example. “Lin Jackson.” It was his father-in-law’s name, but it was the best he could do with a split second’s warning.
I’m an accountant, for God’s sake. Wes is the creative one. So sue me.
“Sergeant Lin Jackson,” he added when the woman gave him a “so what” look.
“Oh.” She nodded, appearing satisfied. “You’re just the person I need to talk to. That bastard has my diamond earrings.”
“Oh, dear. And you are . . . ?” He took out his phone and prepared to note the name.
“Dawn Daley.” She leaned in to watch him type it in. “D-a-l-e-y. Make sure you spell it right. I want those earrings. They were my mother’s.”
“He stole them?” Grant asked carefully.
“Yes!” Dawn grimaced. “Well, not exactly. I left them on the nightstand in his bedroom yesterday. When he kicked me out.”
“You live here, then.” Which was how she’d known the security code.
She grimaced again. “Well, no. I would have liked to, of course, because the house is a fucking mansion, but Richard Fischer is a fucking asshole.”
“I got the asshole part,” Grant said dryly. “So you were his houseguest.” This woman had been inside the house. She’d been with Richard. She could give him information. “How well do you know Mr. Fischer?” he asked.
She looked embarrassed. “Not well. I kind of met him Friday night.”
Friday night. The night of the poker game. Excellent. “On his boat?”
She nodded. “Paid a mint for that ticket, too. The Friday night cruise tickets are expensive, but I was hoping to meet him. I . . . work for the casino.” Another grimace. “I wait tables.”
So she’d wanted a leg up the corporate ladder and instead she’d gotten kicked down a few rungs. The lady had a bone to pick. Wes had often told him that this made otherwise hostile witnesses more cooperative.
“Why are Friday nights expensive?” he asked.
“Because the boat leaves the dock on Fridays. It can only carry a certain number of people. I guess they charge admission to make up for the losses.”
“Do you ever work on Fridays?”
“No. Only a few servers work Fridays—the most senior people. I’ve only been there a year. I always wanted to know what made Fridays so special. So I saved up and bought a ticket.” She shrugged, trying for nonchalance, but Grant saw the disappointment in her eyes. “Richard saw me at the bar and decided he’d take me home.”
“Was it worth it? The ticket price, I mean,” he added when her penciled brows shot up her forehead.
“Oh.” She laughed. “Not really. The clientele is richer. I saw a lot of fur coats, which I didn’t know was even still a thing.” She wrinkled her nose in distaste. “The bar jacked up the booze prices, I can tell you that. I nursed a twenty-five-dollar martini until Richard came downstairs and spotted me, then he bought the drinks.”
Downstairs? “What’s upstairs?” Grant asked, tilting his head and trying to look mildly curious. Hopefully secret poker games requiring a special invitation.
“The suites. There are only, like, ten of them and they’re hella expensive, but the boat is really old, so people like to spend the money to stay there.”
“Was he alone when he came down?” Grant asked with a sly wink, implying that there might have been another woman, but hoping that there would have been several poker players.
“Yes,” Dawn said. “I mean, it wouldn’t have stopped me if he had been with someone, but he hadn’t. He smelled like smoke.” She wrinkled her nose again.
Grant remembered seeing the No Smoking signs everywhere when he’d been on the boat the night before. “The casino allows smoking?”
“No, and that makes for a lot of angry people, I’ll tell you. They take it out on the servers. Filthy-mouthed fuckers who don’t tip for shit.”
“Maybe the upstairs guests can smoke.”
She shrugged. “I asked him that, because the smell of smoke was heavy in his jacket. He kind of laughed and said those clients were rich enough that they could do anything they wanted. Wish I’d bagged one of them. None of ’em could be a bigger asshole than Richard.”
Grant made himself chuckle, even though he wanted to be sick. Wes was posing as a rich man. He’d sold heroin for the cash to play a role. Had Wes really come to Cincinnati looking for their sister or had he succumbed to the temptation that taunted the vice detectives? Had he become one of those men who believed he could do anything? Like shoot a detective with an unregistered gun?
