Chapter Forty-Two
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
Lincoln/ Three Years Ago
A sandwich wrapped in plastic drops onto the desk where I’m finishing up discovery before my lieutenant loses his shit on all the backed-up paperwork I have to do.
“Marissa put extra Italian meat on for you,” Conklin says, dragging a chair over to the end of the desk I’m working at and sitting down with his lunch. “She didn’t do that for me.”
“She loves me more.”
He harrumphs. “Clearly.”
Grinning, I save the report and print it out. “How did the relay go?”
With a mouthful of food, Conklin says, “It was painful, dude. I think I’d rather stick my dick in hot glue than have to deal with a hysterical woman crying the entire time in my back seat.”
“There’s nobody better fit for it, buddy.”
He lowers his sandwich. “How the hell do you figure that?”
I clasp his shoulder. “You’ve got Cooper. Marissa said he spent the first week screaming his little head off when you brought him home from the hospital.”
Groaning, he stretches his legs out. “It isn’t the same when it’s your own kid, Hawk. I can handle my son crying. I can comfort him. But a woman in handcuffs sobbing about how her life is over? Not so easy to deal with. There was snot coming out of her nose.”
I cringe. “Nasty.”
“What was I supposed to say to her? ‘Hey, maybe if you hadn’t robbed two different family members while you were high on meth, then you wouldn’t be here’? I’m not a total dick.”
Snorting, I shake my head as I unwrap my lunch. “Nah. That’s my job.”
He watches me take a bite before switching subjects. “Noticed you haven’t been bringing in food like you used to.”
Conklin has never been good at subtlety. “I get caught up with projects around the house and lose track of time. Forget to pack one.”
Unfortunately for me, he won’t let me get off that easy. “Georgia used to make them for you.”
“She’s busy too.”
One of his eyebrows pops up as if to ask me how strenuous her job at the bookstore really is.
I don’t let him press me on it. Or why I’ve been spending more time at their house when I’m not a big fan of screaming babies. Then I’d have to tell him that Georgia has been going to her father’s house every week despite me telling her not to, which usually leads to a fight that ends in her going anyway.
“Is this what you said you wanted to talk to me about last night?” I ask him. “Because if it is, I think I’d also rather stick my dick into hot glue.”
His lips waver into an amused smile. “No, asshole. That’s not it.” He sets down his sandwich and wipes his hands off on a napkin he pulled out of thin air. “It’s about Georgia, though. Well, her dad.”
My shoulders stiffen.
He stands up and goes over to his drawer in the filing cabinet, unlocking it with a key from his pocket and pulling out a notepad. When he drops down in the chair again, he opens to a page and turns it toward me. “Scores Tech.”
The mystery investor. “What about it?”
“I’ve been tracking their investments,” he says, eyeing me. “It’s better not to ask me how. Anyway, they recently put in two new bank transfers to local businesses.”
I grab the notebook and scan the page of notes before my eyes find the businesses at the bottom. “What the fuck?”
Carbone Realty.
Turning Pages.
Conklin lowers his voice. “Scores Tech also hasn’t sent any recent transfers to The Del Rossi Group. It’s the first time in years that not one transaction has gone to the company.”
“So they split ways?”
“Maybe.” He lifts a shoulder. “Or maybe there was a falling out. I don’t know, Hawk. What I do know is that whoever is behind Scores Tech is moving in on the Del Rossis.”
Does Georgia know who Scores Tech is? “We still don’t know who’s actually running it?”
“The addresses listed on their accounts are legitimate ones in both Atlanta and New York City, but Scores Tech isn’t headquartered at either location. There are other businesses at the locations that probably haven’t heard of the investor in their lives.”
Clicking my tongue, I lean back and scrub my jaw as I stare at the notes he’s been taking. “What is all this?” I ask, gesturing toward the arrows that connect to a few different names.
He points toward a name. “This is the bank that most of the transfers are originating from. It’s in the city.”
“Not Atlanta?”
“No.”
Blowing out a breath, I toss the notepad onto the desk. “Every time I think I’ve learned enough, I get more goddamn questions I want answered. How is somebody with that much money still under the radar while still investing in new businesses? And why a fucking bookstore? At least concrete and real estate all have a purpose. Turning Pages makes no sense.”
“You want my honest answer?”
“Is it going to piss me off?”
“Probably.”
Grumbling, I nod. “Hit me with it.”
“Turning Pages is a personal investment to this person,” he says, reaching across me to snatch his notepad back. He flips to the next page but doesn’t show it to me right away. “I don’t think it has to do with the business itself but who it’s attached to.”
When he passes me the paper again, I’m left staring at the same bank information that was on the last page. “What is this?”
“That’s the same bank that The Del Rossi Group uses to store their funds.”
