“We’ll get ‘em back,” Ghost said, dropping into the chair across from her.
She snorted. “Well look who’s Mister Optimistic all the sudden. One Dog shot another Dog in the goddamn high school. How do we get them back after that?”
He shrugged. “People have short memories, generally. And we’re really good at what we do. In all departments.” He gestured to his right, toward the long stretch of Dartmoor businesses that unfolded beside them.
She sighed. “I hope you’re right.” Then: “How’s Operation Smear Stephens going?”
He lifted his brows.
“I named it in my head. It needed a name.”
He grinned. “That reporter Aidan’s piece of tail knows is coming by at three to get the story. It should be all over the papers in the morning.”
“Perfect.”
“What time is it?”
“Ten after twelve.”
He nodded and stood. “I’ve got a lunch meeting.”
“With…?”
He smiled. “Safer if you don’t know.”
She rolled her eyes dramatically. “Isn’t that the story of my life.”
Ghost leaned over her before he left to steal a kiss. “You know I mean it,” he said quietly, as he pulled back. “About keeping you safe. It’s never ‘cause I don’t trust you.”Or because I don’t need you, he added silently.
She reached to lay a hand along his face. Her eyes gentled. “I know, baby.”
Mason Stephens Sr. looked like two-day-old dog shit. That had been run over by a lawnmower. He wore no tie, a rumpled shirt stained with amber droplets that could only be bourbon, going by the smell, and his slacks hadn’t been pressed. His bloodshot eyes further evidence heavy drinking, and he needed a shave. His normally immaculate, paste-slicked hair was unwashed and sticking up in untidy clumps. He sat far back in the chair across from Vince’s desk, hands braced on the arms, legs splayed out like he couldn’t be bothered with decorum.
“She’s leaving me,” he said to the wastebasket he contemplated between his feet. Vince had set it there the first time Mason gagged. So far, there’d been no actual vomiting. “She doesn’t want the house here; she wants the one in Destin. She likes the beach.”
Vince cleared his throat. “I’m sorry,” he said, not sure it mattered that he sounded insincere. “But I’m not a divorce attorney, Mayor Stephens.”
Mason lifted his head, scowling out of mismatched pupils. “Yeah?” he sneered. “Well you’re sure as hell not worth a damn as a cop.”
“Mayor Stephens–” Vince tried again.
“What have you found out about my son? Huh? Why” – he pulled that morning’s paper from the inside of his jacket and slapped it down on the desk – “am I not reading about Kenny Teague’s arrest right this fucking instant?”
“I have a suspect in custody,” Vince said, calmly, “who has admitted to killing Mason, Ronnie, and two members of his own club. Collier Hershel is being charged, thanks to his own statement. I know it doesn’t help the grief” – Stephens made an awful face – “but the case itself is closed, Mister Mayor. You have your killer. It will be in the paper this week sometime, I’m sure.”
“I want my boy’sbody,” Stephens bit out. “I want something to put in the coffin.”
“According to Hershel, he dumped it downriver about five miles from here. We can drag–”
“Then drag the fucking river!”
“We’re going to do everything that we can,” he assured.
Stephens didn’t seem to hear him, shaking his head, fuming quietly to himself. “Collier Hershel. Who the fuck is that anyway? No.” His eyes lifted to Vince again, glazed-over and unfocused. “This was Teague. Teague and his whore wife and his bitch daughter and that giant shithead who hurt Mason so bad when he…” He made a choking sound. “This was Teague,” he repeated. “I want him arrested.”
In a feat of truly cosmic timing, there was a rap at the door.
“Shit,” Vince muttered.