He forced his mind back to his search. Dawn didn’t sound like she’d know about the poker game he was seeking, but he needed to find a way to ask. “That sounds like it’s over my pay grade. Are the upstairs rooms for sleeping or for gaming?”
She gave him a narrow-eyed stare. “Why?”
“I’m curious. I’ll never be able to afford that kind of game, but I’ve played in Vegas a few times.”
“Well, I don’t know,” she said brusquely. She started for her car, but he shifted so that he stood in her way.
“One more question, Miss Daley. Please. Who does work on Friday nights?”
Her eyes narrowed further. “Why do you want to know?”
“I’m searching for someone,” he said honestly. “They might have been on the riverboat at some point. But no one I’ve talked to during the normal hours has seen her.” He wasn’t sure why he’d substituted her for him at the last moment, but he was glad he had because Dawn’s eyes softened.
“This is personal, isn’t it?” she asked.
You have no idea. “Yes, ma’am.” He drew a breath and steeled himself. “My baby sister.”
“Let me look at her photo. Maybe I’ve seen her.”
His hand genuinely trembling, he found the photo of his sister on his phone. “This is her.”
Dawn studied the photo intently, but ended up shaking her head sadly. “I’m sorry, I haven’t seen her, either. You should ask Scott King. He works most days, but always on Fridays. He’s the security manager.”
Grant hadn’t realized how tightly he was holding his shoulders until they relaxed a little. Talking to the security manager might be a better idea than trying to talk to the riverboat owner. “Thank you,” he said sincerely. “I appreciate it.”
He began to turn back to his car, but had one more question. “If you don’t live here, how did you know the security code?”
She rolled her eyes. “I watched Richard type it in. He was so high by the time we got here that he didn’t notice I was watching him.”
“You drove with him when he was high?”
Her smirk was matter-of-fact. “It was the only way to get into the house. Are you going to report my earrings?”
He nodded. “Of course. Daley—D-a-l-e-y.”
She smiled. “Yes. They’re dangly earrings with diamonds. Diamond chips, actually. Clip-ons. They aren’t worth much, but they were my mom’s.”
Grant’s eyes unexpectedly stung. He’d make sure Wes reported them when he found him. “I hope you get them back,” he murmured, then got into his car and drove back to Wes’s apartment.
Harrison, Ohio
Sunday, March 17, 1:15 p.m.
“Thanks for fucking nothing.” Ending the call, Cade tossed the burner phone to his kitchen table in disgust. “Un-fucking-believable,” he snarled. Not a single reporter knew who the woman was. Or if they did, they wouldn’t tell him.
The fuckers kept telling him to “read about it on my blog page,” or “watch the video on our website.” He had and none of those had anything about the kid other than what he’d gotten from that first report. Assholes.
He rubbed his head, sighing. Part of it might have been that he’d scared them. Not the few at the beginning, because he’d been nice to them—so damn nice—but they hadn’t told him squat. He might have gotten a little hostile with the others.
Still. He gritted his teeth. “So much for freedom of goddamn information.”
He was becoming more confident that the kid knew something. If the press was to be believed, the cops were being very tight-lipped.
He saw me. Cade knew it. But this was a fourteen-year-old kid. He needed to be sure before he pulled the trigger.
He pressed his thumbs into his skull, forcing himself to think. What did he know? “Not fucking much,” he grumbled. Just that the kid’s name was Michael Rowland, he was Brewer’s stepson, and his mother was a haggard bitch who was either lying through her teeth or stupid, because her teenage son had not killed her child-selling bastard of a husband. I did.
He knew that Michael had probably been hiding that night, because Cade hadn’t seen him. He replayed the video report in his mind. He knew that the kid was a freshman at Albert Sabin High School. And that he was deaf.
Oh. Wait. If he’d talked to the cops, he’d have needed a translator or whatever those people were called. He pulled his tablet close and did a search on sign language translating services. There were only two that were local.
