Chapter Ten
Nearly half a meal and half an hour later, Travis and Gage finally showed up.
Brantley’s frustration level was rising significantly, but he’d done a decent job of keeping it under wraps while he listened to Simon ask Max an endless list of questions.
Surprisingly, Max had been relatively straightforward with his responses.
Of course, Brantley had no idea how much truth there was to any of it, but he also didn’t care.
The last thing he was worried about was Max’s business dealings.
And definitely not those that didn’t pertain to the case at hand.
However, when Travis walked in, the tension in the air seemed to rise. He found that interesting since Max greeted Travis with a quiet, private conversation, the two men shaking hands, the gesture longer than was usually appropriate.
Not that there was anything romantic about it, but there was certainly an intimacy between them. Shared history, perhaps.
Brantley watched his cousin as Travis took the seat across the table, Gage taking the one beside him. Neither revealed how they were feeling about this little get-together. Not by their countenance anyway.
“Have we broached the subject we came here for?” Travis asked, eyes zeroed in on Brantley.
Brantley met those hard, steel-blue eyes. “Did you think we were twiddlin’ our thumbs, waitin’ for you?”
Travis’s gaze skimmed his face, but his expression didn’t falter.
It was clear he wasn’t impressed with Brantley’s sarcasm, but again, Brantley really didn’t give a fuck.
The last place he wanted to be on a Saturday night was having dinner with the man who had left Reese to bleed out on the floor of a restaurant in order to get his sister to safety.
While Brantley wasn’t known to hold grudges, he would never forgive Max for that. Not if he lived to be two hundred.
“Did you get the answers you were lookin’ for?”
Brantley pointed at Simon. “You’ll have to ask him.”
Travis looked at Simon, raising his eyebrows in question.
“I’d like to continue the conversation.” Simon looked at Max. “Perhaps privately when we’re finished.”
“I like that idea.”
“Well, I’ve got a question for you,” Travis said to Max.
“What’s that?”
“When you were nineteen, did you kill a man?”
Max’s eyebrows slowly rose, but he didn’t answer.
“It’s come to our attention that my wife’s mother witnessed you kill a man. The FBI intended for her to testify against you, but she went MIA before that could happen.”
Holding his fork over his plate, Max stared back at Travis, the silence in the space surprisingly loud. Brantley was mesmerized by the tension that seemed to stretch between the two men.
“We know she didn’t witness it,” Reese supplied, clearly concerned about the metaphorical rubber band that was being pulled to its limits, threatening to snap at any second.
Max’s gaze slowly slid to Reese, but again, he didn’t say anything.
“But we also know the FBI was lookin’ to take you down by blackmailing her into testifying,” Brantley said, wanting to get this conversation moving in the right direction.
Max nodded his head slightly. “Doesn’t surprise me.”
How did Brantley know the mob boss was going to say that?
If words were knives, those coming out of Brantley’s mouth would’ve slashed him to pieces.
Imagining that made Max smile.
On the inside, of course.
He knew Brantley was still pissed at him. Likely always would be.
Though Max was genuinely sorry about what happened to Reese that night, he wouldn’t apologize for taking care of his family.
He hadn’t known Reese was in the restaurant when he sent Rock to get Madison.
If he had … well, he wanted to think he would’ve done it differently, but he couldn’t say that with any level of certainty.
“What is it you want from me?” Max asked, glancing at the group of men sitting at the table. “If you’re here for me to give you my life story, it’s not gonna happen.”
“We’re tryin’ to determine whether Martin Calloway actually has somethin’ on you,” Brantley stated. “To take him down, we need to understand his motivations.”
“I can assure you, I don’t make a habit of taking care of personal matters in a way that might risk an audience,” he told the big Navy SEAL. “I’m well aware that there are eyes on me constantly. So, no, your witness did not see me, or anyone I know, do anything illegal.”
“Do you know of a reason why Calloway might have it out for you?”
“Aside from him leading the charge for the organized crime division of the FBI,” Atticus added.
Max laughed. “Of course.”
He took a sip of whiskey and glanced at all the faces looking to him for an answer.
He didn’t have one. Not one that they wanted to hear.
Based on the curious glances, they expected him to offer up something that would make sense.
But for that to happen, Max would have to admit that his psychopathic father had an affair with Calloway’s wife many moons ago.
And since Samuel had fucked pretty much anything with two legs and a pussy, it wasn’t easy to keep up.
But Calloway probably would’ve dismissed that since he wasn’t the faithful sort either.
He had a penchant for prostitutes, and he was known to rough ’em up when the urge struck.
But Max figured it was safe to say Calloway had been far kinder to his whores than Samuel had been.
Not long after one of Calloway’s whores gave birth to his bastard baby, Samuel had come along and strangled the life out of the woman.
