‘We also expect this statement to be made in a press conference dedicated to this purpose,’ Jamie continued. ‘It will not be buried in the verbiage of statements on other topics, nor will it be attached at the end of another press conference like an afterthought.’
Jamie wasn’t asking. He was telling. And both Hyatt and Joseph were nodding. ‘We can do that,’ Joseph said.
‘Excuse me,’ Colt’s sister cut in. ‘But what about Colt? The other two in Richard’s circle of friends are dead. Will you protect my brother?’
Joseph stood. ‘We can do that too. Come with me, Dr Colt. We’ll get you situated in a temporary safe house.’ He turned to Thorne. ‘I want the rest of you to go home. Lay low. Let Hyatt and me do our jobs.’
Thorne nodded. ‘Of course.’ But he had no intention of hiding in Clay’s house. He had to find leads on locations for Anne Poulin and Laura, because they would lead him to Tavilla. The wheels of justice moved too slowly and he wanted his friends – his family – out of danger.
Twenty-six
Baltimore, Maryland,
Thursday 16 June, 12.15 P.M.
He looked away from his risotto when Patton leaned down to murmur in his ear. ‘Sir? A word, please?’
‘Of course.’ He offered his lunch companions a quick apology before following Patton to Bruno’s kitchen. Kathryn would tend to them for a few minutes. She was good with his clients and customers. Most of the men simply liked stealing glances at her cleavage. As long as they never touched, he could live with that. ‘What’s wrong?’
Because anyone who worked for him knew not to disturb him in business meetings. He was five minutes from landing a lucrative shipping contract that would enable him to expand his control of the docks. Whoever controlled the docks controlled the flow of . . . well, everything. And he wanted to control everything.
‘The police are searching Linden’s home.’
His jaw tightened. He’d expected that to take a good while longer. ‘How did they get a warrant?’
‘A man came into the police station to meet with Lieutenant Hyatt and Agent Carter this morning. Thorne and his group were also there.’ Patton hesitated. ‘His name is Brandon Colt now. It was—’
‘Colton Brandenberg.’ He slid his hand into the pocket of his trousers to hide the fact that he’d clenched it into an angry fist. ‘That’s impossible. He’s dead.’
Again Patton hesitated. ‘No, sir, he’s not.’
He was already dialing Margo’s number. ‘Why is Colton Brandenberg alive?’ he asked acidly when she answered, bypassing any greeting. It had been her responsibility to ensure that the man and his conscience wouldn’t become a problem.
‘He’s not,’ Margo said. In the background he could hear the baby crying. A door closed and the sound became muffled.
‘What’s wrong with Benny?’
‘More teething. He’s got one cutting through.’ She sighed wearily. ‘What is this about, Papa? I’ve had very little sleep.’
He pushed away any feelings of compassion. In this, she was not his daughter-in-law, the mother of his grandson. She was his employee and she had royally erred. ‘Colton Brandenberg met with law enforcement this morning.’
She gasped. ‘That’s not possible. Ramirez killed him. I saw the body.’
‘Did you do a positive identification?’
A beat of silence, then two. ‘No,’ she admitted. ‘Ramirez forced Brandenberg’s truck off a mountain road. It rolled into a ravine and there was a fire. His face was ruined.’ More silence. ‘What did Brandenberg tell them?’ she asked timidly.
‘Enough for them to get a warrant to search Linden’s house.’
‘Well, we knew that was a possibility when we chose Patricia as Thorne’s “victim”. All of this was done to discredit Thorne, remember? Not to actually have him imprisoned. A prison sentence would have been like hitting the Powerball.’
Her logical tone grated on him. He was spared what would have been an angry retort when Patton lifted a reluctant finger. ‘There’s more,’ he whispered.
‘Wait,’ he barked at Margo before muting the call. ‘Why didn’t you say something?’
Patton looked away. ‘You were already dialing her.’
He’d sought to teach Patton manners, not to beat him down. It appeared he’d be searching for a new right-hand man very soon. Margo was clearly not up to the task either. At least not now. Her attention was too fragmented.
‘Well? What is it?’
Patton looked green. ‘They’ve brought Judge Segal in for questioning.’
He literally felt the blood drain from his head and swayed on his feet for a second before gathering his composure. ‘When?’
‘I got the notification just as I was coming into the restaurant. He’s been at BPD for about ten minutes by now.’
He gritted his teeth. The judge would talk. He’d break. Because he’s weak. ‘Go to his home. Do what you have to in order to make his son come to the door. Then take him. Do not kill him. Do you understand me?’
‘Yes. Sir,’ Patton added quickly.
‘Take Kathryn with you. She can lure him out. Send me a photograph of him once you’ve taken him.’
‘Yes, sir.’ He started to turn, then paused. ‘Is that all?’
‘Where is the other boy? The son of Gwyn Weaver?’
‘I dropped him off, just like Margo told me to. She has the photos you asked for.’
‘Good. Go.’ He unmuted his call. ‘Are you still there?’
‘Yes,’ Margo said, sounding worried. ‘What’s going on?’
‘They’ve brought the judge in for questioning.’
‘What? No. That’s not possible.’
‘You didn’t hear any of this with your hidden microphone?’
‘No.’ A long pause. ‘It’s gone quiet.’
‘In other words, they found it.’
‘I . . . I think so, yes. Perhaps.’
He drew in a breath. ‘Send me the photos of the boy.’
‘Gwyn Weaver’s son?’
‘Yes. Do it now. Then call your mother to take Benny. Your distraction could have ruined all my plans.’
‘I’m sorry, Papa.’
‘Sir,’ he corrected. ‘In this, I am “sir”.’
Another beat of silence. ‘I’m sorry, sir.’ There was anger in her voice and he didn’t care. She’d fucked this up. Badly. ‘What can I do to help?’ she added, and it sounded like she was speaking through clenched teeth.
‘Come to the boat. Immediately. Wait in my office.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Less than a minute later, Margo’s email with the photos of Gwyn Weaver’s son appeared in his inbox. He flicked through them until he found one that would work. It was a photo of the Weaver kid in the back of Patton’s SUV. It had been taken in the darkness of a windowless garage, the only illumination the dome light in the hatch. Just bright enough to see the lump of a figure covered in an old blanket.
Not enough light to see a face. The blanket covered his clothing, and a cap, slightly askew, covered his hair. It was a generic enough photo. It could have been nearly anyone’s son.
He froze for a moment as a sudden harsh pain of longing swept through him, compressing his chest and making it hard to breathe. Colin. He missed his son. But he forced his lungs to function and pushed the grief to the side. He’d grieve later, when he was alone. Right now, silencing Judge Gil Segal was his key priority.
He attached the photo to a text and added: Be smart. Be silent. Then he hit SEND. That was the best he could do until Patton and Kathryn retrieved Segal’s son. Then he’d send more texts showing the boy’s face. The judge was weak, but he wasn’t stupid. And even if the boy was Richard’s spawn, the judge loved him like he was his own flesh and blood. He’d make the right choice.
And if the judge didn’t make the right choice?
He could make life difficult. But ultimately there would be nothing he could say to the police that wouldn’t incriminate him even more.
Yes, I approached Segal. Because his obsessive research into Thomas Thorne had yielded a better result than he’d ever imagined possible. That the man had been acquitted of murder was a matter of public record. But someone had murdered Richard Linden nineteen years ago, and he’d continued asking questions until he’d dug the truth out of Darian Hinman and Chandler Nystrom. It hadn’t been cheap, but he’d considered it one of the best deals he’d ever made.