He scanned the page, looking for what, he didn’t know. He’d know it when he saw it. He hoped.
Okay, they were called “interpreters.” Both companies provided them for all kinds of different things—schools, hospitals, doctor and other medical professional visits, and legal proceedings.
Legal proceedings. He’d known that he’d know it when he saw it, and there it was. Only one person in each interpreting service was certified to interpret in court. So he was down to two people. He’d try one, then the other.
He frowned at his screen. How should he go about hiring an interpreter? Clearly he couldn’t just call and say he was the client. Could deaf people even use the phone? How did that even work?
Luckily there was an FAQ section that covered what he needed to know. Michael wouldn’t have hired his own interpreter, even if he had been an adult. The responsibility for hiring and payment of interpreters was that of the provider.
In this case, the court or the cops. Cade thought about it. If he were an attorney, he could call on behalf of his client. He could be Dennis Kagan again, the ID he’d been carrying yesterday. He’d told only the CSU tech his name, and that guy was dead, so he wouldn’t be repeating it.
As for his “client”? He grabbed the old phone book that had come with the old pedo’s house and opened it at random. He closed his eyes, poked at the page, then opened his eyes. “David Peele it is.”
The FAQ also covered the confidentiality the client could expect from the interpreter, and Cade realized they might refuse to tell him anything.
But that wouldn’t be a huge deal. Cade knew how to get information out of people.
Now, which service to call first? He flipped a coin, then dialed.
“How can I help you?” a cheery female asked.
“Hi, my name is Dennis Kagan. I’m an attorney and need to hire an interpreter for my deaf client. He’s being held at the police department off Ezzard Charles Drive. I’ve never done this before. How do I go about hiring someone?”
“Oh, dear,” the woman said. “Our court-certified interpreter is out of town this weekend. We’ve been referring clients to the other interpreting service. If you have a pen, I can give you their number.”
“Not necessary. I can see them here on my computer. I did a search. Thank you.” He ended the call, feeling suddenly cheery himself. He dialed the other number and repeated his spiel. This time he was rewarded.
“Our interpreter will meet you at the police department in one hour,” a more reserved voice told him.
Cade nearly asked them who to expect, but then spotted the only certified legal interpreter’s photo on the company’s website. His name was Andrew McNab and he appeared to be early thirties and slender.
This shouldn’t be too hard at all.
Cincinnati, Ohio
Sunday, March 17, 3:10 p.m.
John Brewer had been such a sonofabitch, Diesel thought, barely managing to suppress a growl. An abusive, conniving, manipulating sonofabitch. He was glad the man was dead, because he wanted to rip Brewer’s head from his neck.
But he needed to keep his cool, for Michael’s sake. The boy had cried his eyes out while holding on to Diesel like he’d never let go, but eventually his sobs had quieted. Dani had given him a cup of tea and assured him that Joshua was napping comfortably in his bed upstairs.
Diesel hadn’t even been aware of Dani carrying Joshua up from the basement. His sole focus had been the boy crying for the innocence that had been so cruelly ripped away from him. And from fear that his world was about to come to an end.
“Temporary,” Michael had whispered in a voice that was a little slurred, but understandable. The whispered word had been his response when Diesel had assured him that everything would be okay, that he was safe in Dani’s house.
Temporary. In that moment, Diesel had known exactly how the boy felt.
But now Michael was napping on the sofa, Hawkeye sprawled at his side, half in his lap. And Diesel had returned to work.
Only to find that John Brewer had been an even bigger sonofabitch than he had already known.
“Her name was Laurel,” Dani said abruptly, jerking his attention from the numbers he’d been scowling at for the past hour. “LJM. The ‘L’ is for Laurel.”
Diesel looked up from his laptop. Face cupped in her hands, Dani sat with her elbows propped on the kitchen table, staring at the list of more than eighty LJM companies she’d written out longhand.
They’d worked in silent harmony after Meredith had taken her leave, with breaks for hot tea or for Dani to stir a pot of chili she had cooking on the stove. Or for her to check on Joshua as he napped, or to drape a blanket over Michael when he’d fallen asleep, clutching Hawkeye as desperately as he’d clutched Diesel.
