I sit on the edge of the bed and call Tank.
“She's at her friend's place,” he says before I can ask. “I'm outside the building now.”
“Good.”
Silence stretches between us. I stare at the city lights blurring below.
“You want to join me to visit Emma's ex-boyfriend?”
A beat of silence. “I'll get one of the brothers to cover Zoe's place. What's the address?”
“1847 Crane Street. Unit 4C.”
“I'll meet you there in thirty.”
I hang up and keep staring at her shoes left behind. I can only blame myself for this shitshow but I plan to channel my rage finally facing James.
Maddox told me to wait. Told me not to tip our hand until we knew who was backing him.
Emma looked at me tonight like I was a stranger. Like everything we built was a lie. She's wrong but it doesn't make it less true for her.
Tank's bikerumbles to a stop behind my car. He swings off, helmet tucked under one arm, crosses the street with the kind of unhurried stride that says he's got all night and someone's going to regret it.
“You look like shit,” he says by way of greeting.
“Thanks.”
He falls into step beside me as we approach the building. Mid-rise, maybe ten years old. Clean but unremarkable. The kind of place you rent when you want to blend in.
“What's the play?” Tank asks.
“Conversation first. Then we see.”
He grunts. “And if he doesn't feel like talking?”
“One can hope.”
The lobby door is locked, but it takes Tank about fifteen seconds to pop it open. I should have brought my lockpicks. Probably better I didn't.
We take the elevator. Fourth floor, end of the hall.
Unit 4C. I knock once. Twice.
Footsteps. A pause. The door opens and James Whitmore stands there in sweatpants and a wrinkled t-shirt, beer in hand.
Recognition is instant. His face drains of color, and he shoves the door.
Tank's hand catches it before it moves two inches. One push sends James stumbling backward into his apartment, arms pinwheeling for balance.
We step inside. Tank closes the door behind us with a soft click.
The apartment is small but decent. Leather couch, flat screen, a few takeout containers on the coffee table. Better than anything James could afford on his own, and we all know it.
James backs up until his legs hit the couch. “You can't just barge in here. This is breaking and entering.”
“Sue me.” I scan the room. No one else here. Good. “Sit down, James.”
He doesn't move. Tank takes a step forward, and James drops onto the couch like his strings were cut.
