“What’s going on, Roger? What’re the Lords up to?”
Roger folded his arms across his chest, the only concession to relaxation he allowed himself. “I’ve heard bits here and there, how they’re expanding their enterprises.”
“Expanding? What does that mean?”
“Rumor is they want to move into other kinds of activities, all illegal, of course.”
“What’s left that the Lords don’t control?” Wright asked.
“Murder for hire, for one,” Roger said. “The professional kind, not gang retaliation.”
“You think the Lords hired someone to kill Frankie?”
“Not really. She’d be dead by now if they’d put a contract on her.” Roger leaned forward across the table separating the two men. “They wanted to scare her. Real bad.”
“They did,” Wright acknowledged.
“So you’ve got to figure out what she’s done that’s spooking the Lords.” Roger looked deadly serious. “She’s always been a feisty one. I can see her poking her nose in where it doesn’t belong, not realizing how dangerous these people are.”
“Look, Roger, I represent you, not Frankie. I can talk to her, but privilege doesn’t apply.” Wright shifted uneasily. “I’ve only got a cell number for her. Anyway, she’s taking leave and laying low for a while. But she’s not going to stop whatever she’s involved in.”
Roger thought a bit, staring up at the ceiling and tapping his long fingers on the table. “I think I know where she might be.”
He stood up, his back toward the door with the guard on watch through the window. After he’d whispered the information into Wright’s ear, he added. “I think I can trust you, but I swear to God if anything happens to my little girl, I’ll kill you.”
Wright stared at Roger’s broad back as he left the room. He’d always known Roger Milano was capable of killing someone, but had convinced himself the man was innocent of his wife’s murder.
Whatever his previous thoughts, he now realized for a certainty, that Frankie Jones was Roger’s daughter, and from the narrowed steel gray eyes, he knew if he didn’t protect her, Roger would come looking for him.
Chapter 37
The man stood restlessly at the kitchen counter in his pricey condominium, knowing blowback was just a knock on the door away. His hands were so shaky that whiskey slopped over the edge of his glass. The splintered ring finger chaffed against the other ones, ironically whole and healthy.
What next, he wondered? How would they come at him this time?
He drained the whiskey clumsily and considered the latest development. His merchandise hadn’t satisfied him. It wasn’t prime, they claimed. Not good enough.
Bullshit!
He thought of his parents again. They had money, beau coups of it, hidden away in various accounts all over the world, squirreled away for a rainy day. Like it wasn’t pouring buckets of crap down on their only son right now. The apartment and its contents had been their parting gift to him before they took off to a comfortable life in sunny Florida.
But that was long ago. They’d done their duty by him, and now they’d cut him off like a diseased and amputated body part, not their own flesh and blood. No, they wouldn’t understand this mess he’d gotten into.
Glancing around the room, taking in the fancy furnishings, the antiques and collectibles, he wondered if he could get another loan on the place. Hock the expensive items – rich people’s junk, in his mind, but his parents had loved them. Some of them might even be priceless, passed down from generation to generation from the Mayflower to him, the degenerate descendant.
Damned bastards, not accepting the first shipment he’d delivered! That’d boiled his blood. After he’d gone through so much trouble, taken so much risk. It hadn’t been easy – he shivered at the reminder of what he’d done – but he’d fulfilled his commitment.
Surely they’d understand that? But they were getting restless and wouldn’t wait much longer. And now this nonsense about inferior merchandise? What the hell?
Dread was a heavy anvil weighting his chest. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think.
What they asked of him – demanded of him – was a hazardous proposition, and if he didn’t pull it off, he’d either be in prison for the rest of his life, or dead. Did California still have the death penalty? That was his fate – murdered by the people he owed money to, or executed by the state.
The thug who’d broken into his home a few days ago – his fucking home! – had been very specific about what they’d do to him if he didn’t come through this time. He’d left a vivid and still painful memento.
“You can use some of the items, can’t you?” he’d shouted in desperation. “It can’t all be worthless.”