Justice Lost (Darren Street #3)(62)

“Nice place,” I said.

“We use it for our special snitches,” Howell said.

“I think you live to annoy me. I hate the term snitch. Don’t use it when you’re referring to me.”

“Because of the time you spent in prison?”

“Exactly, and I’m serious. If you call me a snitch again, I’ll punch you in the mouth.”

For the first time since we’d met, a smile crossed Howell’s face. “You’re a pugnacious little bastard, aren’t you?”

“I suppose I am. I was always a little on the small side, and I’ve always had to fight to keep people from taking advantage of me.”

“That’s called a small-man complex,” Howell said.

“Maybe so, but call me a snitch again and you’re going to get a dose of it.”

“How about we stop flexing our muscles at each other and get down to business?” Howell said.

“Fine. Where do you want to start?”

“I don’t know. How about at the beginning?”

“I can’t, because there are some things I can’t tell you about.”

“Okay, I’m wasting my time again.” Howell started to get up.

“Wait,” I said. “I might be pugnacious, but you’re impatient and melodramatic. I have informants. I can’t tell you who they are, but I’d trust some of them with my life. What my informants began telling me is that the district attorney of Knox County and the sheriff were allowing certain criminals to run their operations without fear of arrest or prosecution in return for a cut of the illegal proceeds. The operation began back when Ben Clancy was the district attorney general and Joe DuBose was the sheriff and has continued until this day.”

“So we’re talking ten years or more,” Howell said.

“More.”

“And what kind of criminals are being allowed to run their operations?”

“Cockfighters, dogfighters, bare-knuckle boxers, pimps, human traffickers, drug dealers, gamblers. Same old story. Where there’s cash, there’s corruption. In this case, they allow select people to run their operations without fear of arrest or prosecution or competition in exchange for a price. If a competitor comes in, the original criminal suddenly becomes an informant. It’s basically an extortion scheme. The difference is that the extortion scheme isn’t being run by gangsters, it’s being run by the sheriff and the district attorney.”

“How much money are we talking about here?”

“Millions. Check into the amount of money Stephen Morris made and compare it with the value of the assets he held at his death. If you dig deeply enough, you’ll probably find some money stashed offshore, too.”

“And the sheriff?”

“He’s larger-than-life and he’s dumber than a bag of hammers, but he knows better than to flaunt the money. From everything I know, he lives under the radar. God knows where his money is stashed.”

“And what precipitated these murders, do you think?”

“I did, by coming in and beating Morris,” I said. “I think once Morris realized he was going to lose his candy store, he threatened to go to law enforcement, and they killed him before he got the chance.”

“Do you think the sheriff was involved in the murders?”

“I think he drove the boat that carried the murderers away from Morris’s house.”

“And why do you think that?”

“Because I saw it, but there’s no way I could ever testify to it.”

Howell pulled his pipe out of his mouth and set it on the table. “Start talking before you get yourself arrested.”

I told him as much as I could, about how it started with Grace dying, about going to Morris, about how I made up my mind that I was going to run against Morris and told the TBI agents about it when they came to my door asking about Dr. Fraturra. I told him an old friend—but I wouldn’t mention any names—knew Senator Tate from way back, and that he agreed to give me support and bring his granddaughter in to help me. I told him about how Senator Tate had pleaded with me to find out what had happened to the marine, Capt. Gary Brewer, and I told him what I suspected had happened. I told him about the rally and how great things were going, but that Morris just wouldn’t shut up about the old, unproven allegations against me.

“I made a bad decision,” I said. “I got it in my mind that if I could get him alone and talk to him, maybe even threaten him, that he’d shut up about all that old stuff.”

I failed to tell him that I might very well have killed Morris myself had Roby Penn not beaten me to it. I did tell him about the surveillance I’d done and how I was sitting on the water the night two masked men murdered Morris and his wife. I told him about the boat that rolled in to pick up the men from Morris’s dock and how the driver, while he was wearing a mask, was also massive and had what appeared to be two pearl-handled pistols in holsters tied to his thighs.

“I couldn’t identify him positively,” I said. “I couldn’t identify any of them positively, but I’ve never seen anyone else carry pistols like those.”

“So you think the sheriff was definitely one of them.”

“One of them was the sheriff. He didn’t pull any triggers, but he’s guilty of conspiracy to commit murder and felony murder because he drove the boat. One of the others was more than likely a man named Roby Penn. He’s Sheriff Corker’s uncle, a fringe guy who hates the government and lives off the gambling rackets. Does really well with it, from what I’ve heard. Fixes a lot of bare-knuckle fights and cleans up. Bets on the roosters and the dogs and collects a gate and the juice. Operates some gambling machines, some card games, a small casino. It isn’t a racket he’d want to lose. Roby is one of the sheriff’s biggest producers, plus he’s kin. The only other racket that would come close to the gambling they have set up is drugs, and I’m sure you know better than I do what kind of money drugs generate. The other rackets are smaller, but they all add up. Roby and the drugs are the big ones. They’re the ones the sheriff would not want to lose.”