Chapter twelve #3
“Well, that’s motive enough to kill your wife,” Hunter suggests bluntly.
“His name has come up before,” agrees Harrison. “But it’s a cold bastard that goes around killing innocent family members. Brenton is known for ruthlessness in the boardroom, but on the streets—I don’t know. He would be more likely to try to end Damon financially.”
Hunter pulls a knife from the waistband of his jeans and starts twirling it between his fingers. “Maybe we should bring him here. I could persuade him to talk if he knows anything.”
“You won’t get near him,” I advise. “He has more security than the Royal Family. The man is paranoid about someone trying to kill him or becoming ill. Last I heard, he had employed someone to taste every meal before he eats it.”
“What’s the next step?” Russell prompts, wanting to get the conversation back on track.
Back to catching Connie’s killer. My friend is almost more obsessed than I am.
I’d always known he had feelings for her, but his reaction to her death was obscene.
As the months have passed, our relationship has become more strained.
Each time we meet he presses harder and suggests, both silently and not, that he cares more than I do.
In my darkest moments, I wonder if something ever happened, but then I remember Connie. She would never have cheated on me, nor I on her. Russell’s pain is that of a man who feels he will never experience love again, even though he physically was never able to live it.
“Our investigation has led us to a hot desk office owned by Brenton near here.”
“What here? In the Wharf?” Connor questions. I nod to confirm his query.
“The only solid info we have is that every Friday a man goes to the location to move funds from the Rhinestone Investments company, who we think is controlling the money lending circuit, to an account in Bermuda. It’s a link—a weak one, but the best we have.
We plan to be there on Friday and have a conversation.”
“Why would they go to the same location each week?” Hunter asks. “Surely that creates a pattern.”
“Almost every repeating crime has a pattern,” I tell him. “No matter how careful the perpetrator thinks they are, there are always crumbs to find. And the more people get away with it, the more relaxed they become.”
“I want to be there,” Russell says.
“Don’t be an idiot, you can’t be,” I mutter, and he glares at me.
“I’m visiting the office in my police role, not as this…”
I wave my hands around, signaling us sitting here on a Wednesday night: three lawyers, a mafia don, and me.
“This is the first step forward in finding Connie’s killer. We need to go through the process properly to find the man who ordered the hit.”
My emotion catches in my throat, like it does every time I think of what happened to my wife. How she died because of me and my work.
“I want a full report,” Russell argues, clearly annoyed with my response.
“Who the fuck do you think you are?”
“Someone who cares,” he says, then stands and leaves the room.
“Whatever you need,” Connor tells me before following his brother.
Hunter’s phone rings at this point, and he makes his excuses and exits too. The sudden departure of everyone is welcome; it leaves me with the man in the room I trust most, Harrison. We sit for a few minutes and drink a beer each in silence, both of us no doubt enjoying the more relaxed atmosphere.
“So McKinney,” he begins, “how are you really?”
“Three days and I’m already struggling. The last eight weeks have been hard enough, never mind having the pressures of work on top. Babies are time-consuming.”
“I can imagine,” he says, “but this is what must be. And you need normality in your life. So does Annie. How is your new nanny? Julia, is it?” For a man with so many responsibilities and a twenty-four-hour job, my friend remembers everything—it always surprises me.
“It’s early, but so far she seems happy with the arrangement. Once Mother is gone it will be easier, I think.”
He doesn’t respond, just leaves empty air begging to be filled with words.
“How is Emma?” I ask, before I can change my mind.
It’s a question I’ve wanted to ask him for weeks, but I’ve been avoiding the awkward interrogation it would cause.
My friend looks at me blankly for a moment.
“Why?”
“I need to know.”
“You don’t. It’s none of your business.”
I rub at my face with my hands, frustrated by his lack of willingness to share. It’s not only my daughter causing me insomnia; it’s the woman who carried her and shared my home. The woman I feel obligated to protect.
“Please, Waite. I only want to know if she’s okay.”
His face softens and he takes pity on me.
“She’s fine. Back at work a few weeks ago, studying Monday to Thursday online. Mrs. D is still helping out at her apartment two days a week. Overall, she seems content enough, moving forward in the direction as planned.”
My disappointment at hearing she is happy without me fills my chest, and I physically deflate with the thought.
“That’s what you wanted? Her to move on with her life and forget you.”
“Yes, of course. I’m glad she has.” But the words leaving my lips are the exact opposite of how I feel. Part of me wishes she would miss me, because fuck, I miss her.