This Fallen Prey (Rockton #3)(14)

“Haven’t you asked him?” Mathias says. “Or are you testing us? Seeing if your stepfather’s story changes, depending on the handler? That would be odd, given that we could simply compare notes, as they say.”

“Do you think any of my ‘handlers’ were talking to me?” He shakes his head. “Everybody’s looking for the shooter, so it was an easy story to tell. Greg just had to move fast, before they caught the real guy. Get me up into Alaska, some off-the-grid place where no one can check the news.”

“But someone did tell you what your stepfather said.”

“No, I overheard two guards talking about it. Couple of jarheads, must have thought gagging me also took away my ability to hear. When they fed me, I tried to reason with them. They gave me this.” He pushes aside his hair to show a scabbed gash. “The gag stayed on for the next eight hours. No food. No water. That’s what a guy who shot six kids deserves. Which is why Gregory used that story. The whole damned country wants that bastard to burn in hell.”

“What’s your stepfather’s motive, then?” I ask. “You said you know something.”

He eyes me. Sizes me up. Finds me lacking and eases back into his chair as he says, “That’s my leverage, and I’m not giving it up until it’ll get me somewhere. For now, let’s go with the obvious motive. The one that’s partly true. Money.”

“From what I understand, it’s his company. Your mother married into it.”

“No, it was my father’s company. My biological father. Gregory Wallace was his employee. After my dad died, Greg took his wife and his company. But my dad made sure no one would get their hands on my inheritance. On my twenty-eighth birthday, I get a trust fund of fifteen million. Do you know how old I am now?”

“Twenty-seven.”

“Yep. Last year, I heard something that made me suspect there wasn’t fifteen mil in that fund anymore. I tried investigating. Greg blocked me. Gave me some song and dance about the stock markets and poor investments my father made. He promised there will be plenty of money but . . .”

“Not fifteen million.”

“Far from it, I bet. That’s part of the reason I’m here. I’m not a stand-up guy. I’m a bit of an asshole. But I’m not a sociopath. That would be the guy who sent me here.”





8





When I walk into the Roc with Mathias, Isabel is already pouring a shot of her top-shelf tequila. She holds it out for me.

“It isn’t noon yet,” I say.

“It is somewhere.”

“And I’m on duty.”

“True.” She downs the shot herself. “I have a feeling I’m going to need that.”

She pulls over a bottle of single malt and pours a shot for Mathias. He arches his brows. She points to the side.

“Glasses over there. Ice, too, if you insist on ruining good Scotch.”

“I do not ruin it. I chill it. Two shakes around the glass and out it goes.”

“Waste of good ice, then, which isn’t cheap this time of year.”

“Put it on my tab, and come winter I shall replace the cube with an entire block.”

Isabel grants him a chuckle for that. She even gets him a glass, though she draws the line at adding the ice. Mathias still smiles, pleased with his victory, and then admires her rear view as she crosses the bar to start the coffeemaker.

“Eyes off my ass, Mathias,” Isabel says. “I’ll put that on your tab, too, and it’s more than you can afford.”

“Oh, nothing is more than I can afford, cherie. And I do not need to pay. You would be offended if I were not looking. I am simply bowing to your iron will.”

She rolls her eyes.

The door opens. Dalton walks in and says, “Coffee ready?,” as if this is his biggest concern, but his gaze slides my way, asking how it went with Mathias and Brady. I make a face. He grimaces and eyes the beer display but doesn’t ask for one. The door opens again, and Val joins us.

“Gang’s all here,” Isabel says. “Before we begin, would you like a drink, Val?”

“Yes. Tea, please. Strong.”

Isabel’s lips twitch. From anyone else, that might have been a joke. Not Val. Strong tea is her equivalent of my tequila shot.

First, I tell them Brady’s story about the shooter in San Jose.

“Bullshit,” Dalton says. “Bullshit to make you do exactly what you’re doing.”

“Wonder if I’ve been misled.”

“Right. He pretends he’s been accused of an entirely different crime, and you start wondering if there are multiple stories going around, which makes it seem like we’re being played.”

That’s the answer I like. I’m not sure it’s the right one, though. I walk them through the rest of the interview.

When I finish, Isabel looks at Mathias. “Well, that was a mistake.”

His brows shoot up.

“You just antagonized a man who viciously murders people for no provocation.”

“Then perhaps, having given him provocation, I have removed myself from danger.”

“You just can’t help yourself, can you, Mathias? You are incapable of learning the lesson life has tried to teach you: don’t piss off the psychos.”