His eyes crinkle at the corners as he really thinks about what he wants to say. “Just one from me. Head to Atlanta. You can still make it to the bank and get into that safe deposit box by tomorrow afternoon. Give him what he wants. I don’t want to do what he’ll ask me to do if you don’t. Please, Lucca.”
This knocks me back a bit. This is the most candid he’s ever been with me.
All I say is, “Thanks for the heads-up.”
I stay in my seat while he rises from his. “Tell your guy he’s gettingsloppy. I clocked him coming in through the service entrance in a maintenance uniform.”
He always calls Devon “my guy.” Devon and George have played their own cat-and-mouse game over the years, trying to figure out who the other one really is, but I don’t think either have been successful. At least I know Devon hasn’t been.
“Wish we could have gotten that drink,” I say.
He laughs. “Get your ass to Atlanta and maybe we can.” Just as he’s about to walk away, he turns and adds, “Good luck.”
I shrug and give him a smile. “Who needs luck?”
His laugh carries with him out of the coffee shop.
I sit frozen in my seat another ten minutes, running through our conversation over and over.
The urge to run floods my system.
But running means I’m looking over my shoulder not only for Mr. Smith but for the police for the rest of my life.
Finally, I get up and head to the elevators. I hit the button for the eighth floor once I’m inside. I walk down the hall to the door that leads to the stairway. I go up and down by elevator and stairs three more times until I end up on the fifth floor and I’m positive no one is following. Knowing Devon, he’s had the cameras monitoring this floor on loop before he walked into the hotel.
I knock on the door to room 515.
Devon opens the door and says, “The look of shock when George sat down was a nice touch.”
“He told me in Fort Worth that ‘eyes are everywhere,’ but I never know if it’s him or someone else watching, so Iwasa little surprised whenhe sat down.” I sit in the chair next to him. “He said you’re losing your touch. Saw you come in through the service entrance.”
Devon’s upper lip curls back. “Does he think I just coincidentally entered the building the second y’all arrived?” He rolls his eyes and adds, “He only spots me when I want him to.”
Devon has a monitor and printer set up on the hotel room desk, and I study the images he has on the screen. Andrew and I are in the frame but we are not the main focus. George is. While I’m chatting with Andrew, he’s in the lobby, sitting in a wingback chair, holding up a newspaper but watching me.
“I’m assuming George got audio too. Was he able to hear everything Andrew and I said?”
Devon pushes another couple of buttons and replays the conversation between Andrew and me. “Yeah, the old man in the Titans cap. Guessing the mic was in his cane since he handed it over to George on the sidewalk outside the hotel after he left the table.”
I find him on the screen and sure enough, the cane is leaning against his table, angled toward me.
“I wasn’t sure how Andrew would react when he saw me, but it was the best I could have hoped for,” I say. It was a risk coming here, but it was clear six years ago that he felt like he owed me one so I was confident that sentiment would resurface. I just needed him to say it out loud, and he didn’t let me down. I’m also sure Mr. Smith will interpret it the way I want him to. He won’t think Andrew would help me just because he’s a nice guy, he’ll think Andrew has to because I’ve got something on him. Mr. Smith always thought I got dirt on Andrew Marshall but kept it for myself. Which is why it’s so easy for him to believe I did the same withthe info on Victor Connolly. He thinks I retrieved it from Amy Holder and kept it for myself instead of turning it over to him.
Renting the safe deposit box seems to be what threw my loyalty into doubt.
And a guilty verdict means the only thing keeping me from taking a nose dive into the nearest body of water is the contents of a 5 x 7-inch box locked behind a bank vault door.
“Is Connolly just sitting back and waiting or should we be worried about him?” I ask.
A few keystrokes and the screen changes. “So far he’s sitting back, but I’m keeping a close eye on him.”
I stare at a picture of the man in question. From my own research, I know he’s sixty-seven, but he looks older in the images Devon has collected. What little bit of hair he has left is completely white, and years and years of sun exposure have not been kind to his skin. But while he may look like he’s some aging old man, there’s no doubt he’s extremely dangerous.
Connolly’s businesses are a mix of legitimate and illegitimate, as you would expect. You have to show how you can afford the fancy cars and private planes and houses scattered around the country. But the substantial income he claims on his tax return is nothing compared to what he brings in through nefarious means.
This is why Mr. Smith is going to such great lengths to make sure Victor Connolly remains a happy client.
And I don’t need Mr. Smith making me the sacrificial lamb to Connolly if he starts to become unhappy.
