We both sit. I don’t want him getting trigger-happy, so I decide to concede some ground and see where it gets me.
“It’s my understanding Billy had a customer named Craig Kirkland about five years ago.”
He huffs. “Five years is a long-ass time. You expect a man to remember some rando junkie from that long ago?”
“This rando ended up stabbed five times with a roll of quarters down his throat. That ring a bell?”
Feigned concentration forms an exaggerated frown on his face. “Billy might remember that from the news, but I doubt he knows more than that.”
The man across from me is Billy fucking Ikes, and his insistence on playing this little game is grating on my nerves.
“Look, I don’t give a fuck about why the guy was killed or who killed him. I want to know what the guy was into—what was his drug of choice and what sort of bets he was making.”
“How about this? You let me talk to Billy. Come back another day, and I’ll let you know what he has to say.”
I sigh with a nod and begin to stand, making sure before I do so that Billy’s hands are visible, but instead of turning for the door, I reach across the small desk and slam his face into the wooden surface. I round the desk and fist his hair, only to come away with a toupee in my hand. I curse and grab the man by his throat instead.
“My patience has dried up, Billy,” I growl through clenched teeth. “Tell me what the fuck you know about Kirkland.”
“Tool,” he sputters. “Dude was a tool. One of those finance guys—the kind that toyed with addy and blow—nothing hard-core.” He tugs at my hand with manicured nails. I squeeze harder.
“And the gambling?”
“You know the type—always thought the next bet would be his big break. Ended up down several hundred k. That’s all I know.”
None of this is unexpected. I was hoping for something that might give me insight into who the guy was or how he went from NYU graduate to deadbeat in such a short time.
“How’d he end up buying from you? Who introduced you?”
“His ma … she brought him when he was in school.”
Jesus, that woman is even more vile than I realized. She got her own son into drugs and then had the gall to blame Terina.
My hand clenches in fury.
“C’mon, man … told you … what I know.” His breathless rasp reminds me I don’t actually want to kill the man.
I let him go and head out the door while he devolves into a coughing fit. He only has himself to blame. Fucking moron. I’llhave to call Fat Joe to smooth things over, but it shouldn’t be a problem. I can do it on my way to Kristi Kirkland’s apartment. It’s time she and I had a few words.
I letmyself into Kristi’s place when no one answers the door—the building’s old enough that cameras aren’t a problem. She’s got a deadbolt, but that doesn’t stop me. I wouldn’t be any good at tracking if I hadn’t mastered how to get in and out of places undetected.
The apartment would have been stylish back in the late nineties. Ceramic tile countertops with stained oak cabinetry in the kitchen. Floral wallpaper in the living room. Brass fixtures and forest-green carpeting.
Fast-forward twenty-five years, and it’s not only dated but dirty.
She’s a smoker, so a thin coating of nicotine film mars the windows and mirrors. Every surface is cluttered with crap—magazines and food wrappers and random toiletries strewn about. She even has knickknacks like little troll dolls and stuffed bears wedged between dishes in her china cabinet. None of it looks like it’s been cleaned in this century.
I’m going to need to fucking disinfect myself after being here.
I do my best to poke around without touching anything and find several surveillance-type printed pictures of couples having sex, along with a package of manila envelopes. They’re piled on her dresser, and judging by the looks of it, I’d say she’s running a blackmail operation. The couples are all different, but the room is the same. She’s got a camera somewhere. Maybe even an accomplice, but I’m not worried about that.
The other noteworthy find is a veritable pharmacy of drugs. Prescription and illicit—she’s got them all like some warped collector. Most of the bottles and baggies don’t have much in them, but the assortment is vast.
What I don’t see anywhere are photos of her son. In fact, there are no noticeable signs of his existence. No baby pictures. No wedding portrait. Nothing.
People process grief differently. I get that. But after everything I’ve learned, I think this soulless bitch simply doesn’t care.
Every second I spend in this vacuum of humanity makes my skin crawl. I’m actually relieved when I hear the lock click over, announcing her return home.
