6. Knox #3
“The courts made an exception. Dominic’s grandmother left him the house, and since I don’t have any blood relatives, I didn’t have anywhere to go when I was released.
He’s letting me crash here until I can get back on my feet.
” I cross my arms over my chest. “Might I ask why you’re so interested?
My parole officer hasn’t had any issues with me since my release. ”
“There was a robbery this morning at a jewelry store resulting in nearly two and a half million dollars worth of diamonds being stolen.”
More like one-point-eight, but I’m not about to argue.
Instead, I just settle for being insulted.
“So, am I to assume that you’re talking to every convicted felon in the city, or do you really have that little faith in the prison rehabilitation program?
Because, no offense, but it seems a bit excessive to think I escalated from allegedly stealing my father’s watch to masterminding a full-blown commercial jewelry heist.”
“The shop that was hit belongs to your stepmother,” Nash admits. “Some find it rather curious that the store has never been targeted in its twenty years of business, until six weeks after you get out of prison.”
I start laughing. I can’t help it, and I sure as fuck won’t apologize.
“A man was killed, Mr. Knox. Does something about that strike you as amusing?”
“Not even remotely. It’s just good to know you’re all still Lillian’s lapdogs. It lets me know I should keep my guard up, considering the bullshit that happened last time.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“It means the status quo hasn’t changed these past four years. That cunt snaps her fingers, and the boys in blue are all too quick to do her bidding.”
“We haven’t spoken with Mrs. Blackwood yet—”
I don’t even wait for him to finish before laughing again.
“Right, because you dipshits couldn’t be bothered to do something as simple as a video analysis over a six-month period for my case, but you managed to compile a suspect list that involves a complete familial background check in just a few hours, without prompting. Sure.”
And now Nash just looks exhausted. “I can assure you, Mr. Knox, we employ equal application of the law with every case that crosses our desks.”
“Well, that’s very reassuring. It’s good to know these last four years were just a fever dream for me then.
Because if somebody had bothered to even take a second look at Lillian’s security footage, he would have seen that the suspect was about four inches too tall, thirty pounds too heavy, and hindered by a trick knee to have been me.
” I may be smiling, but there’s no mistaking the expression for anything other than anger.
“So, should I expect to find you on my front porch every time some punk kid steals Lillian’s newspaper or when the high school football team TPs her property or if the guy delivering her Venti green tea Frappuccino gets her order wrong?
Because blaming me for everything seems to be my stepmother’s favorite pastime since my father died, and your buddies from the good old PCPD are always too happy to oblige her. ”
Like anybody, Nash doesn’t appreciate getting called out, but I don’t care. I’m hurting, I’m exhausted, and that bitch stole years off of my life with their help. Sure, Nash wasn’t directly involved, as far as I know, but I’m coming to find they’re all one and the same around here.
“Who are these other friends you were with?” the detective redirects.
“Jackson and Michael Hawley.”
“How long were you at this bar?”
“We left sometime after 10:30.”
“And did you get into an altercation while there?” He indicates the left side of my head. “Looks like the beginnings of a pretty nasty bruise.”
Fuck.
I thought my hair was covering it.
Still, I just shrug. “Things got heated during a pool game. No big deal.”
“Was there gambling involved?”
“Why? You gonna haul me down to the station over a sixty-dollar wager?” I let out a humorless laugh. “I know some laws have changed while I was away, but I’m pretty sure that’s still not a crime.”
He clearly isn’t getting the answers he wants, so he’s quick to wrap up the interview, thanking me for my time. Though, by his tone, I’m pretty sure he wants to tell me to piss off instead.
The second I step back into the house, I lean my weight against the door with my back and slide down to the ground, exhausted and relieved.
Dominic comes bursting out of the backroom before Nash has even reached the sidewalk, already losing his shit. “How the fuck do they already have you fingered?”
Thank Christ he manages to whisper-yell instead of, well, yell-yell, but Michael clamps a hand over Dominic’s mouth regardless.
It doesn’t matter. We’re all thinking it.
How the fuck did I get fingered this quickly ? I imagined Lillian would become wise after the second robbery, but right off the bat?
I’d like to reassure the guys that everything’s alright, but I can’t. I have more pressing matters to attend to, like giving Georgia a heads-up.
Again, I don’t anticipate PCPD being so quick to follow up on the lead, but not long after I hang up the call, I get a text from her telling me that a police cruiser is pulling up in front of the bar.
Due to the type of activity that takes place at Mott’s, Georgia, the owner, doesn’t trust an actual security company’s cameras to monitor the premises, opting to use her own set of hidden cameras throughout the bar instead.
It helps keep an eye on the place while also providing plenty of footage for blackmail.
It also allows us to see Detective Nash strolling through the front doors. Georgia gave the guys and me access to the live feed so we can monitor the conversation, and she doesn’t disappoint.
On the surface, Mott’s looks like any other dive bar down the street, but Georgia puts some real TLC into her baby.
Plenty of repairs need to be made, and new furniture needs to be bought; the hardwood floors groan with every step and look rotted through, and the clientele is questionable at best, but it’s the cleanest place you’ll find on this side of town.
Georgia is in her usual uniform behind the bar.
