We follow him through the drab old-money hallway that reeks of pomp and circumstance because I’m not in the mood to wait. Their wise members instinctually scatter in our rear.
Maddox sticks out like a sore thumb, which I appreciate. At six-five, he’s got an inch on me, and even in his tailored black suit, his presence is menacing. Like a thug ready to street fight.
I blend in better. But something about that unsettles them more.
Nolan is the operations manager and the owner’s son. He does a double take when he sees us coming. His past cooperation is the only reason we’re cruising by his office first.
Flashing a wad of twenty thousand dollars for Nolan’s trouble, I don’t bother slowing down. His office is in the hallway before the dining lounge I’m headed toward. Announcing my arrival and paying for the intrusion are a courtesy, but this isn’t teatime.
He rises and scurries after us, pocketing the money when I hand it over. “Do I need to clear a room?”
“Headed to the lounge. We only need table twelve.”
“Understood.” Like an obedient dog, he scampers ahead of us, shooing people out as smoothly as he can.
Former governor Monroe Montgomery is having lunch with some colleagues at a round table. All of them know who I am. A few are our members. Monroe was too at one time.
His back is to me, but his lunch buddies see me coming, and it’s impossible not to notice the way Nolan and his staff are discreetly ushering guests to other rooms.
But no one utters a word of warning.
Instead, I bestow it. With his steak knife speared through his hand and a greeting in his ear. “Good afternoon, Governor.”
As if he’s been expecting this day, he mutters a slew of curses, his eyes bulging as he stoically wheezes through the pain, which effectively clears any remaining guests from the room—aside from table twelve. His ruddy complexion morphs to a putrid green, but to his credit, he holds himself together. As do his colleagues.
Eventually, his brown-hazel eyes rise to mine. Questioning. Assessing. Wondering why Maddox is here too. But he’s speechless or respectfully declining to speak first, and I decide I like that as much as the blood oozing out all over the pristine white tablecloth.
“Did your balls shrivel up after you sent that goddamn email, motherfucker? Got nothing to fucking say about that asinine request?”
He furrows his salt-and-pepper brows, his breaths shallow and craggy. “What email?”
I know this man. I interrogated him at length over Dalton and what had happened to Hailey Holden. I learned what the shadow of guilt looked like on him as well as illuminated confusion.
Everything points to him not having any idea what I’m talking about.
Still, I prod to be sure, squeezing the back of his neck until his shoulders lift to meet the pinch. “The one aboutmy. Goddamn. Family. That you typed with those fucking fingers.”
His face blanches. The sterling silver hilt of the knife looms above his upturned, crimson-stained palm, reflecting the midday sun glimmering through the windows. His slightly curled fingers are dead, except for the index incessantly twitching.
He shakes his head in my grip. “I didn’t.”
I whip out my pistol and caress his temple with it. “But you knew they were back?”
His chest shudders from fear or perhaps the pain in his hand. “I heard.”
“Was your computer stolen?”
“No.” That comes out like a scoff, almost as if he wishes he could tell me it had been.
“Do you have an assistant?”
“Not since I retired.”
I lower my face to his, noting the oversize pores brimming with sweat. “Does Mrs. Montgomery have access to your computer? Or was your email hacked?”
Another headshake, this one stilted by the awareness of the gun. “No and no.”
“And you didn’t request to see them?”
