The Drifter (Peter Ash #1)(64)

Good thing Mingus was locked in the back of the truck.

He turned to peer through the glass, wondering if the cop had beat him there. Then he heard a voice behind him, almost in his ear.

“You must be Peter.” Detective Zolot’s voice.

Peter moved to turn, but a meaty hand landed on his shoulder, and another encircled his elbow in a practiced grip. “Inside, pal. Past the bar.”

The hand pushed him through the swinging door and kept him moving forward. Peter didn’t resist. The voice in his ear said, “Don’t worry, pal, I’m a police detective. We’re just going someplace quiet.”

It smelled even better inside. The place was full of happy eaters chowing on giant burgers, drinking Bloody Marys and beer. The clamor of conversation and the clatter of tableware were friendly and loud, the kind of place Peter used to like. Now he felt the walls close in, too many people and too few exits, with no sight lines to outside. He felt the clamps on his chest and sweat popping on his forehead.

“Someplace quiet” turned out to be the men’s room. Zolot was a head taller than Peter, with the barely suppressed violence of an offensive lineman retired too early. Hair uncombed, jowls unshaven, a grizzly bear in the small space. But he moved with surprising grace as he frisked Peter expertly, missing nothing, all without a word. He glanced through Peter’s wallet, noted Peter’s flushed skin and shallow breath, then seamlessly turned Peter out of the men’s room and down the hall to a service exit and out into the cold.

“Fuck’s the matter with you?” he asked.

“I’m fine,” said Peter. “I’d just rather be outside.”

“We’re outside,” said Zolot, heading west on Saint Paul, the hand back on Peter’s elbow. “So talk already.”

Peter shook off the hand. “Tell me what you had on Jonathan Skinner and why you gave up.”

It was a guess, but it felt right. And Zolot’s silence confirmed it. They kept walking as Zolot stewed. Peter could feel the contained heat coming off the man, even in the crisp November air.

Finally Zolot spoke. “You said this was about someone else, pal. Tell me about the someone else.”

“A friend of mine got killed,” said Peter. “He had one of Skinner’s company pens in his things. My friend was no investor, he worked as a part-time bartender. But it turned out that he had serious money hidden away, in cash. I can’t find any other source for that money. Skinner’s the only connection to it I can think of. I had a meeting with him—”

Zolot stopped walking. “You met with Skinner?”

“I told him I was an investor,” said Peter. “I mentioned the cash and he got very strange. I’m guessing Skinner had something to do with my friend’s death. And I’m looking for something to grab hold of.”

Zolot stared into Peter’s face. “What was he like, when things got strange?” The force of his attention was intense. Peter wouldn’t want to be a suspect of any crime Zolot was investigating.

“You met him,” asked Peter. “Charming as hell, right? A million-dollar smile. Like you’re his favorite person in the world. But when I mentioned the money it all fell away, just for a few seconds. Like a snake trying to decide if you were food. Then he threatened me and left as fast as he could.”

Zolot grunted and kicked at a rock on the sidewalk. Turned and started walking again. Peter walked beside him.

“How was your friend killed?” asked Zolot.

“They said it was a suicide. They said he shot himself, once under the jaw. His wallet was still in his pocket. But he didn’t do it, I know that. I know it. He had a lot to live for.”

“What was your friend’s name?”

“James Johnson. Jimmy. He died in Riverwest less than a month ago.”

“I’ll look him up.” Zolot looked at Peter sideways, from the corner of his eye. “And who the fuck are you, pal?”

“Peter Ash. I was a Marine lieutenant. Jimmy was my sergeant.”

They walked. The open sky felt good, calming the white static. Zolot’s contained rage burned like an oilfield fire, fueled by something deep beneath the surface.

“I never could fucking stand those money guys,” said Zolot. “It’s like you’re working for them personally, and they’re in charge. Like they run the whole fucking world. And maybe they do, sort of, until they fuck the whole thing up and bring it all down around our ears. Even then it’s not their fault. Nothing is ever their fucking fault. Even when they kill their wives. Because he killed her, pal. Skinner was the only one with any motive.”

Peter didn’t say anything. He didn’t want to interrupt.

Zolot kept talking. “It was mostly her money, you know,” he said. “Lake Capital? She was the heir to some Chicago meatpacking fortune. I met her once, at a first responders’ widows and orphans benefit. She looked like the daughter of a meatpacker, I’ll tell you. One of those square Polack faces, and she didn’t starve herself. But there was something really lovely about her, you know? She really looked at you. She listened. And no pushover. There was some talk about her shutting down the fund back in 2006, at the height of the bubble.”

“She could do that?”

“I’m telling you, it was her fucking seed money. A lot of people respected her. She was on the board of her family’s company. If she pulled out, everyone else would follow.” Zolot made a face. “We looked into all this at the time, my partner and I. But there was nothing substantial to tie Skinner to the murder. There was no hard evidence at all.”