Is he saying Scores Tech is run by Nikolas Del Rossi? “Why would he invest in his own company? Where would that money even come from if it’s from a different account with a fraudulent address?”
He grabs his water and uncaps it. “I don’t know if this is Del Rossi, man. But I think it’s someone who wants people to believe it is.”
“Why?”
“Because everybody needs a person to blame to save their own asses.”
I blink, stare down at the information, and realize he’s probably right. What I don’t know is how much of this Georgia might know now that she’s rubbing elbows at the Del Rossi household like this entire marriage wasn’t formed to get away from them.
“You okay?” Conklin asks.
“Yeah,” I lie. “I’m fucking fantastic.”
I stand up and brush crumbs from my button-down. “With skills like these, you should really consider applying for BCI. I don’t know why you insist on staying on the road.”
He grins up at me. “Because that’s where the real action is. Plus, I think this uniform makes my ass look phenomenal.”
If he’s trying to lighten the mood, it’s working. “Tell Riss I said thanks for lunch,” I tell him, patting his back.
“Where are you going?”
“I need to talk to someone.”
*
The younger woman at the desk is wearing her shirt like a second skin, and I wonder if that’s part of the appeal here. “May I help you?” she asks, her lips painted an unnatural shade of pink as she smiles up at me.
“I was hoping to meet with someone about the house for sale on Striker Ave,” I tell the bleach blond, who looks like a modern-day version of Barbie.
Her smile grows. “Of course! I have a few realtors in the office today. Let me go ahead and call—”
“Actually, I specifically want to work with Luca Carbone.” I cut her off, flashing my best smile. “He and I go way back. I’m sure if you tell him that Lincoln Danforth is here to see him, he’ll find the time in his busy schedule to fit me in.”
Her hesitation is momentary before she picks up the phone. “If you know him…”
She clears her throat as the phone rings. “Mr. Carbone? It’s Lyla at the front desk. I have a Lincoln Danforth here to speak with you about the property on Striker.” Her top two teeth dig into her bottom lip as she listens to his reply before her eyes flick up to mine. “Yes, sir. Okay. Absolutely.”
When she puts the phone back onto the receiver, she paints a brighter smile on her face and stands to reveal an even tighter skirt than the shirt hugging her large breasts.
I have a feeling I know why Luca likes to keep her as the welcoming committee.
“This way,” she directs, gesturing toward the hallway. The swivel to her hips makes me wonder if her boss told her to put on a show. Everything about the woman in front of me seems fake. Forced.
When she turns in front of the door at the end of the hall, she reaches for the handle. “Mr. Carbone has a meeting in twenty minutes that’s very important, but he says he’ll see you.”
“Thank you, Lyla.”
Her eyes do a brief scan down the front of me before she clears her throat. “You’re welcome, Mr. Danforth.”
Opening the door, I step into a small conference room where Luca Carbone is seated at the end of a polished oak table with papers scattered around him. He doesn’t look up right away when I step in, but says, “Close the door, Detective. I’m sure this conversation doesn’t require an audience.”
I wink at Lyla, who flushes and steps away, and I wonder if she’s made it a habit to stand near the doors during meetings. “This is quite the establishment.”
He finishes writing down whatever he’s working on and finally lifts his gaze. “It was surprising to hear you, of all people, asking for me. Especially over such a…historical house.”
By historical, he means expensive. “What can I say. I’m full of surprises.”
His eyes glimmer. “I’m sure that’s true.”
I pull out the chair furthest from him and drop into it. “I figured your office would be a little nicer. Not on your father’s good side these days?”
He doesn’t take the bait like I hope he would. “I prefer working in here. There’s more space. The office I have in my father’s building is a little too stuffy for my taste and far too removed if he expects this place to run smoothly.”
I’ll give him this: he’s more hands-on than I expect him to be. The blueprints with notes in front of him back that up. “I figured you’d be like most nepo babies and complain about a long day’s work.”
A thoughtful noise rises from him. “Would you like coffee?” he asks, unfazed by my taunts.
He walks over to the table in the corner with two coffee makers and the fixings to go in them. He grabs two cups and fills them each. “How do you like it?”
I watch him doctor one. “Black.”
“Bitter. Seems oddly fitting.”
I don’t comment as he passes me the other cup and takes his seat again. “Your presence at the Del Rossi dinners has been…noticed,” he says, grinning behind the cup he lifts to his lips.
Noticed. Not missed.
“I’m sure you cry yourself to sleep every time you don’t get a chance to see my pretty face there, Carbone,” I answer plainly.
His grin only spreads. “I like you, Detective.”
“That’s unfortunate.”
“Indeed.” He hums, setting his mug down and picking up the pen he’d discarded. “But let’s talk about what you really came here for. We both know you can’t afford another house, and I highly doubt you’re looking to sell the one you just bought. You’d never get the same interest rate now that the market has neutralized, and you sure as hell wouldn’t get your money back.”
