“Or you could come at it a different direction,” Merry put in and Mike looked at him. “Went to the Academy with a guy who moved to Baltimore. I reached out seein’ as he’s got friends on The Force in DC. Asked him to ask around and he has. Seein’ as Debbie Holliday is a defense attorney, she’s already not their favorite person. Seein’ as she’s a successful one, they like her even less. But she’s a very successful one. So successful, there’s rumblin’s as to how she does as well as she does.”
“And these rumblings are?” Mike asked.
“Talk is judges in her pocket but my friend’s friend thinks it’s something else.”
“And that would be?” Tanner cut in to ask.
“Not bribes. She’s got shit on them,” Merry answered. “At least two of them. And he thinks this because he’s seen her in the presence of a PI and that is a private investigator. Not an investigator that works for her firm. Whatever this is all happens outside the firm and this PI doesn’t have a great reputation. Debbie’s rep also includes bein’ scary ambitious and no one would be surprised she went the extra mile to ramp up her win rate which would ramp up her hourly rate. She made partner at the youngest age of anyone in that firm. That firm’s been around for forty-five years and when I say anyone, I mean anyone, male or female. And that firm bein’ around that long was known as a boy’s club. Now, it’s not.”
“This is all in DC, Merry. How do we get the shit Debbie has on those judges?” Mike asked
“You get your woman to bake me a twelve layer cake, I use my frequent flier miles and I poke around DC. That’s how you get it,” Devin answered and Mike’s eyes went to him.
“You get me dirt on Debbie, Dusty’ll make you a twelve layer cake and I’ll buy you a bottle of twenty year old Scotch,” Mike stated.
“Then I better get my woman to pull up the airlines on the internet and get my ass on a plane,” Devin muttered while wandering out the door and when Mike lost sight of him, he heard, “And I like chocolate cake!”
They had something to shut Debbie down, now and forever, Dusty would grow the fucking cocoa beans.
Mike didn’t share that.
Instead he looked through the room and said, “We need proof on the code violations then I’m goin’ to McGrath with that as well as providing him the knowledge he doesn’t stand down from the farm, his wife gets a head’s up about his extramarital activities. We need someone at Fire and Building Safety to nose around.”
“On that,” Colt said. “Know a coupla guys. Already made the calls.”
“Seems Dusty’s gonna be busy bakin’,” Mike muttered.
“You haven’t heard what I got,” Ryker put in and Mike looked to him.
“You got somethin’, share it.”
“Old lady Molder,” Ryker announced and Mike’s gaze cut through Merry, Colt and Sully.
Old lady Molder sat on fallow fields for ten years waiting for her grandson to be old enough to work them. Her son had died in a drunk driving accident, him being the one who was drunk. He was good for nothing, found himself a good for nothing woman who left when her kid was two and never looked back then found himself wrapped around a telephone pole. The kid was five.
Old lady Molder’s land had been in her family for six generations. It was one of the first farms to operate in The ‘Burg. She had members of her family march in The ‘Burg’s Centennial Parade, its Sesquicentennial Parade and its Bicentennial Parade. She was ‘Burg Farmer Royalty, roots so deep no one ever thought they’d be dug up.
Now her farm was where The Station restaurant, its parking lot and the shops surrounding it sat. When that happened, The ‘Burg rocked. No one thought old lady Molder would sell her land. She’d stake herself to it before leaving it. And it was when old lady Molder sold that the cops got curious but without any complaints or obvious violations, there was nothing they could do.
“Jesus, Ryker, you probably scared the shit outta her,” Merry said.
“Old woman don’t scare easy,” Ryker returned. “But she had a lot to say about McGrath. Also said she told the police about it but unfortunately the police she told was Harrison Rutledge, he didn’t do dick because he is a dick so she was fucked.”
Harrison Rutledge was a dirty cop and the way he was dirty meant he wasn’t having fun in prison and not just because he was a cop. His days were numbered and they all expected to get the news soon he’d been shanked in the heart or jugular and was dead before he hit the cement prison floor.
“Fuckin’ hell,” Colt muttered.