Gone(43)

“Is that how you talked to John Hayes the other night? You say things like that to him? Why’d you get so upset at him?”

“Your little buddy shouldn’t have been running his mouth.”

Peter hooked his thumbs into the waistband of his pants. “You don’t believe in free speech?”

“I believe in the right-to-have-your-ass-kicked for your speech.”

“What do you care what Hayes says, Brad?”

Brad’s head slowly rotated back, his eyes poisonous. He clutched the mattress, digging in his fingernails. “We got enough liberal assholes overrunning us, trying to turn us communist. You probably like that, huh?”

“Did he say something about your boss?”

“My boss? I’m my boss, King. Not like you in your little outfit there, answering to your superiors. Shoveling shit for your dad, the big judge. I answer to no one.”

“Your client, then. Spillane. Did Hayes say something about Spillane?”

“The fuck do you care? What is this? I called my lawyer. You can’t talk to me. Go finger your black girlfriend.”

Pete nodded again, looking down, wanting to stride across the room and put Brad Rafferty into the wall. “Okay. You talk to your lawyer, and figure out how you’re going to get out of assaulting a police officer . . .”

“A police officer? That what you call yourself? What’s next, King? You and her gonna adopt a couple of Muslim babies?”

Stay easy. “I just want to know why you’re protecting Spillane.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I’m talking about how Nick Spillane has bought up property all over town, and is building restaurants and spec homes like money is no object. I’m curious; he made all that money moving junk around, or whatever? He’s been up here, what, five, six years? Semi-retired, that sort of thing?”

Brad held Peter’s eye. His upper lip twitched with hate. “Why don’t you ask him yourself?”

“I plan to. I just thought I’d come over here and we’d talk, first. Man to man. Because I’m the one pressing charges against you. And you can either do time and pay a lot of money to your lawyer and in court fees and everything else, or, we can just talk. I can make it a lot of time, Brad, I can push real hard — you know that. How much money you got put away? You got enough to cover all the legal costs, make up for all the time you won’t be out there, losing work?”

He could see Brad wanted the same thing Peter did — to wrap his hands around the other man’s neck and squeeze. The tension was palpable; Peter’s hearing sang with the adrenaline.

Then it subsided as Brad’s eyes drifted for a second. “Waste,” he said at last. “Not just junk. He moved hazardous waste. Owned five trucking companies who managed it. All up and down the coast. You don’t know shit, King.”

“Maybe not. And for all this time he’s been up here, he made any investments?”

“How should I know?”

“Spillane seem like a good guy to you, Brad?”

“I told you, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Peter heard a commotion behind him. Voices echoing in the hallway feeding into the on-watch area, the clanging of keys, the scuttle of footsteps. A moment later, the door opened and Sergeant Fransen appeared, a pinched look on his face. On his heels, a small man in a charcoal grey suit, carrying a briefcase. Rafferty’s lawyer was early.

Peter returned his attention to Brad, hurrying. “Here they come. What do you want me to say to the DA? Or to Judge King? You know exactly what I’m talking about.”

Brad’s face bloomed red. But, he caved. “Spillane is old school. You understand?” Brad lowered his voice and looked nervous for the first time in recent memory. “He’s connected, you get it? And Hayes wants out.”

“Hey,” Fransen called, hurrying over. “Excuse me, Deputy . . .”

“Connected how?” But Peter thought he already knew.

Brad turned his head away, as if ashamed.

Peter spun around just in time to greet Fransen and the lawyer. “Counselor,” he said, “good morning.”

“Deputy King,” the lawyer panted, “You know this is . . .”

“Exemplary inmate,” Peter said. He cleared the door. “Just a real, solid guy.”

He walked away and caught the eye of Sergeant Fransen. Fransen was livid. Peter strode away, but the sergeant soon caught up.

*

The clouds smothered the sky in a grey paste. Wind scattered the leaves around the jail complex.

Althea was waiting for him in the parking lot, sitting in the idling cruiser. She got out as he approached and circled to the passenger side. He stopped her, raising a hand. “You drive,” he said.

She raised an eyebrow as she buttoned the top of his uniform. “How did that go?”

“Good,” he said.

It was warm inside the vehicle, the vents blasting heat. The deputies pulled on their seatbelts. Peter was carrying a small, zipped, leather folder that he set on his lap.

“I saw Fransen talking to you,” Althea pressed. She got the cruiser rolling out of the lot, turned onto the road and headed toward New Brighton.

“Yeah, he’s not too happy with me.”