Reveal (Wicked Ways #2)(96)

“What’s it to you?” I shout, and I’m in his face in a split second. I’m more than aware of how helpless he feels right now. Me, big and strong and threatening—and him, paralyzed, weak, and defenseless. “You wouldn’t want them now. They’re too old, right? It’s only the underage ones who can get you hard.” I keep my face within inches of his and just stare. “You disgust me.”

“Fuck you.” It’s the first sign of a temper, and I welcome the resistance.

“You gonna give me a fight, Dillinger? Huh? You going to come out swinging so I have no choice but to turn all this evidence over to, say, the New York Times? What’s the saying? No press is bad press? Or even better, did you ever take them into New York? Please tell me yes, and then I can turn you over to the FBI for crossing state lines. I’d love to see you try to bribe a federal agent.”

“You’re crazy if you—”

“What’s it going to be, James? Are you going to do what the fuck I asked? Get the charges dropped. Admit to me that you’re a sick fuck who abused Samantha. And never—ever—speak of them again. Not to newspapers or police or so much as your own goddamn conscience. But then again, we both know you don’t have one.”

“Who the fuck do you think you are? I don’t take orders from anyone, let alone—”

“Tick. Tock.” I hold the necklace up, the key swinging, and take measured steps toward the telephone on the desk.

“Jesus Christ.”

“Not even he can save you,” I grit out, looking at this pussy of a man unwilling to fess up to his sins. “Make the call.”

It takes ten minutes for James to get the prosecuting attorney on the line, explain that after all this time he thinks he may have been wrong in pointing the finger at his nieces, and that he needs to know how to go about getting the warrants withdrawn.

“I don’t understand, Mr. Dillinger,” the prosecutor says through the phone’s speaker. “This has been one of those cases that has haunted Greenwich forever. Why do you suddenly think differently? Are you under duress? Is someone forcing you to—”

“No. No duress,” he stutters as he glares at me. “Just getting older and want to clean my conscience. I’d hate for them to be arrested someday should they come back home when they never committed the crime in the first place.”

The prosecutor emits a loud sigh. “The warrants for theft still hold, though, right?”

I shake my head.

“No. No charges.”

“You sure? Ten thousand dollars’ worth of jewelry and cash is an awful lot.”

“It is, and if we ever find the person who broke into the house and shot me, I won’t hesitate to go after them to the full extent of the law.”

The lies roll off his tongue, and I just shake my head in disgust. Is this what Vaughn thought Carter Preston was referring to when he brought up James Dillinger? That she’d be arrested for theft?

“Only if you’re sure.”

“I’m sure,” James says.

“Okay, I’ll file to get an appearance before Judge Benedict as soon as possible. He’ll want to have the ladies appear in court—”

“That can’t happen. I don’t even know where they are.” James glares at me, and I love that he hates everything about this. Serves him right.

“Then—”

“I hear you want the state’s attorney appointment. I can make that happen if you get this taken care of for me.” Silence sits on the line for a bit. The prosecutor clears his throat. “Did I not make good on my promises before when this first happened?”

“Yes.” His voice is soft, cautious.

“Then why do you doubt me now?” James asks, and I hate knowing this asshole is so good at manipulating people.

“I’ll get the record set straight,” he finally agrees.

“Thanks. And I’ll start making those phone calls on your behalf.”

I hang up the phone and then shift my hip on the edge of the desk, a condescending smile on my lips. “That wasn’t too hard, now was it?”

“Fuck you.”

“Just a few more things and I’ll be out of your hair, and in turn you’ll stay out of jail.”

“What more do you want from me?” he asks, visibly tired.

“I don’t want you to ever search out Sam or Vaughn. If I so much as hear that you’re even asking about them, the contents of that locker are turned over to the authorities.”

“Yeah, yeah. You’re blowing hot air now.”

My temper snaps. The temper I swore I’d keep in check is obliterated as my hands fit perfectly on either side of his neck and squeeze with enough pressure to put the fear of God into him. “At least I have a breath I can blow.”

“Fuck you,” he forces out with what little oxygen he has left.

“For a man as intelligent as you, your vocabulary is seriously limited. Now tell me the last thing I want to hear. Admit to me you did it. Admit you got your sick rocks off by molesting your niece.”

“No.”

I squeeze a little harder, his labored breathing becoming a wheeze. “No?”

His face starts to turn red, his fingers trying to claw my hands from his neck. My own conscience questions what I’m doing, but all I can think of is sweet Lucy without a mom. All I can hear is the hurt in Vaughn’s voice when she so much as mentions her childhood here in this mausoleum.