Total pages in book: 227
Estimated words: 220940 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1105(@200wpm)___ 884(@250wpm)___ 736(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 220940 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1105(@200wpm)___ 884(@250wpm)___ 736(@300wpm)
He comes straight to my window, and I hit the button to let it down, glaring at him. “What?”
“Bean. He has three phones.”
“Oh?”
“One work, one personal, and one—”
“Very personal?”
“I’m checking the records.”
“Let me know what you find. I’m hoping Higham’s back from his inconvenient holiday soon.” I’ve got to talk to him about Amber’s body, along with a few other things, the kind of things you don’t want to talk to a cop about over the phone. I raise the window and exhale, looking at James as he pulls off. “What do you think happened in the alley the night Nolan got hurt?”
He turns a frown my way. “Why?”
“Something feels off.”
He laughs a little. “Probably because something is always off. What’s off?”
“I don’t know. My brain’s always fucking aching lately. What do you make of Brad and Pearl?”
“I think she was momentarily enthralled by a big, bad-arse mafia boss saving her. Then she found out he’s a cunt.”
I chuckle. “And Brad?”
“I think he finds Pearl attractive.”
“Who wouldn’t?” I ask.
“You shouldn’t.”
“I’m just saying. She’s a woman. A beautiful young, smart, strong woman.”
“Something I’m sure hasn’t escaped Brad’s notice, either.” He pulls a left at the gates. “But the fact is, she’s twenty-one.”
“He wants to fuck her.”
“But he won’t because that’s all he’ll want to do, and Brad’s not dumb. He doesn’t get caught up in anything complicated. Hence hookers and hotels.”
“So how do you explain this lawyer woman?”
He sighs. “I don’t know, I’m not a psychotherapist.”
I hum and lay off the questioning. It’s not like I have the brain space to spare, and Brad’s certainly going to have more problems than wanting to fuck Pearl when he finds out his long-lost son’s been working for him for over a year.
We sit at the end of the road in a leafy, respectable suburb across town, watching Bean’s house. A woman comes out with a young lad, and they get in a car and pull away.
“How lovely,” I say, watching them pass. “Little Preston’s going to school.” I open the door and slide out, James following, both of us checking the backs of our pants.
“Is there a plan?” he asks as we cross the road.
“Let’s see how it pans out.”
James pulls out his cell when it rings. “Otto.” He puts it on speaker, holding it between us.
“The third phone,” Otto says. “He calls one person.”
We look at each other, moving in closer. “His shrink?” I ask.
“Officer Mandy Leeson,” Otto says. “Image sent to Danny’s phone.”
I open the message and hold it up, and we both lean in, taking in the image of a very striking young woman in blues. “Ohhhh,” I breathe. “Bean’s been a bad boy.”
James chuckles. “Bean’s being a bad boy. Thanks, Otto.”
“I love it when a plan comes together.”
James strides up the front yard path to the solid wooden front door, knocking it with his massive fist.
“You’re keen,” I muse, following.
“I want to go on my honeymoon.”
I laugh, but I know it’s no joke. James wants to get this mess fixed so he can pick up his pregnant wife and get her back to St. Lucia. I bet he has better luck than I do.
We wait, listening for any movement inside. “Work?” I ask, wandering to the corner of the house and looking up the drive to the garage. A Lexus greets me, answering my question. “Maybe he’s having a morning coffee and natter with his bit of stuff now the wife and kid’s left.” I say. “I’ll take a look round the back.” Wandering up the driveway, I look up and see a security camera mounted on the back corner. I reach over the gate and feel around for a latch, find one, and pull the lever. When it creaks open a fraction, I remain on the threshold, pushing it open some more, craning my neck to see into the back garden. There’s a sliding door on the side of the house leading into the kitchen.
Open.
“Tut, tut,” I say quietly, wandering in and looking around. Breakfast dishes, bread, jam, and cereal have all been left on the counter, and there’s a half-empty coffee pot, steam rising from the spout. “Don’t mind if I do.” I find a cup and pour myself some, going to the fridge for some milk. No milk. “What kind of café is this?” I mumble, settling for black. I pad quietly through the house, pushing every door I pass open a fraction, peeking inside. There’s the distant sound of a shower running when I reach the bottom of the stairs, but the knocking on the front door distracts me, pulling me there. I open it. Smile wide.
“For fuck’s sake,” James mutters, stepping inside, pulling his gun.
“He’s in the shower.” I point to the stairs with my cup.
“Black?” James questions, throwing my coffee a look as he passes.