They were parked on the verge, where they could watch both the road and the house through the thin screen of leafless trees. Although “house” didn’t quite describe the place. It had wings, like a museum. Dinah’s little cottage would fit inside it ten times. Maybe twenty. From the road, it was hard to know how big the place really was.
It looked like some kind of castle. Not a storybook castle with towers and turrets, but more like a Norman keep, high stone walls with tall, narrow windows and minimal plantings. It looked like a fortress with a six-car garage.
But Peter knew from the article the house was only a few years old. New construction being what it was, the stone likely was a thin veneer over particleboard and drywall. Even if he didn’t want to break a window or pry open a door, he could get inside with just a crowbar and hand sledge. Most people would be appalled at how easy it was to break into a house. Especially if you didn’t care about making noise.
Lewis said, “You think he’s gonna tell you anything?”
Peter shrugged. “This guy faced down the cops over killing his wife, and the SEC over securities fraud. He’s not going to get scared by a couple of guys knocking on his door. But if we get up his nose we might break something loose, get something in motion.”
“We not just a couple of guys,” said Lewis. He smiled his tilted smile and put some street in his voice. “We sho ’nuff not the po-lice. An’ we def’ny not the SEC.” The smile got wider. “We can apply leverage they can’t.”
Even sitting still, he conveyed the impression of contained power, the mountain lion not quite at rest.
Peter still wasn’t quite sure what to make of Lewis. He’d been a soldier but was now a successful criminal. He knew his way around computers well enough to search state and federal databases. And with his mention of the SEC, Peter thought maybe he knew something about finance, too.
“You know what the SEC is, don’t you?” asked Peter.
“Securities and Exchange Commission,” said Lewis. “I gotta explain why the repeal of the Glass-Steagall Act led to the banking crisis of 2008?”
“Please, don’t,” said Peter, who had followed the financial crisis and its aftermath from a war zone and was now thoroughly sick of the whole thing. “But why are you interested?”
“Modern criminal needs to know. The financial system’s designed to favor established capital. Investment banks, hedge funds. Corporations. They in business to hoover money out of the pockets of small investors like me. You want to keep your hard-earned green, you better know how this shit work.”
“That doesn’t explain your interest in Glass-Steagall,” said Peter.
Lewis smiled his tilted smile. “You want to be good at your work, you study up, right? Some of these finance guys are the biggest fucking thieves out there.” He shrugged. “So it’s educational.”
Peter looked at him. “You’re not who I expected you to be.”
“Nobody is,” said Lewis. His face was unreadable in the dim light. “Anyway, I get interested in shit. Man can’t have a hobby?”
Peter grinned at that. “Well,” he said. “We can definitely apply some leverage.”
Lewis tilted his chin at the road ahead. “Here comes your guy. Home from the salt mines.” He shifted the Yukon into drive.
Skinner’s deep blue sedan coasted toward them on the smooth asphalt road. Its engine carried just the hint of a growl.
“You know what kind of car that is?” asked Peter.
Lewis leaned forward and raised his eyebrows. “I believe that a Bentley,” he said. “Nice ride. About three fifty new.”
“Three hundred and fifty thousand?”
“Yup. And the steering wheel ain’t even solid gold.”
The deep blue sedan turned up the long driveway.
“Get up behind him,” said Peter. “Give him a good bump before he gets up to the house.”
Lewis goosed the gas and the Yukon leaped forward. “Bumping a Bentley like punching the Mona Lisa, man. Maybe I just rev the engine up loud and scare him.”
“Pussy,” said Peter, one hand on the oh-shit handle and the other clamped to his armrest. The needle was at fifty and climbing fast.
They made the turn into Skinner’s driveway at speed, the Yukon’s police suspension gobbling up the bumps on the curve. Grinning widely, Lewis kept his foot down and the deep blue sedan got closer and closer until the Yukon hit with a crunch that Peter felt in his bones.
The sedan lurched forward and the whole back end accordioned up into scrap metal and waste plastic. Lewis stood on the brake and the Yukon stopped like it was nailed to the asphalt.
Peter popped his seat belt, stepped out, and walked behind the sedan to the driver’s side, aware of Lewis a few steps to his left, consciously or not keeping some distance between them to present a smaller target, as if this was a checkpoint stop.
Through the sedan windows, Peter could see the cloud of deployed air bags collapsing now as the driver pushed them down and away.
Then the sedan door opened and Skinner levered himself out, shaking and white.
“Sorry, the gas pedal stuck,” said Peter. “We need to talk. Remember me?”