I went to my office and called Tito’s burner.
No answer, which was worrisome to say the least.
In the hallway, Mia walked Blaine McFadden toward the front door. She was in full client mode, asking about the rest of his day, thanking him for the work, promising to do a good job.
I tried Tito again. Same result.
A few moments later, Mia came into my office.
“He’s gone.” I flicked on the computer screen.
“Do you think he’s telling the truth?” she asked.
“About what?” I entered the phrase “Warwick Services” into Google.
“Any of it.”
“I think he genuinely wants to know who killed Rose in order to defeat Garofalo. Beyond that, I have no idea.”
The results popped up. The Warwick Services home page was the first line. I clicked the link.
Mia leaned over my shoulder and together we examined the internet presence for Rye McFadden’s company of soldier boys.
Like many businesses, Warwick Services was good at talking a lot without saying much.
The first page was a word salad, containing phrases like “catering to our clients’ needs” and “each situation is unique, so we develop a unique response for each situation.” The page mentioned “strategic objectives” three times before I stopped reading.
I navigated to the SERVICES page. The company offered a number of options including personal protection, self-defense training, online and computer security, and something called “specialized services,” which only said, “Please call for details.”
I clicked the ABOUT page, and a picture appeared of the man who’d identified himself as Jax last night.
Carl J. Connell was his name. He’d founded the company in 2014 after a ten-year stint in the Army, including two tours in Afghanistan.
I opened a fresh page and typed in the address for the database I used most frequently. I entered Jax’s full name and clicked on CRIMINAL/ARREST RECORDS.
“Damn.” Mia stared at the results.
Jax was a thug, as Blaine McFadden had indicated. He’d been arrested for assault, assault and battery, and reckless endangerment, all since his discharge from the military.
“He probably started the company because no one would hire him,” she said.
I switched over to the Warwick Services website and clicked the CONTACT tab, hoping they had something more than a fill-in-the-form method of reaching the company.
They did. A phone number and a generic email. And a physical address, a building in an industrial section of town near Love Field.
I called the number with my burner. It rang and rang and rang. I ended the call and pushed back from the desk.
“You’re not going there, are you?” Mia said.
“You got any better ideas?”
“Better than jumping into the lion’s den? Yeah, I can come up with a few.”
“They tracked me to your parents’ house. They threatened Caleb. They’re also a direct link to whoever is connected to Rose’s death.”
“I’ll go with you.”
“Oh, that’s a great idea. A single parent in the line of fire.” Neither of us spoke for a moment.
She muttered something under her breath and left the room.
I needed to search for Rye McFadden, but the guys in the Tahoes, Jax Connell and his Warwick Services buddies, were the priority, a direct and immediate threat. The risk they posed had to be mitigated if at all possible. Also, there might be a bit of evidence at their office linking them to Rose’s death or to Rye McFadden’s location.
I grabbed a duffel bag from the closet. The duffel contained the tools needed to access a building without a key. Lockpicks and a selection of screwdrivers. A crowbar, bolt cutters. A hammer and a small, but powerful flashlight.
I slung the bag over one shoulder and went to the nursery to see Caleb.
Stodghill, my Texas Ranger friend was there, reading a gun magazine. We chatted for a moment while I played with the infant.
Then I left and headed toward the back where I’d parked Tito’s pickup.
Mia was standing by the passenger door of the truck. She’d changed out of the skirt and blouse she’d been wearing and now had on jeans, a T-shirt, and a pair of Nikes.
“What happened to your Caddy?” she asked.
“Tito was overserved earlier today. What exactly do you think you’re doing?”
“I’ll stay in the car,” she said. “But I’m going with you.”
“What about Caleb?”
“My parents are coming to pick him up. They’ll keep him for the night.”
“Somehow that’s going to make your mother like me even less.”
“That’s not really possible. Open the door. It’s hot out here.”
I chirped the locks. We got in, and I cranked the AC to as cold as it would go.
She sniffed the air. “Smells bad in here.”
“Yes, it does.” I pulled out of the driveway.
I wanted to pay a visit to Warwick Services as soon as possible, but before that I needed to make sure that Tito hadn’t left the apartment or called the police.
“We have a stop to make first,” I said.
Traffic was heavy, and it took a half hour to get back to Tito’s high-rise apartment in Preston Center. I used the key he’d given me, and we entered through the front door.
Tito was passed out on the sofa, a half empty bottle of gin on the coffee table. Apparently, he’d given up on the coffee and decided to stick with booze.
While Mia wandered around the place, I left a note under his burner, right next to the bottle of gin. The note said to call as soon as he woke up and not to leave the apartment no matter what. I would have put something in there about not calling the police, but I didn’t want Mia to see it.
She came back in the living room. “Why’d he get drunk?”
“Who knows? We need to roll.”
She was crafty, that Mia. She squinted at me. “Are you avoiding my question?”
I hesitated for a nanosecond. “No.”
“You still haven’t told me about your busy day,” she said.
Mia Kapoor was my lawyer, which meant anything I told her was bound by attorney-client privilege. That included the fact that I had accidentally killed a man in self-defense a few hours before.
But I wasn’t worried about ethical obligations or legal niceties. I was concerned for her physical safety, and the less she knew, the better.
“It got a little rough today,” I said. “Tito and I … we fled the scene of a crime.”
Her eyes went wide. “What was the crime?”
“It’s better if you don’t know.”
Tito shifted his head, started snoring.
“Maybe I should be the judge of that,” she said. “You know, since I’m your attorney.”
“But as your friend, not your client, I don’t want to tell you.”
She shook her head wearily. “It’s so good to be your friend.”
“What does that mean?”
She stared at me for a few seconds, lips pressed together tightly. “Is there any way to proceed other than what you’re planning to do?”
I told her there was not. This was the best move right now. Afterwards, I could start the search for Rye McFadden.
“Then let’s get to it,” she said.
We headed to the door side by side. Our hands brushed together.
I slid mine into hers and our fingers intertwined, her skin warm and smooth.
Just for a moment I imagined that all the trouble was over and we were safe.