“Folks?”
“Well, not folks. Folks’ money.”
Hunh?
“Byron—”
“People do bad shit with their money, and they hide doing that bad shit. I work for people who want me to watch the money so we can know who’s moving theirs around to possibly do bad shit,” he said fast.
Wait.
Was five-dirty-chais-a-day Byron a vigilante too?
“So you’re a hacker,” I summed it up.
“I’m a freelance forensic accountant who might not have warrants to forensically study some accounts,” he admitted, and he seemed relieved to say it, like he’d been dying to confide that in someone for years, and now it was out there.
But…
Whoa!
That was cool.
“You can’t say anything to anyone,” he begged. “And FYI, the Nightingale guys already know because they know everything.”
Hold on.
Was he kidding?
And they hadn’t told us?
Something else to scribble on my list of things to talk about with Knox.
“Have they talked to you?” I queried.
His gaze evaded mine as he muttered, “We’ve had a chat.”
Which meant he was cleared to continue to be around us, because if he wasn’t, no way those men would let him step foot through The Surf Club’s door.
I mean, how wild was this?
“Does Tex know about you?”
He nodded slowly. “And Tito.”
I turned to look at Tito.
He was watching us, and when his sunglasses caught my eyes, he gave me a little wave.
These motherfuckers.
Were they ever going to tell us we had a clandestine forensic accountant among us?
“Do they know about those boards?” I asked.
“Yeah. They have some big computer expert on payroll up in Denver who monitors it.”
“And you work for the good guys?” I pressed.
