Stavros set the cup down and smiled. It was a real smile, wide and warm, reaching his eyes. “On what charges?”
“Conspiracy to commit murder. First-degree murder. Racketeering and criminal enterprise under the RICO Act.”
“Murder.” He said the word the way you’d say a mildly interesting piece of gossip. He folded his newspaper and set it on the table with care. “I assume you’re referring to those unfortunate events in the dock district. Sheriff, I’m a businessman. I own property. What tenants do with that property is not my concern or my liability. My attorneys will have this dismissed by this afternoon.”
“Your attorneys can try. Stand up.”
“You’re making an enormous mistake.” Stavros looked at Jack with patient condescension. “I have resources you haven’t begun to imagine. Legal resources, political resources, financial resources. The people who matter in this county. The people who fund campaigns and sit on boards and decide who keeps their jobs.” He leaned back in his chair. “Are you sure this is a hill you want to die on?”
“Mr. Stavros,” Jack said, his smile genuine. “My people would eat yours for lunch. I promise you don’t want to start a power war with me or mine. You’ll lose. And you know that, just like I know you’ve already looked into my entire background.”
“You’re making a powerful enemy.”
“I’ll add you to my list,” Jack said. “I’ve got video of you putting a knife into Joaquin Melendez’s neck. Remember him? One of the boxers who made you money.” He took another step closer. “Stand up. I’m not going to ask again.”
Stavros’ smile stayed and the composure held. But underneath it, in the place where the real man lived behind the construction, was a tremor in the foundation. The first crack in the certainty.
He stood. He took his time about it, smoothing his shirt and adjusting his cuffs. He was taller standing than sitting, and broader, and he held himself with the erect posture of a man who had never in his life allowed anyone to see him diminished.
Jack cuffed him. The steel clicked against his wrists. The sound carried across terrace and out over the water, and a bird startled from the railing and flew out over the river.
“You have the right to remain silent,” Jack said. “Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford one, one will be appointed for you.”
“I can afford plenty,” Stavros said. The smile was still there but it had gone thin and hard, like a blade turned sideways. “And I promise you, Sheriff, every one of them will be very interested in how this case was built. The methods. The sources. The corners that were cut.”
“No corners,” Jack said. “Clean warrants. Clean evidence.” He leaned closer and whispered. “A clean judge and district attorney. I found your payroll. Looks like this county needs to clean house.”
He took Stavros’s arm and turned him toward the doors. Stavros walked without resistance.
As he passed me he slowed. Not enough to stop. Jack’s hand on his arm kept him moving. But he found my eyes.
“Dr. Graves,” he said. “I heard you had some trouble at the funeral home. It’s a shame when we can’t feel safe in our own city. You should talk to the police about that.”
Jack walked him through the doors and into the club. I followed.
Martinez handled the transport. Jack watched them load Stavros into the back of the cruiser and close the door, and then he stood in the parking lot for a long moment with his hands on his hips, looking at nothing. The morning light was strengthening, burning through the haze, and I could see the exhaustion in his face.
“I want to swing by the hospital later,” he said. “Cole should hear about the arrest from us, not the news.”
I was silent.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
“I don’t know.” I wanted to shrug it off, but my gut instinct had always been strong. “Just something bothering me about Stavros.”
“The fact that he’s a psychopath?”
I looked at Jack. “That’s twice now he’s mentioned the funeral home. Why?”
“I would say because that’s what psychopaths do, but I know that won’t be enough to ease your mind. Do you want to go by and check it out? You still have T-Bone’s and Dre’s bodies down in the lab?”
“Yeah, they’re ready to be released to family.”
“I tell you what,” he said, squeezing my shoulder and leading me toward the Tahoe. “Let’s swing by the funeral home and check on your residents. Then I’ll take you to breakfast. Someplace nice. With pancakes.”
I almost laughed. It felt strange in my chest, rusty and unexpected, like a door opening in a room that had been closed all week. “Are you asking me on a date?”
“I’m asking the most beautiful woman in the world to sit across the table from me and talk about anything but murder, dead bodies or police work.”
