“Mr. Caulley probably didn’t tell people.”
“But he told you?”
I pause. I wouldn’t usually keep going, but I decide that if I make sure she gets that we’re violent with violent people she’ll be more likely to give me the names I want.
“He as good as told me. Trick talked to him,” I say. I don’t mention that it was Anvil who wanted the details. Apparently as a little kid Anvil had nothing, and Mr. Caulley let him buy things ‘on credit.’ Caulley never kept track of the gum or candy bars he let ‘Vil take. He just put a buck of his own money in the register to cover it. Most kids wouldn’t have kept track either, but Anvil did and anytime he got any money, maybe from a chore he did for a neighbor, he went in and paid off his debt. Apparently it went on like that until Anvil was making enough money from odd jobs to always have cash in his pocket.
Almost no one had cut Anvil a break as a kid, so Ray Gaines kicking Caulley in the ribs while the old man was down on the ground was like Gaines spitting on a six-year-old Anvil. And mob enforcer Anvil who can deadlift five hundred pounds was not having it.
“Ray Gaines is a meth head,” Zoe says.
“Your point being?”
“No point really. Just saying that I’m not sure he even knows what he’s doing half the time. I’m glad Mr. Caulley is okay though. He’s so nice.” She clasps her hands in her lap, the black nail polish that she wore onstage as the blackbird still glossy and perfect. “Is that how you deal with all thieves? Or just the ones that hurt elderly men?”
“I never said anyone from C Crue did anything to Gaines.”
A little smile plays at the corners of her wide, pretty mouth.
“Something funny?” I ask.
“No, I’m just relieved. If you were planning to kill me, there’d be no reason for you to deny the truth.”
My brows rise. She’d been worried I might kill her? Was that because she has a lot more to do with the robbery than she’s letting on? As a friend of Rachel’s she could’ve been at Palermo’s house and overhead things about our operation. Maybe it was intel from her that contributed to the planning.
We already considered that it might’ve been Frank who hit us, but it wasn’t the way he usually does things. A two-man crew pulling the robbery? And our driver left wounded and alive? Not likely. Usually it was at least a group of four hitting a shipment that size. Also, on a Palermo operation, either no one gets shot or they’re all shot dead. Nah, this was something else. From what the wounded driver said, the execution wasn’t smooth. Seemed like maybe the guys were amateurs, and one of them was wounded by our guys. Where was that guy now? Maybe dead. There’d been a lot of blood on the scene. We’ll run down all the details. Eventually. And whatever Zoe is hiding is the key.
* * *
Zoe
The car sidles up to the giant gate that closes off the compound that is C Crue Central. Connor punches in a code and puts his fingerprint on the pad. The gate slides open and the Range Rover rolls forward past artfully clipped shrubs that line the driveway.
The paved stones widen and lead to the edge of an impressive lawn that’s complete with a pergola that has vines climbing up it like we’re on the Mediterranean. C bought four lots in order to build this fenced-in complex, so he can live in the center of the city where he grew up and where he runs his ever-widening operation from.
The McCann mansion is made of beige stone and has turrets, making it look like a castle. I’ve heard the pool has a waterfall. I’ve always wanted to see the inside of this complex, but not under these circumstances where I’m pretty much a prisoner.
He parks, and I notice the other Range Rover with the C Crue 2 license plate. At least one of the other guys is inside. That makes me uncomfortable. I’ll be so outnumbered.
The entryway has a glass mosaic floor in black and shades of charcoal. It could be the print of a Versace dress.
“I like your floor,” I murmur.
He nods, leading me past a grand staircase and down a hall. Everything is luxe. It’s marble and thick wood and polished stone. It’s a guy’s sanctuary when the guy makes millions of dollars a month.
We enter a rec room with a pool table at the center. The monstrous giant, Anvil, and Scott Patrick, aka Trick, are playing. Both men are intimidating. Trick is as handsome as a Hollister model with his sandy brown hair, sea blue eyes, and perfect face. He doesn’t look as deadly as Connor or Anvil, but he has a dangerous reputation, too.
Anvil leans over the table and takes his shot.
Trick, holding his cue, looks me over. “Nice dancing tonight,” he says.
“Thank you.”
His gaze flickers to C. “What’s the word?”
“Zoe and I are trying to work things out. As far as we can figure, someone might have left something in her place for safekeeping during a party.”
“Hmm,” Trick says, sinking a ball in a corner pocket. His next shot is a bank shot that looks impossible. He almost doesn’t make it, but the ball drops in. “When was it and who was there?”