It was so domestic, it almost hurt. Because Diesel wanted this so much. Wanted the homey kitchen, the dog, the kids, the quiet Sunday afternoon with Dani Novak. He wanted her. He wanted it all.
“Okay,” he said simply, unsurprised that she’d figured out the med student’s name. “How do you know?” Because they were still waiting on Jeremy O’Bannion to give them a lead on medical students with those initials.
“Laurel is the only name that appears multiple times. ‘Laurels Awards & Trophies,’ ‘LaGrange Lacrosse Laurels,’ and ‘Laurels Lilies, Rosemary & Poppies.’” She leaned back in her chair. “The first few times I read over these names I took ‘laurel’ to mean either an award or a plant.”
“So did I.”
“Well, one of the businesses does refer to awards—the ‘LaGrange Lacrosse Laurels.’ They must have won some kind of championship. I guess my brain put in commas instead of apostrophes for the other two businesses. These two actually refer to ‘Laurel’s,’ as in the possessive.”
His chest warmed with pride. “Nicely done, Doctor.” He leaned forward to kiss her cheek, but she pulled away, her back going stiff.
Her head dipped once, but she didn’t smile. Her eyes had become colder, her expression remote. Something had changed since that morning and he didn’t like it. They were back to the way they’d been all those months after she’d told him to find someone else.
“Thank you,” she murmured politely. “If Jeremy can’t find her, I figure we can dig into the records from her high school to get her last name. If she graduated from college two or three years ago, she must have attended high school four years before that. And if she did play lacrosse we can get her name. She may have been on the dance squad, so we can cross-check.”
Diesel did a quick Internet search. “LaGrange High School has a dance team and they’re called the ‘Dancing Divas,’ so ‘LG Varsity Dancing Divas’ makes sense.” He bristled with the excitement that always accompanied a hunt. It was better than feeling ragey at Brewer’s malice. Or numb at Dani’s obvious rejection. “That could work.”
“Once we get her last name, either through Jeremy or the high school, we’ll be able to trace to the Brothers Grim.”
“That assumes they are her actual family. ‘Brothers’ could mean a lot of things, although it’s a place to start.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Whoever they are, they can lead us to the vengeance dude.”
“Possibly. Although I’m sure whatever his real name is,” he said lightly, “it won’t roll off the tongue in nearly the same way as ‘vengeance dude.’”
She rolled her eyes at his teasing, which he’d managed pretty convincingly, if he did say so himself. Because he was really feeling desperation clawing at his heart. She was sitting here with him physically, but had pulled away emotionally.
“What did you find?” she asked.
Diesel frowned at the numbers on his screen. “The boys had trust funds.”
Dani stilled. “Had?”
Diesel nodded grimly. “Brewer had regular direct deposits coming in from another bank. At first I thought they were his income, but that’s deposited into another account that matches with his reported income on his tax forms.”
Her dark brows lifted. “You can see his tax forms?”
“Only because he kept copies on his hard drive.”
“How do you know the money came from the boys’ trust funds?”
“Because he kept the e-mails detailing the transfers.”
She pressed her lips tightly together. “How much did he take?”
“All totaled, more than a million dollars.”
She gasped. “Oh my God.”
“Half of it was an inheritance that Michael Rowland Senior left to the kids when he was killed in Iraq. That money and the house itself were passed down through the boys’ biological father’s family. The other half was probably Rowland Senior’s death benefits. If he had maximum coverage, his family would have received four hundred grand. There’s also the death gratuity.”
Dani winced. “Death gratuity? That sounds awful. Like it’s a tip for dying.”
Diesel agreed with her. “I know, but that’s what the military calls it. There’s also the surviving family benefits. It’s not much—maybe a grand a month—but the boys will be entitled to that until they’re eighteen.”
“That’s something, I guess.”
