Chapter Twenty-Two
Wheels
Gene Kettler lived in the kind of house that wanted people to think it had nothing to hide.
That was my first thought when we rolled down the quiet street near Lake Monona and slowed in front of the address Podge had found.
The place was big, but not mansion big. Not gated-community big. Not security-guard-at-the-end-of-the-driveway big.
It was the kind of big that blended in if you weren’t paying attention.
Two stories. Cream siding. Dark green shutters. Wide front porch. Fresh mulch around the landscaping. A flag hung near the front steps, barely moving in the still afternoon air. The lawn was too perfect. The hedges were too even. The windows were clean enough to reflect the sky back at us.
Nothing about it screamed rich. Nothing about it screamed dirty, either.
That was the point.
A few blocks away, people pushed strollers on the sidewalk. A dog barked behind a privacy fence. Somewhere nearby, a lawn mower rumbled. Normal neighborhood. Normal afternoon. Normal man living in a normal house.
Except Gene Kettler’s name was on decades of permits he had no legal business signing.
Except The Ledger was willing to kill for what those permits helped hide.
Twister pulled to the curb first, and Magnum parked behind him. I rolled in next with Goldie on the back of my bike, Hodge behind me, and Swift bringing up the rear.
No one killed their engines right away.
We sat there a second, letting the bikes rumble low along the street while every one of us looked around.
Rooftops. Windows. Parked cars. Neighboring houses. The side yard between Gene’s place and the next house.
Twister cut his engine, and we all followed. Silence dropped hard after the bikes died.
Goldie climbed off behind me, and I immediately turned, putting myself between her and the house without thinking.
“I’m okay,” she said softly.
“Didn’t ask.”
Her mouth twitched, but the smile didn’t reach her eyes.
She was wearing my extra vest under her jacket. Not ideal protection, but better than nothing. Twister had wanted her here. I had wanted her at the clubhouse. Hell, I still wanted her at the clubhouse.
But she’d been right. If Gene said something about the permits, she might catch what we missed.
That didn’t mean I had to like it.
Twister stepped onto the sidewalk and looked back at all of us. “No one spreads out too far,” he said. “We go up together. Magnum, eyes on the street. Hodge, left side. Swift, right. Wheels, Goldie stays with you.”
“Already know,” I said.
Goldie glanced at me, and I kept my eyes forward. She didn’t argue, which meant she was either getting smarter or saving it for later. Knowing Goldie, probably later.
We moved up the walk. The front porch boards looked freshly painted. The kind of paint job a man did every few years because he wanted the neighborhood to believe he was respectable. Two rocking chairs sat near the front window. A hanging basket of flowers swayed lightly in the breeze.
Hodge stepped slightly left, scanning the side yard.
Swift moved to the right near the porch railing.
Magnum stayed near the bottom of the steps, body angled toward the street.
Twister climbed the porch first, and I kept Goldie one step behind me. The closer we got to the front door, the more wrong the whole place felt.
There were no cameras I could see. No alarm sign in the yard. No locked gate. No dogs losing their minds from inside. No blacked-out SUV sitting in the drive.
Gene Kettler either wasn’t scared or was too tired to care.
Twister knocked with three hard raps.
We waited.
No footsteps. No movement.
Twister knocked again, and this time, something shifted inside.
A lock turned and then another. The door opened slowly, and Gene Kettler stood in the doorway wearing gray slacks, a white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled to the elbows, and a face that looked like it hadn’t seen a good night’s sleep in years.
He looked older than the picture Podge had found.
Thinner. More worn.
His dark hair was combed neatly, but there were deep lines around his eyes and mouth. Expensive glasses sat on his nose, and his hand rested against the edge of the door like he needed it to stay upright.
His gaze moved over Twister. Then me. Then Goldie.
He stopped there, and recognition flickered in his eyes.
Not surprise—recognition.
Then he laughed. A dry, empty sound. “Took you long enough.”
Every muscle in my body tightened. Goldie went still behind me.
Twister didn’t move. “Gene Kettler.”
Gene’s smile was weak and bitter. “You already know that.”
“You know who we are?”
Gene looked at Twister’s cut. “Everyone knows who you are.”
“Then you know why we’re here.”
Gene stepped back from the door. “Do I look like a man who has any desire to pretend otherwise?”
Twister didn’t answer.
For a second, nobody moved.
I looked past Gene into the house. Wide entryway. Hardwood floors. Staircase to the left. Living room to the right. Clean. Quiet.
“You alone?” Twister asked.
Gene laughed again. “I’ve been alone for a long time.”
“Not what I asked.”
“Yes,” Gene said. “I’m alone.”
