Peter shrugged. “I’ll check it out,” he said.
“Sure you will. Here’s the deal.” Lipsky stared at Peter. “If you want your new driver’s-side window, you’re going to have to meet me at this place to pick it up. I don’t work there, but I’ve met a few people. I’ll introduce you around. You can see what we’re trying to do there. You can even use the showers. No strings attached.”
Clearly, Lipsky thought Peter needed saving. Peter couldn’t imagine why. He was living in his truck and had just done his personal grooming at a car wash, but that was a temporary thing. Operational necessity.
Still, when Lipsky reached out to him, offering a business card between two fingers, Peter took it.
It was cream-colored, with olive-green lettering. The Riverside Veterans’ Center.
He’d seen this card before.
Jimmy had one just like it folded into his stash belt when he died.
“Okay,” said Peter. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”
“I wrote my cell number on the back,” said Lipsky over his shoulder as he strode toward his cruiser. “So you don’t have any excuses.”
“Hey,” said Peter. “Thanks for finding that window.”
“I’m a highly trained officer of the law,” said Lipsky. “I can tell when a guy needs a kick in the ass to get him going.”
Mingus met the detective at his car and sniffed at the pocket of his chocolate-colored coat. “Ah, you caught me. You want one?” He pulled out a small plastic package of dog treats, fished one out, and held his hand with the treat mostly hidden in his fingers. Mingus stuck his nose close and tried to nibble it out, without luck. Then sat and wagged his tail.
“Shake,” said Lipsky, and Mingus put out a paw. “Good boy.” Lipsky tossed the treat up, and the dog snapped it out of the air, teeth flashing white. “Good boy.”
Lipsky waved, climbed into his car, and roared out of the parking lot, tires chirping. Peter looked reproachfully at the dog.
“I thought you were better than that.”
Mingus butted his head into Peter’s thigh.
Peter scratched the dog’s heavy strawberry-smelling ruff. “Maybe you’re just hungry.”
24
Skinner suggested they connect at an East Side coffee shop. Peter agreed only because he wanted to talk to the man face-to-face and it was too cold for any sane person to meet outside. He parked his truck on the street, locked Mingus in the back of the truck to avoid another hamburger rampage, and left his gun tucked into his toolbox.
Alterra Coffee was a quirky local place in a repurposed industrial building, now filled with laptop-toting hipsters, businesspeople meeting out of the office, and a few street people getting out of the weather. There was a warm buzz of conversation, but the open feel and tall glass roll-up door and skylights helped keep the white static from driving Peter out immediately.
He was deliberately late but still had time to get coffee and find a table by the glass roll-up door before Skinner strolled in. The same white-blond hair and pale, aristocratic face. No coat, no briefcase, just a midnight-blue suit worn with the same elegant disregard Peter remembered from the man’s office. Peter wondered if finding investors was like getting a date, where the secret was in appearing not to need one.
Skinner surveyed the room. Peter caught his eye and lifted a hand.
“Peter Ash?” Skinner walked over and flashed his easy, careless smile, almost shocking in its warmth and charm. Peter could see how the man had managed to talk so many wealthy, intelligent people out of their money. It was the smile that built Lake Capital.
You’d never know the SEC was investigating his company.
They shook hands, Skinner’s grip harder than expected under the pampered skin. “Great to meet you, Peter,” he said, taking in Peter’s faded blue jeans and white shirt. “Boy, I wish I could dress like you every day. Better or worse, finance is still a suit-and-tie business.”
His eyes lingered on the multicolored bruise on Peter’s cheek.
Peter was counting on the bruise to get Skinner wondering. He was pretty sure Skinner wouldn’t recognize him from his first visit to Lake Capital. He might have noticed the bruise, but it had turned a deep shade of purple. Regardless, Skinner probably didn’t have many meetings with guys who looked like they’d been in a fight.
“Anyway,” said Skinner as he sprawled comfortably in the skeletal metal chair. “I appreciate your interest in Lake Capital. Somehow I haven’t heard your name before. What business are you in, Peter?”
There was also a trace of an accent in Skinner’s vowels, but Peter couldn’t pin it down. As if he’d come from a foreign country just around the corner. Or maybe it was just private school, in the land of money.
“Oh, you know,” said Peter. “A little of this, a little of that.”
“Give me a hint,” said Skinner, that smile flashing on and off like a beacon. “What’s the most fun? What makes the most money?”
“Salvage,” said Peter. “Finding opportunities others have missed.”