“Not much,” Diesel said with disgust. “The life insurance and the paternal inheritance were invested and the dividends plus the GI benefits should have been enough to pay the children’s expenses until they turned eighteen. But it’s all gone.”
Dani’s eyes were narrowed and angry. “I’m surprised that the mother hadn’t taken it all already.”
“I’m not sure that she took any of it. Brewer was the trust funds’ trustee.”
Her mouth fell open, surprised. “How did he manage that?”
“He was Rowland Senior’s attorney. Brewer used to be part of a firm downtown and another attorney from the firm set up the trust before the boys’ father was deployed. For whatever reason, Rowland appointed Brewer as the executor. Brewer’s been steadily draining money from the fund for the past four years, a little at a time. It sped up in the past year.”
“Doesn’t someone keep an eye on the trustees?”
“Supposed to. The trustee submits a report detailing the money spent and for what purpose. Brewer did this and kept copies on his hard drive. But I think he faked some of the reports. One says they spent money on cochlear implant surgery for Michael. We’ll have to ask him if he has an implant, but he wasn’t wearing a processor.”
Dani’s jaw tightened. “He doesn’t have a cochlear implant. I asked him yesterday. That surgery runs about fifty grand, and it went right into Brewer’s pocket. How did he claim a surgery that never happened?”
Diesel shrugged. “He has a doctor’s letter and copies of bills, but he could have forged those. It looks like he mostly stayed just under the minimum he was allowed to withdraw until the past year. That’s when most of the money was taken. He would have needed to submit his report soon.”
“And he wouldn’t have good reasons for spending the money. He needed to replace what he’d taken or he’d be charged with stealing. So he sells his house.” Dani swallowed hard. “And maybe his stepson?”
Diesel had to swallow back his own anger. “Possibly.” He’d assumed the same thing. “Whatever he was doing with Joshua the night Michael fought him, it wasn’t anything legit. Nothing about this whole mess is legit. Looks like Brewer withdrew the money in cash every month after it was deposited.”
“Are we back to him needing money for gambling and/or drugs?”
He nodded. “Looks like. The good news is that, because Brewer kept all of his e-mails, there are several references to casinos and bookies.”
“So you’re back to following the money.”
“Or the lack thereof. Hopefully the court required Brewer to be bonded with an insurance company when they appointed him trustee. Maybe some of the money can be reimbursed.”
“I hope so.” Folding her hands on the table, she leaned back, putting distance between them. Her whole demeanor became reserved. Not angry, just remote enough to send a shiver of dread down his spine. “What will you do next?”
What will you do next? You, not we. The question hit him hard because she asked it in the same tone that she’d take with a banker or a lawyer or . . .
A stranger. A wave of loneliness washed over him and his chest felt tight. He drew in a slow breath, holding it, trying to calm his now rapidly pounding heart.
He managed to keep his expression impassive, but it was hard. That she’d firmly put them back in the friend zone was a bitter pill to swallow. Hell, it wasn’t even the friend zone. They were in the colleague zone. She was making it perfectly clear.
“I’ll keep searching.” Because there is no more “we.” No more “us.” Not that there ever had been anything real between them. Just his stupid hopes and dreams. It was high time he accepted it. But it hurt. So much that the need to punch something was almost more than he could control. I need to get out of here. Away from her. From this.
She opened her mouth on what was sure to be a protest, but he stopped her with an upheld hand that visibly trembled. “I need to go out for a little while. Check the casinos. But I don’t want to leave you alone.” Because even though she’d pushed him away, he still cared. He was still responsible for her and the boys. He would stick with this until the boys were safe, until their immediate future was resolved. But he needed to get away for a little while. Needed to be able to breathe.
“We’ll be okay,” she said levelly. “Maybe I’ll ask Kendra to come over and watch a movie with us later.”
Officer Kendra Cullen was a good choice. She was an even better choice if her Fed boyfriend accompanied her. Not that Diesel didn’t have confidence in Kendra’s abilities, but Special Agent Jefferson Triplett was as big as Diesel and could protect Dani and the kids as well as he could.
