Chapter 8
VI
Nobody told me Fischer would be at the table.
I stop short in the doorway before I pull myself together and walk in like I was expecting this.
I wasn't. I was expecting the guys and me, a whiteboard, and the start of a plan.
Instead, Fischer is in the chair directly across from the only empty seat, which means the two of us are going to be spending the next however long staring at each other.
Great. Just great.
I sit down and get a good look at him, searching for something, anything, that might have given him away sooner. As Tommy The Friendly Rot Guy, he was nondescript. Forgettable. And he looks the same now… but also somehow different.
That's the thing that gets me. Nothing about him looks different, and yet I still hate what I'm looking at. The medium build, the plain clothes, the simple grooming. The city official who, at the center of the Rothwell governing hierarchy, screwed over all of us here in the Rot as well as our families. All along he was right here in plain sight, probably laughing his ass off at us unsuspecting idiots. I never saw it. None of us did. The man hiding inside the supply guy was always right there on the surface. I don’t know if I’m more angry with him, or myself.
Armen is at the head of the table with Sting to his left and Rogue across, leaving me opposite Fischer like some kind of silly meet and greet.
Fischer, with his hands on the table like he’s praying in church, is looking at a spot somewhere to the left of my shoulder, probably his default setting for not engaging.
Tommy did it one time I asked him a question he didn’t seem to want to answer. I'd completely forgotten about that.
Sting opens a folder.
He doesn't say anything at first, just slides documents across the table one at a time. From where I’m sitting, I recognize some of them as property transfers, shell company registrations, and pages from the city's budget, all courtesy of the stuff my dad left behind.
I've seen versions of these in my father's files.
Sting's copies are cleaner, more complete, cross-referenced in the margins in handwriting so precise, it barely looks human.
Fischer looks at them. He doesn't pick them up.
"Rothwell Elder Care. The nursing home on Franklin,” Sting says, his back stiffening at the words.
He’s quiet and even, with no particular inflection in his voice.
But under the table, his right leg shakes.
"Forty-two residents. State funding redirected in the second quarter of the fiscal year through a shell company registered to a development group you authorized, Fischer.
" He slides another page across. "The facility closed eight months later.
Residents relocated, several without family to receive them. "
Fischer says nothing.
"I'm not telling you anything you don't know," Sting says. "I'm just reminding you that we know it too."
There's something uncomfortable about watching Sting work.
He doesn't raise his voice, doesn't lean forward, doesn't do any of the things you'd expect from someone trying to break a person down.
He just puts facts on the table, one after another, and lets them sit there.
It's worse than shouting and its impact is clear in the set of Fischer's jaw, and the way his hands haven't moved but his knuckles have gone slightly pale.
More documents. More names. More money that went somewhere it wasn't supposed to go and didn't come back.
Fischer absorbs all of it without a word, which I have to grudgingly respect even as it makes me want to slap him silly.
He's good. He's probably been good at this his entire career, receiving bad news with a face like a closed door.
The difference now is that I can see the door straining on its hinges a little. Just a little.
I wait until Sting finishes, then jump in with the thing that’s been bugging me since I sat down.
"Fischer."
He looks at me. His expression doesn't change but his eyes do something like a small recalibration.
"My father, Mayor Renner," I say. "Whatever you know, whatever you heard, whatever you were told about what happened to him, I want to know."
The room is quiet. Rogue has his chair tipped back and his arms crossed, watching Fischer. Armen hasn't moved. Sting closes his folder.
Fischer looks at me for a long moment. Then he says: "Your father was a problem they needed to solve."
I take a deep breath for control. "Yeah, I already figured that out. Thank you, though."
He inhales. "What I know about how they intended to solve it—" He stops, choosing his words. "I know what the plan was but I don't know the outcome."
"Okay. What was the plan?"
He looks back at the table. "I've said all I'm going to say about that today."
Oh my God, I’m going to kill this fucker.
I want to push, every part of me wants to push, or at least hit the man over the head with a baseball bat. Wishful thinking, like the guys would let me lose my shit like that.
I look at Sting and naturally he gives me the smallest shake of his head saying not now, not yet. I swallow, sit back in my chair, and hate everybody and everything.
The door opens.
Mara comes in with a folder under her arm, followed by a man I don't recognize.
"Hey, Mara,” Armen says. “And, everyone, meet Kade.”
Kade nods at the room. His eyes scan all of us and then he spends a fraction of a second longer on Mara than on anyone else.