“It was dark. And it did look like they were dropping stuff. But it wasn’t very big,” Trent said. “They could’ve easily been dropping smaller bags like that one with sponges containing pheromones.” He let out a long breath and ran a hand over his face. “I’m not proud of this, but back in the day, when I used to do stupid shit, that’s how I’d lure pythons. My sole purpose was to kill them, and I did so humanely, but it’s not legal.”
“Nope, it’s not. At least, not for you,” Keaton said. “But that was before my time.”
“Wasn’t before mine,” Fallon muttered. “Imagine what it was like for me when I learned the man I was living with was doing that when I was an FWC officer.” Her eyes narrowed. “But I could let that go. Those snakes are a menace. What the hell were you thinking, letting Karl use Mallor’s Landing? Please tell me it wasn’t when we were living together?” Fallon crossed her arms. “I could’ve lost my job.”
“I would’ve gone to jail before I let that happen and no, it was after,” he said softly. “And it’s not like I offered the shed to him. Or even let him do it. He just did, and I was stuck covering it up.”
“You should’ve let him go to jail.” Fallon let out a long breath.
“He saved my life.” Trent held her stare. “Back then, I just couldn’t forget about that.”
“Ever think he saw that other snake and let it attack, waiting for the right moment to come in and be a hero?” Cullen asked. “Because that’s what it looked like to me from where I was sitting that day.”
“I suppose that could be true.” Trent had never wanted to believe that. Karl was a lot of things, but to risk his friend's life? Oh, hell, they weren’t friends. They never really had been because Karl only cared about himself.
Cullen picked up the manila envelope. "My turn." He opened the flap, slid a photograph out, and pushed it across the table.
Trent picked it up. Slightly grainy, taken at a distance, phone camera pushed to its limits, but clear enough. Two men in a parking lot. One was Karl Simpson. Unmistakable, even blurred. The bulk. The sun-ruined skin. The posture of a man who'd spent his whole life believing he was the smartest person in any room and being wrong every single time.
The other man was clean-cut and well-dressed. The kind of polish that didn't grow in the Everglades. But he also had an edge. It was the way he stood. Wide stance. Arms crossed. Shoulders square.
"Why is Karl Simpson talking to Garrett Dutton?" Trent set the photo down. "The man's running for state senate."
""He's also a former U.S. Marshal. Twenty-one-year career. Southern District of Florida," Dawson said.
“I’m well aware of what he used to be,” Trent said. “He also was on my father’s protection detail with Slade.”
Dawson shifted his gaze to Dove. “I believe your uncle might have been keeping things from you and from Trent.”
“I don’t doubt it,” Dove said. “Whatever he knew, someone killed him for it.”
“I’ve asked Buddy and Sterling to do some digging where I can’t,” Dawson said. “But I've learned something quite disturbing.”
Trent ran a hand across his face. “I can’t imagine anything more unsettling than watching your father’s casket come out of the ground.”
“I’m sorry you had to deal with that today,” Dawson said, leaning forward. “But one of the reasons Slade might have shown up here is because Dutton is romantically involved with Courtney Kirk.” Dawson tapped his fingers on the table. “As in the daughter of Edward Kirk, who was the CEO of Gulf Coast Energy Partners.”
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” Trent mumbled.
“It gets worse.” Dawson reached for his coffee and took a long sip, as if this were a great time to pause. “She’s a criminal attorney. Has done some white-collar stuff but also has some shady clients that have been associated with mobsters.”
“Fucking wonderful.” Trent stared at the photograph on the table. Karl's stupid, smug face next to a man in a tailored jacket. Two people who had no business knowing each other, standing three feet apart, talking like it was the most natural thing in the world. He thought about spiderwebs—how you could stare at individual strands for hours and never see the design until you stepped back far enough.
He was stepping back now. And he didn't like how the present looked a lot like the past.
“My theory is that Karl can provide key information on you and Mallor’s Landing," Dawson said.
Trent turned to Dawson. “Why is my property important to any of these people?”
Dawson flipped open the folder. “On a hunch, based on the odd happenings at your place, Slade’s death, and especially this morning, Buddy looked more closely into Sovereign Resources.” Dawson pushed a few pages across the table.
“What am I looking at?” Trent asked as Dove leaned over his shoulder.
“Official complaints from residents who live near one of their mining sites.” Dawson leaned back.
Trent lifted one of the pages. “It says here that not only do the residents believe they are mining irresponsibly, but that there is strange activity at all hours of the night.”
“I’ll take over here.” Buddy had stepped into the room holding a few pieces of paper in his hands. “A couple of residents who live the closest and never wanted the company there in the first place, hired a private investigator.” Buddy set the papers on the table and sat on the edge. “The PI is still investigating and can’t prove anything yet, but he’s pretty sure that Sovereign Resources is using their mining sites to bury evidence for Courtney’s clients.”