He smiled tightly. “That sounds good.”
She gave him a knowing look. “I’ll ask her to bring Trip with her.”
“Am I that obvious?”
She nodded. “Yeah, you are, but that’s okay. If it makes you feel better, I’ll even ask Scarlett and Marcus.”
And that was it, the straw that broke his back. The thought of Scarlett and Marcus, married and happy, Scarlett expecting their first baby. Diesel was so damn happy for them, but it was one more reminder that his friends were paired off, living their forevers.
While I . . . sit here. In this house, with kids who weren’t his, the homey kitchen where he was just a visitor. And with the woman who isn’t mine. And as much as he wished it, she might never be. He could feel her impending rejection.
He’d welcomed the interruption when Michael had thrown open the basement door because it meant he could go a little bit longer without her saying the words he dreaded. Find someone else. This isn’t going to work.
Go away.
Dani squared her shoulders, straightened her spine, and schooled her features, turning to him with an expression that was prim but firm. She was getting ready to say it again. Getting ready to tell him to find someone else. And he couldn’t stand to hear it.
Abruptly he pushed to his feet, overwhelmed by the panic clawing at his gut. Because this wasn’t enough. I’m not enough. This wasn’t real. None of this was real and he’d been a fool to pretend that it was.
Dani stared up at him, brows crunching together in consternation, and he knew he needed to say something, because the words he dreaded most were about to fall from her lips.
So he said the first thing that came to mind. “Thank you.”
She tilted her head warily. “For what?”
For letting me pretend for a little while. “Not giving me a hard time about protecting you. I know this is temporary for you.” He drew a deep breath that sliced at the inside of his chest. Temporary. Michael had been right. They were all just temporary. Hell, Michael had a better chance of permanence here than Diesel did. “I know you asked me to stay because of the kids. And that’s okay.” No, it’s not okay. Not at all. I’m not okay. “But thank you for taking my need to protect all of you seriously.”
Her mouth had fallen open, and he waited, hoping she’d tell him that he was wrong, that this wasn’t temporary, that she wanted him there as much as he wanted to be there. But she didn’t. She sat staring up at him, a host of emotions warring in those beautiful mismatched eyes.
She wanted him. He knew that. But she still didn’t want to want him.
Hurriedly he packed his laptop in its case. “If you can call Kendra and Trip, I’ll call Scarlett and Marcus.” Then he’d get out of this sweet, cozy house and do what he did best—catching sonsofbitches who hurt people.
Harrison, Ohio
Sunday, March 17, 4:30 p.m.
Cade stared down at the man lying in the fetal position on his basement floor. Andrew McNab was a lot tougher than he looked. And a lot more honorable.
Cade was reluctantly impressed. The guy had not given the kid up. Hadn’t said a word other than that he wasn’t going to divulge any client’s business. For the first half hour, anyway.
That had changed when Cade had broken one of McNab’s ribs. Then the man began to chant that he didn’t know, over and over.
Grabbing McNab had been the easy part. Cade had been waiting for him in the parking lot of the police station. All he’d needed to do was shove a gun against the man’s back and McNab had gotten back into his car and, with Cade in the backseat still pointing the gun, had driven them to where Cade had directed he go.
They’d ditched the guy’s car and switched to Cade’s SUV, making the trip back to the old pedo’s house in silence. Because Cade had tied and gagged McNab.
He’d figured the man would sing like a fucking canary once he saw Cade’s face and realized he was the one from the news, but McNab hadn’t. He’d been terrified, but he hadn’t given Michael up.
Cade was regretting showing McNab his face. A guy like Andrew McNab didn’t deserve to die, but now he’d have to kill him.
“I’m going to ask you one last time,” Cade said, because even though he admired the guy, McNab was trying his patience. “Did Michael Rowland provide the police with my description?”
McNab groaned. His face was pretty messed up. I might have been more impatient than I thought I was.
Cade’s knuckles were beginning to swell, so he pulled his gun from its holster and aimed it at the interpreter’s head. “Last chance,” he said with true regret.
