Wilcombe squinted again, then removed his glasses and put them on the desk. He waited for the rest.
“I want to know everything you know about the Burroughs family. I know a lot already, but I want to compare notes. I want to know every detail about your business with them. Times. Dates. Money. All of it. I want to know which brother you have the most direct contact with, Grizzly Adams or the crooked cop. I want you to spill your guts about every little dirty deal you’ve made with them over the past forty years, and I’m not leaving until I’ve heard it all.”
“Then what do you plan to do with the information?”
“Really, am I supposed to answer your questions? You got a set of balls on you.”
Wilcombe picked up the photograph and studied it closer. His face softened. “This is personal to you.”
“Yes, it is.”
“The boy in this photo is you, yes?”
“Ain’t I cute?”
“And this woman sitting with you. She is your mother?”
“She was. She’s dead now.”
“I’m sorry for your loss. I understand the bonds of family, Agent Holly.”
“Oh, yeah? Like the bond you got with your daughter out there?” Holly pointed a thumb toward the lobby. Wilcombe looked mildly surprised. “After everything else I told you, you’re surprised about me knowing something as common knowledge as that hot piece of ass outside being your daughter?”
“I would ask that you watch how you speak of my daughter, Agent Holly.”
“I would ask that you go fuck yourself. You’re not in the position to ask me to do anything. Maybe I should go out there and tell your darling Bianca about how her daddy dearest is a gun-peddling scumbag. I bet she’d love to find out how you pimp women to your criminal butt buddies. I wonder what kind of family bond you’d have then. No, wait.” Holly paused and scratched his head. “Doesn’t she do all your bookkeeping, too? I wonder how she could not know something was fishy after all this time. Right? She must be in on it. I wonder how that fine ass will look in an orange jumpsuit.”
“She has nothing to do with any of this. Leave her out of it.”
“That’s up to you. Do what I tell you from here on out, and she’ll be none the wiser. She’ll get to go on thinking her daddy is a sweet old man who loves motorcycles, and you can just go die of old age somewhere, holding her hand. Which, for the record, is something my mother didn’t get to do.”
“I do not know her, your mother.”
“Not directly. You gave her as a gift to Gareth Burroughs on the night you met him. You called a lowlife wetback by the name of Pepé Ramirez, who, in turn, fed her to that hillbilly. He then proceeded to rape and beat her before mutilating her face.” Holly was standing now, but Wilcombe couldn’t meet his eyes. Righteous indignation had that effect.
“I . . . did not know.”
Simon felt the sting of that lie burn the entirety of his face but didn’t show it. He wasn’t ready to play that card yet. He let Wilcombe believe he was a fool. “And that’s the reason you’re still alive. Which is more than I can say for Pepé.”
“You do know that Gareth Burroughs died several years ago?” Wilcombe said.
“And good riddance to him. I wish it could have been my bullet that killed him, but sins of the father run deep. Family bonds, right? I want them all.”
“And if I tell you everything you want to know, what happens to me?”
“You get to go home and not to a federal prison. Retire. You’re done. You’re going to sever all ties to the Burroughs clan. Nothing goes in or out. No guns. No dope. No money. Not even a Christmas card. Then you can go play shuffleboard, for all I care.”
“And that’s it?” Wilcombe began to get a little color back in his clammy, pale skin.
“Well, there is one more thing.”
“And that is?”
“When’s your next cash run to Georgia? I need every detail. I’ll be running it.”
CHAPTER
21
HALFORD BURROUGHS
2015
1.
“Boss, Scabby Mike just checked in. Two bikes are coming up the east bend, five minutes out.”
“Good,” Halford said. He sat in the great room of the main house on the compound, at a huge oak table made from a tree he’d cut down himself. It used to serve as a drying room back when weed was the family’s largest cash crop, but the meth industry required much less space. These days, Halford used it more as an armory. The place was fully stocked with loaded gun racks and metal cabinets lining the walls for the assault weapons and long guns. Military-grade footlockers stacked up on the floor were all full of handguns and ammo. A thin yellow blanket was spread out over the table, and shotgun parts sprawled across it. The room smelled rich of gun oil.
“Why don’t you come in here for a second?” Halford said to the scruffy messenger lingering outside the door.
“Uh, yessir.” The young man snapped to attention and walked in, his rifle slung over his shoulder. The screen door slammed behind him.
“Sit down,” Halford said.
The young man did.