Twister stared him down for another beat before stepping inside. I didn’t like it. I liked even less that Goldie stepped in with me.
The second we crossed the threshold, the smell of stale coffee and old paper hit me.
The house was neat, but it wasn’t lived-in in a comfortable way.
It was organized like a man who didn’t know what else to do with his hands.
Bookshelves lined the living room walls, full of binders and legal books instead of family pictures.
A single leather chair sat angled toward the window.
A coffee mug rested on a side table beside a stack of mail.
Just Gene Kettler and the mess he’d spent years helping bury.
Magnum stayed near the open front door, half inside, half out. Swift moved along the wall, checking windows. Hodge stood near the entry, arms crossed, looking like he hoped Gene gave him a reason. Twister stayed in the middle of the room. I kept Goldie close.
Gene shut the door, then looked at it like he was surprised he’d done it. “Sit,” he said.
“No,” Twister replied.
Gene nodded slowly. “Fair.”
His eyes drifted to Goldie again. “You’re the one from City Hall.”
Goldie lifted her chin. “You know me?”
“I know of you.” His gaze sharpened slightly. “You were supposed to stop looking.”
“I didn’t.”
“No.” His mouth twisted. “I noticed.”
My hand flexed at my side.
Gene saw it and lifted one hand weakly. “I’m not threatening her.”
“You’re breathing,” I said.
“Wheels,” Twister said.
Not sharp, just enough. I shut up.
Gene studied me for a second before looking back at Goldie. “You copied the papers.”
Goldie didn’t answer.
Gene nodded like she had. “And then you ran to them.”
“I warned them,” she corrected.
“Yes.” He looked toward Twister. “You did.”
Twister’s face gave away nothing. “You signed permits you had no authority to sign.”
Gene closed his eyes. For the first time since he’d opened the door, he looked almost relieved. Like someone had finally said the thing out loud. When he opened his eyes again, there was less bitterness there. More exhaustion. “Yes.”
Goldie inhaled softly.
“You admit it?” Twister asked.
Gene walked toward the living room window, but Swift shifted immediately, blocking him from getting too close.
Gene stopped, then smiled faintly. “Still sharp.”
“Don’t test us,” Swift said.
“I’m not.” Gene looked out the window from where he stood. “I’m done testing anyone.”
Twister stepped closer. “Start talking.”
Gene rubbed both hands over his face. “Hollis was wrong.”
The name hit the room like a thrown blade.
Goldie glanced up at me.
I kept my eyes on Gene.
Twister’s voice lowered. “Your father.”
Gene nodded once. “My father was many things. Brilliant. Ruthless. Proud. Wrong more often than he would ever admit.”
Hodge grunted. “Sounds like a peach.”
Gene’s mouth twitched. “You have no idea.”
“Why did Hollis start this?” Twister asked.
Gene looked at him. For a second, I thought he wasn’t going to answer. Then he said, “Protection.”
Silence.
Goldie frowned. “Protection from what?”
Gene looked at her with something almost like pity. “From men like himself.”
“That doesn’t make sense,” she said.
“No,” Gene whispered. “It doesn’t anymore.”
Twister’s patience was almost gone. I could feel it in the way the room tightened around him. “The Ledger,” he said.
Gene flinched. “Wasn’t always called that,” Gene said. “Not officially. Not where anyone could hear. It started as favors. Influence. Families protecting what they built. My father believed the city was too valuable to leave in the hands of people who didn’t understand power.”
Goldie’s voice was quiet. “So they stole it.”
Gene looked at her. “Yes.”
No defense or excuse. Just yes.
Gene walked slowly to the leather chair and sank into it like standing had finally taken too much effort.
He rested his elbows on his knees and looked at the floor.
“They bought buildings. Backed politicians. Buried zoning changes. Approved projects. Denied others. They told themselves it was stability.” He laughed once, without humor.
“Madison would grow, but only in the right direction. With the right people holding the strings.”
Goldie took half a step forward, and I moved with her. Her eyes were locked on Gene. “You signed the permits.”
Gene nodded. “I was young when it started. Younger than I want to admit. My father told me I was preserving something. Carrying on a responsibility.” His gaze lifted to hers. “He told me the signatures were harmless.”
“They weren’t,” she said.
“No.”
He looked down at his hands. “They never are.”
Twister crossed his arms. “You weren’t employed by the city.”
Gene looked up. “No.”
“Then how the hell did your signature get accepted?”
Gene smiled faintly. “Because the city was never as clean as it wanted people to believe.”
Goldie’s shoulders stiffened.
Gene saw it. “I’m sorry.”
She stared at him. “For what?”
“For letting you believe paperwork meant truth.”
That landed. I felt it hit her.