So, no, Max had no desire to share that morbid tale of infidelity and sociopathic tendencies.
The only reason he was even meeting with them was because he respected Travis.
He’d already paid his debt to Reese by helping them to fake Tobias Land’s death to protect him.
Max didn’t make a habit of being too generous. People tended to take advantage.
Rather than make up some bullshit that might help them sleep at night, Max said, “I don’t know, gentlemen. You’ll likely have to ask him.”
Archer walked into the hotel suite feeling like he’d wasted the last three hours of his life. If it hadn’t been for a damn fine meal, he would’ve wanted to get that time back. Aside from Simon’s less personal questions, Max Adorite hadn’t answered anything. Not with truth or fact, at least.
They had gotten nowhere, but Archer also wasn’t sure what they thought they would actually get.
Even if Max had admitted he did or did not kill a person when he was nineteen years old, there was no proof.
Plus, they had a statement from Decker telling them that Meredith had not seen anything.
She couldn’t testify because she wasn’t actually a witness.
Which meant Martin Calloway was out for blood and willing to do whatever was necessary to take Max down, and it likely had nothing to do with that fictitious reason. But murder would’ve sounded good to a jury, so that was likely why Calloway had come up with it in the first place.
Was kidnapping a woman and faking her death part of whatever was necessary? Or had Holt conjured up something that offered nothing more than wishful thinking and false hope?
“What’s on your mind?” Atticus asked as the door closed behind them.
“I’m not really sure.” Archer glanced at the minibar. “I sure could use a beer right about now. Want anything?”
“Beer’s good.”
Archer grabbed two beers from the small fridge. He used the bottle opener to remove the tops, then passed one to Atticus before taking a seat on the sofa.
“Did you learn anything tonight?” he asked Atticus as he tipped the bottle to his lips.
“I learned that a mafia boss can talk in circles.”
Archer laughed. “That he can. But what did we think he was gonna say? Oh, yeah. When I was nineteen? Sure. I killed a guy. A half dozen, in fact. Which one are we talkin’ about?”
Atticus grinned. “Well, he definitely did not say that.”
“Nope. He told us nothing.”
“But we told him everything. You notice that?”
Archer stared at Atticus. “That he managed to get every detail out of us? Oh, yeah. I noticed.”
“You think that was the plan? To give him the info and let him deal with it?”
“I don’t think that’s what Brantley was hoping for. Travis, maybe.”
They sat there for a few minutes, drinking beer. Archer replayed the conversation from memory, coming up with nothing of substance that would get them to their end goal—finding Kylie Walker, if she was, in fact, still alive.
Or perhaps their end goal was to take down Censorious.
Maybe both.
“We need a plan for tomorrow,” Atticus said.
Archer glanced over, noticed his head was tipped back, eyes closed, his beer in hand, resting on his stomach.
“I agree. But I think we should tackle that in the morning.”
“Good idea.” Atticus made no move to get up.
Archer grinned. “Come on. Let’s get some sleep. It’s been a long coupla days.”
As he spoke, he forced himself up, unable to take his eyes off Atticus. When the man shifted, eyes opening, Archer found himself staring into those interesting green eyes. He forced his gaze away, shaking off the strange feeling.
“See ya in the mornin’,” he said abruptly before heading to his room.
“Set your alarm for six,” Atticus muttered. “Let’s try for an early start.”
“Will do,” he called back before closing the door behind him.
He leaned against the door, frowning. What the hell was wrong with him? He was not attracted to his partner. Not even a little.
Big ol’ liar.
Fine. He found Atticus attractive. But that didn’t mean he was attracted to him. Just that he was pleasant to look at. Plus, he enjoyed talking to the guy.
Shaking his head, he forced himself away from the door. Setting his beer on the dresser, he made his way to the bed, pulling his phone from his pocket. He checked his text messages, hoping he’d gotten one from Spencer in the past hour. He hadn’t. He knew that as sure as he knew his own name.
Propping himself up on a pillow, Archer stared at his phone.
He contemplated sending Spencer a message, then decided against it.
He was not looking to play games at this point in his life.
He wanted something real, something fulfilling, and while he’d hoped he might find that with Spencer, he knew better.
They’d known each other such a short time, and Spencer had been playing games with him since the beginning.
The writing was on the wall; he would do well to heed it.
Placing his phone on the nightstand, Archer stared at the door that separated him from Atticus. He wondered what the man was doing. Was he passed out on the couch? Too tired to get up?
Or was he in his room, talking to Slade?
And why the hell did he care?
“I don’t,” Archer muttered aloud. “I. Don’t.”
Maybe if he said it enough, he would believe it.
Or maybe he just needed some sleep because exhaustion had his mind going places it shouldn’t.