Chapter 20
“DON’T GET COMFORTABLE,” I said to my twin.
Tommy went over to the seating area of my office, threw himself onto the blue couch, put his feet on the coffee table.
He sighed contentedly as he took in the wide view through my windows. Then: “How long does it take you to make twenty million, bro? A few years, at least, right?”
I picked up the phone, called security.
“Charles, I need assistance in my office,” I said. “Right now.” I hung up, said to my brother, “You have ten seconds.”
“What happened to your eyebrows?”
“Maybe you’ll tell me.”
“Me?”
My subconscious had spoken. Yes, Tommy could have done it. Could have blown up cars, set it up the way Detective Ziegler had said. Five cars in my neighborhood, then mine. Made it look like a serial arsonist, but maybe my car was the target all along.
“Oh, are my ten seconds almost over?” he said. “Let me make this fast. I want to buy you out of Private, Jack. Twenty million, cash, before this case against Del Rio drives all your clients away. I’ll combine Private Investigations and Private Security and give you a piece of the whole company.
“I think this could be called equity preservation,” he added.
“Let me think about it. No.”
“It’s win-win for you, Jack. So, okay. How much do you want?”
The security team showed up. I told them that Mr. Morgan needed an escort out. Charles looked at Tom, looked at me, looked back at Tom, both of us with the same sandy-brown hair, the same features—except for my lack of eyebrows.
Tommy laughed, said, “Throw the bum out.”
I said, “It’s your choice, Tom. You can leave by the door or go out through the window.”
“Okay, okay,” he said, grinning, putting up his hands, getting to his feet. “You’re making a mistake.”
In a minute, he was gone, with four security guys behind him to make sure that he didn’t loiter in the hallways.
Tommy had stirred me up. As he always does. And as he has done since we were about seven. My brother hates me enough to set me up to take a murder rap.
He’s done that, and he’s done worse.
I just can’t prove it.
I called Val back into my office.
“Val, I apologize for my brother.”
“I’m okay,” she said. “Thanks, though.”
Val said she’d put together a list of all the high schools within five miles of my house with names and contact numbers, the theory being the list might help Cruz and Scotty find car-bombing teens, if they existed.
Then she said, “It’s none of my business, but…”
“Go ahead.”
“You think Rick is going to be convicted?”
“Could happen.”
If Rick went away for aggravated assault, the raccoons would have a good time picking Private apart. That would be bad for business. Just as Tommy had said.
My brother was sick, but he wasn’t stupid.