McNab rolled to his back so that he looked up, meeting Cade’s gaze squarely. “You’re going to kill me either way. So why would I tell you anything?”
It was a fair question. “So it doesn’t hurt anymore?”
“So it’s not my last chance,” McNab said.
Annoyed, Cade kicked him hard. McNab coughed, but looked at him defiantly. “Why are you asking me? Why not just kill Michael and be done with it?”
Cade blinked. “Because he’s just a kid. I have to be sure.”
“Well, you’ll need to get your guarantee from somebody else.” McNab spat, his spittle tinged with blood. “I’m not going to help you kill that kid.” He cradled his broken rib with one arm. “He’s been through enough.”
“So you did interpret for him?” Cade was pleased. The man hadn’t even admitted that much until now.
Something flickered in McNab’s slitted eyes, nearly swollen shut. But Cade saw it. Dismay. McNab hadn’t meant to say that.
“Thank you,” Cade said. “Close your eyes. It’ll be easier.”
The defiance was back in the interpreter’s eyes. “How will you talk to him?”
Cade blinked again. “What?”
“Are you going to just shoot him in the head or are you going to bring him here and beat him to death?”
Cade flinched. “I . . . I’m not sure.” He hadn’t thought that far. “Probably just shoot him.”
“Just like that? You aren’t going to tell him why?”
“He’ll know why.” But Cade considered the interpreter’s words. If he did need to talk to Michael for any reason, it’d be smarter to keep McNab alive. At least until he’d taken care of the boy.
He grabbed McNab’s collar and dragged him into the cell where the pedo had kept his prisoners. Cade had already checked the man for weapons, and he was clean, which made sense, as he’d been planning to go into the police station. He slammed the cell door shut and checked that he had the key.
Then he went into the weapons room and stocked up, arming himself. He selected three more handguns, an automatic rifle that he’d converted from semiauto himself. And two of the old pedo’s vintage grenades.
He’d never had to use one, but if he was surrounded and needed to make a quick getaway, he could use them as a distraction.
Because he’d had time to think about this while questioning the interpreter. He still didn’t know where Michael was. Consensus among the reporters online was that he was in custody in a safe house somewhere. Probably well guarded.
Cade wasn’t going to be able to get into a safe house. But if he could find out where it was, he could smoke Michael out. And then he’d shoot him.
Or bring him back here and drug him. That might be easier. On both of us. He wasn’t relishing the cold-blooded murder of a fourteen-year-old, especially now that McNab had so bluntly asked him his plans.
He scanned the shelves to figure out what he had that could be used to smoke the kid out. A smoke grenade wouldn’t do it. He needed real smoke, from a real fire. He could go old-school with matches and gasoline, but if it was a safe house, the cops would have cameras set up. Whatever he did, he’d need to do it from far enough away that the cops couldn’t see him coming and stop him.
His gaze fell on the glass bottles on one of the shelves. They were covered with years’ worth of dust. But the can sitting next to the bottles was new. No newer than four years, though, which was when Cade had chucked the old pedo into the river.
It was tar. Next to the tar was a neatly wound coil of fuses. And a small gasoline can. Cade shook it. It still had some gas in it.
He knew exactly what those bottles were for. Sometimes low-tech was best, and a Molotov cocktail was about as low tech as it got. Only thing lower would be a rock.
He busied himself making up the concoction and gently pouring it into the bottles. He’d smoke out the kid and snatch him in the confusion of a fire.
But first he had to find the safe house. He had been unsuccessful in discovering who the protective woman in the news video was, the one who’d guarded Michael as they’d walked into the police station.
But Michael’s mother might know her identity. And even if Stella Brewer truly didn’t know, she could still be useful. She’d said that she wanted to get her little boy back, that she’d fight for custody. That would take a while, but a sympathetic judge might grant supervised visitation in a neutral location. If that happened, all he’d need to do was follow her to that location, then follow the five-year-old back to the safe house.
It was a plan. One way or another, he’d find Michael Rowland.