I’m not surprised he knows that information, but it still grates on my nerves, nonetheless. “It’s sweet that you keep up on me. It makes me feel so special.”
“Anything for somebody I go way back with,” he muses dryly. “In fact—”
Before he can finish his thought, the cell beside him rings, and his nostrils flare at whatever name pops up on the screen.
“Father,” he greets, evading my eyes. He listens, the gruff tone inaudible from where I sit and watch Luca. “Yes, I’m well aware of that. What do you think I’ve been working on for the past two weeks?”
His jaw tics at his father’s reply.
“Nobody said that was coming up, or I would have shifted my focus. Maybe—” He’s cut off, his eyes narrowing as he clenches the pen so tight that his fingers turn white.
Interesting.
“Yes, sir,” he grumbles. “I’ll get on that right away.”
When he ends the call, his teeth grind as he tosses the phone down on the polished table harder than necessary.
“My father says hello,” he tells me.
A lie.
“You don’t like being controlled,” I state, sipping the shitty coffee he poured me. It’s burnt with a strange aftertaste. Do they not know how to make a decent pot of coffee around here?
“There is not one human on this planet who does,” he counters, his grip loosening on the writing utensil. “What does your father do for a living?”
It’s a random question, but one I’m not opposed to answering. “He works in automotive. He’s planning to retire soon.”
Luca looks thoughtful. “And I’m assuming there was no pressure for you to follow in his footsteps.”
I shake my head.
“There’s where we differ.” He uses the pen to point between us. “I’m sure your father has always been supportive of whatever you chose to do, while mine has spent decades fine-tuning the mold he expects me to fill when he’s gone. I’m supposed to take over a multi-million-dollar company that he has barely stepped a foot in more than ten times over the past five years, yet he calls me to bark orders like he knows more than I do about the happenings. It’s insulting, really.”
He doesn’t want to take over the business. “If you had a choice, you would walk away?”
As calmly as he can, he leans forward with a smile that can only be described as haunted. “I would burn everything my father has touched to the ground, including this place.”
It’s not what I expect from him. Most people in his position would feed into the wealth and prestige that comes from being from a family like his. What makes him different?
“The reason why Georgia and I will always understand each other is because we are one of the same,” he says, dropping the pen. “Whether you like it or not, we were born into the same world and cut from the same cloth with the very same expectations. The difference is, she was brave enough to try getting out.”
“She did .”
Luca chuckles, the disbelieving sound flaring my nostrils. “If she truly escaped, then why are you here, Detective?”
I’m silent.
“You’re here,” he answers himself, “because she will never be free. Just as I never will. You can try to change that with your position in life, but it will never be enough because you are against players far bigger than the law you abide by.”
Even if that’s true, it doesn’t mean I’m willing to give up. “I suppose that’s another thing that makes us different. You’re willing to lie down and take it rather than make a stand. That’ll never be me, no matter the sacrifices.”
“But how much are you truly willing to sacrifice for your vigilante cause?” he questions curiously.
“Some sacrifices are worth it.”
“And some,” he argues, “aren’t. Guess you’ll have to figure out what you’re willing to risk.”
He’s not referring to a “what” at all.
Straightening in his seat, he smiles. “For the record, some jobs don’t need the law. They need an inside source willing to light the torch.”
Is that what he’s doing? “The problem with that is that you won’t be able to douse the fire from inside the house once it’s lit.”
“I never said I wanted to.”
We stare at one another silently.
There’s no way he’s willing to take himself down too. I don’t buy it.
“If there’s nothing else…” he says, standing.
“There is, actually.”
His eyebrows go up in wait.
“Scores Tech.”
He keeps a neutral face, but I see the smallest twitch in the corner of his mouth. “What about it?”
“It invested in this company recently.”
“Doesn’t ring a bell.”
We both know that’s bullshit. “If you give me a name, I can have the fire station on standby when you light the torch,” I propose, staying seated as he slides a hand into his slacks pocket.
For a moment, I think he contemplates it.
But then he says, “A valiant effort,” he praises. “But not a successful one. I have a meeting to tend to, so I think it’s best you go.”
Standing, I don’t bother shaking his hand and exchanging pleasantries. Picking up the coffee I barely drank, I walk over to the door and pour it into the garbage. “You’ll probably be able to use this shit as lighter fluid. Tastes like jet fuel.”
He chuckles as I set the empty cup back on the table. “I’ll take that into consideration.”
“And Luca?” I meet his eyes. “I don’t know what’s going on between you and my wife, but she’s wearing my ring for a reason.”
His lips curl up, the amusement back on his face. “Friendship.” When I’m quiet, he casually adds, “That is what I’m offering your wife. It may not be gold or diamonds, but I’d fathom to guess it’s far more valuable to her right now.”