A pair of tight jeans and a low-cut tank top that shows off her cleavage.
Her long gray hair is masked by dark red box dye that almost looks purple, and she greets the detective with the Alabama accent she swears she doesn’t have anymore.
“What can I do for ya’ today?” She eyes him up and down. “You look like a Scotch man.”
He flashes his badge and introduces himself, but her friendly demeanor never falters. We both know it’s best to play nice with Five-O, but she’s the only one of us who apparently has impulse control. Probably because the only thing she’s ever been found guilty of is speeding.
“My question still stands,” she drawls. “What can I do for ya’?”
“What time does this place open?”
“Usually at seven, but sometimes 6:30 if enough people are waiting outside.”
“Were you working here this morning?”
“Honey, I’m always working. I’m the owner.”
“Do you remember seeing this man in here earlier today?” Nash pulls out a photo from the folder in his hands and gives it to Georgia.
It’s a little creepy that he took the time to track down my old social media accounts to get it, but to be fair, showing her my mugshot wouldn’t be very helpful since half of my face was bruised and swollen when it was taken.
Nineteen-year-old me was a bit scrawnier and had far fewer tattoos back then, but it’s still clearly me seen in the picture that Georgia’s holding.
“Sure do,” she says. “He came in here with his friends about an hour after we opened. Why?”
“Do you remember what time he left?”
“About a quarter to eleven.”
“Do you have security footage, of either the inside or the parking lot?”
“I sure don’t,” she says just as sweetly. When he gives her a look, she strikes a pose with one hand on her hip and the other on the bar. “I take it you’re not from these parts?”
“No.”
“Well, let me tell ya’, in the Valley, anything made of glass is bound to be broken, and anything not nailed down is bound to be stolen.
My husband, Carl, learned that the hard way when he installed cameras over at Roxanne’s.
The first two he installed had to be replaced after teenagers threw beer bottles at ‘em, and the third camera had nothing left to be replaced. They tore it out, wires and all. You’ll be hard-pressed to find anyone on this street who has security installed. ”
Well, that’s mostly true. A lot of other businesses use the same hidden cameras as Georgia, and since they use them for the same under-the-table purposes as she does, nobody will be giving the police access to their recordings.
The nearest footage he’ll get of me at the bar is Bank Street, a good mile down the road. And it’ll show me in my car with my friends heading in the direction of Mott’s.
What Nash doesn’t see is that, upon our arrival, we headed out the back and walked two miles until we reached the abandoned parking lot to what was supposed to be a playground that never got built.
“Did anything happen while he was in here?” Nash asks, scribbling something down in his notepad.
“He got into a tussle over there with another patron,” she says, pointing over to the pool tables and sticking to the script I gave her over the phone. “But it wasn’t anything to concern yourself with. Just a couple of light blows.”
“Do you know who this other patron was?”
Georgia shakes her head. “He isn’t a regular and never said his name. Not to mention, he paid with cash, so, no, I can’t say I do.”
“Is he a regular?” Nash asks, gesturing to the photo of me as he takes it back from her.
“He’s been coming here every weekend for the last month or so, usually when he’s fresh off the casino boat.”
“How well acquainted are you with him?”
It’s an easily verifiable fact that we know each other, so I’m relieved Georgia doesn’t lie for my sake.
“I’ve known Damon since he was little. His mama and I used to be neighbors. I would babysit him whenever she had to work the afternoon shifts and I didn’t have to be at the club that day.”
Even through the camera feed, I can read Nash’s expression well enough to see the gears turning in his head.
We all have the same alibi, and it comes from an old family friend.
“Were there other customers in the bar at the time that I could speak to?” he asks.
She points to the end of the bar. “Harry’s always here. The boys buy him a round whenever they come in.”
To say Nash is less than impressed with our other eyewitness would be the understatement of the century.
The drunkard lifts his balding head off the table with a hiccup and confirms Georgia’s story that he received his free round at eight o’clock.
When he’s asked if he specifically remembers seeing us come into the bar, however, Harry hiccups again and mutters something that sounds like, “I kicked the tuba down the road” before resting his head back down.
Quickly realizing he’ll be zero fucking help, Nash goes back over to Georgia. “Have you seen Mr. Knox or one of his friends with a blonde woman?”
She chuckles. “Of course. They’re all good-looking boys, and I know Michael has a penchant for them. If you’re talking about one blonde in particular, you’ll have to be a bit more specific.”
“About yay high,” he indicates, holding his hand up a few inches below his own head. “Really pretty. Hazel eyes. Curvy. Long honey blonde hair. Ring any bells?”
Georgia has to think about this. “Can’t say it does. I haven’t seen Damon or Jackson with anyone. Dom was with this really cute girl a few weeks ago, but she was a redhead. And Michael prefers his girls to be more petite.”
It’s more than obvious who Nash is referring to, but—
“Why the fuck is he asking that?” Dominic whispers, as if we’re at risk of being overheard through the laptop.
All of us share a look, not having an answer. Is Blondie being uncooperative with the investigation? Do they think she’s involved with us? Or is she already working with the police, and they assume Georgia will relay the question back to us, removing the suspicion from Blondie?
I have no goddamn clue, but one thing is for sure.
We need to find out who the hell this girl is.