“Oooh,” said Skinner. “What kinds of opportunities?”
Peter leaned forward. Skinner leaned in to meet him. It was a salesman’s trick, Peter knew, to mirror your customer. People were more likely to trust someone they thought was like them. But Peter could do that, too.
“If I told you,” he said, “they wouldn’t be opportunities.”
“Hah! Well, it sounds like you know what you’re doing,” said Skinner, the smile broad now. “And you’ve worked hard and taken risks and now you’ve got some liquidity to invest. Tell me, how did you come to find us? We’re not exactly Edward Jones.”
“A friend of mine gave me your card,” said Peter. “James Johnson. He used to work for me. Maybe you remember him.”
Skinner seemed to think for a moment, then shook his head pleasantly. “No,” he said. “I don’t believe I do. Is he an investor of ours?” If he was lying, he was a very good liar. Although he was in finance, so that was part of the skill set.
“He’s dead now,” said Peter, watching the other man closely. “He was killed.”
“Oh, what a terrible shame,” said Skinner, with every appearance of thoughtful sorrow. “I’m so sorry.”
“Me, too,” said Peter. “This business can be dangerous. Before he died, he told me he wanted to invest with you. And James often had excellent ideas.”
Skinner’s warm, understanding smile returned, his teeth gleaming with saliva. “How much of an investment are we talking about?”
Peter wondered if the amount would mean anything to the man. “Four hundred thousand dollars.”
Something flickered across Skinner’s pale face, like the shadow of a bird flying overhead.
But it was gone too quickly to identify, and the salesman was back. “Oh, dear,” said Skinner. “Unfortunately, our current fund is only open to investments of a half-million or more.”
“The money’s in cash,” said Peter. “In a suitcase. Banded stacks of hundred-dollar bills.” He smiled pleasantly.
Peter was a blind man groping in the dark, but he seemed to have found something. Skinner’s easy smile stiffened. His face became all hard planes, lean and muscular, and his voice went flat. “Who are you?”
Peter kept his own smile in place. “I haven’t talked to the authorities yet. I thought I’d hear your side of the story first. About where the four hundred thousand came from.”
Skinner’s face had gotten more pale, if that was possible. The warmth and charm were gone. He stared at Peter with cold, reptilian eyes.
“If you are truly an investor,” he said, “I apologize, because Lake Capital is unable to help you.” Without the engaging warmth, his eyes bulged slightly from his head. His teeth seemed somehow more prominent. “If you are something else—”
“Don’t you want to know how I got this?” Peter interrupted. He tilted his head so the other man could get a clear look at the multicolored bruise that had taken over a third of his face.
Skinner didn’t answer.
“First I killed a man,” said Peter in a calm, even voice. “Then I put two more men in the hospital with my bare hands. Trying to get a fourth man to answer my questions. So you had better answer mine now. Before things go very badly for you.”
Skinner’s pale face seemed to belong to another man entirely. He stood, trembling, teeth bared in a kind of grimace. But not in fear. This was aggression.
Skinner glared at Peter as if memorizing him. “Whatever you are, the next time we talk, I’ll ask the questions.”
He turned and stalked out of the coffee shop.
Peter shook his head. It was an odd conversation.
He’d thought he would intimidate Skinner, scare him a little. But something else had happened. He’d peeled back the charming veneer and seen what lay underneath. Something very different indeed.
No, Peter wasn’t done with Jonathan Skinner.
But when he walked out of the coffee shop into the relief of the open air, he saw the black Ford SUV parked on the far side of the busy street. The man with the scars looking right at him.
25
The black Ford was parked on the far side of the one-way street, right at the corner, half a block upstream to traffic. Not obvious unless you were looking for him, but Peter was looking. Not a bad position, either, with a good line of sight through the windshield and side window. A wider view, and a wider field of fire. So the man wasn’t dumb and maybe had some training.
Or maybe he got lucky with the parking.
Traffic was heavy and fast, two lanes, a city artery. Peter’s truck was half a block away on this side of the street, in full view of the black Ford.
Buying time, Peter looked up and raised a palm to the sky, as if checking for raindrops. He was acutely aware of the chrome .32 the man had shown before, and Peter’s own lack of ordnance.
Lewis’s .45 was locked in the cargo box with the dog.
The adrenaline surged in his blood, giving rash advice. Peter felt a powerful urge to sprint across the street and pull the scarred man out of his truck.