Page 33 of Damon
“Fuck off. It’s day three, and I’ve no idea if I’m coming or going. On the plus side, Julia seems to have settled in quickly. Annie likes her, and my mother doesn’t snarl when she walks into the room.”
Harrison chuckles. “Outnumbered McKinney? All those women and you?”
“My mother leaves next week, thankfully. Anyway, shall we get down to business?”
Connor and Hunter remain silent; listening to the banter around them. Greyson isn’t here this evening, which doesn’t surprise me. He isn’t truly part of our small group that meets every week. I settle in the chair next to Harrison and prepare myself to update them on the current situation.
“Is there any movement on the case?” Russell asks, direct as always.
“On the overall money lending circuit, yes. On the bastard who pulled the trigger, no.”
“What the fuck is your lot doing?” he snarls.
“Our job—investigating. We’ve found a source account and the destination country for the final payments. There are hundreds, if not a network of thousands, of connections. It all seems to lead back to Roger Brenton.”
“The businessman?” Hunter says. “Well, that’s no fucking surprise. He’s into everything.” We all look at the Head of the Irish Mafia, who at this point in time has more illegal businesses than I care to admit I know of.
“All routes lead to him, though he always manages to keep his hands clean.”
“If I remember correctly,” Connor interjects. “You and he have history, McKinney. Did you not lodge a bullet in his brother?”
“His half-brother was a petty drug dealer who tried to move with the big boys. He was in the wrong place at the wrong time. It wasn’t my bullet that killed him; someone switched off his life support. But Brenton has always blamed me for his death.”
“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.