Page 67 of Shadows of Justice

“I have a buyer in Australia that uses the nitric acid for his clothing business. It’s highly effective in producing dyes for the colors blue and green,” I answer evenly. “The sodium perchlorate is helpful in protecting against radiation for the treatment of thyroid cancer. My contact for that was based in Panama—if memory serves.”

Gavin grinds his teeth, the muscles in his jaw flexing.

Tap-tap-tap-tap-tap.

“You sell these items to people over the dark web. How can you trust that they’re going to use it for what they say they will?” he argues.

“You sell bongs from smoke shops on every corner in this country and trust they’re being used for tobacco. You sell hunting rifles at sporting good stores and trust they’re being used to kill deer. What kind of question is that?”

His face falls, obviously realizing how dumb he just sounded.

“Three years ago, the overseas shipment of nitromethane. A highly combustible and prohibited material. What about that?”

“Transported with all of the safest measures in place, using polyethylene barrels,” I point out, without missing a beat.

“It can be used as an explosive too, Barone. You seem to only deal in things that go boom.” He narrows his eyes at me, compulsively clicking his pen.

“It’s also used by drag racers, and they pay handsomely for it,” I answer, crossing my arms across my chest and enjoying the twitch in his eye. “My buyer was a frequenter of the Gainesville Raceway Park in Florida, if I remember the name right, a venue where drag racing is in fact—legal.” I lean forward toward him, not even blinking. “All of that is in my laptop as well, if you’re having doubts. Feel free to browse to your heart’s content.”

“And your weapon sales? Where’d you get the guns, Barone? Rob private dealers and scratch off some serial numbers?”

I feel my brow furrow at this ridiculous statement. It’s almost funny, actually. “No . . . Law enforcement departments with low budgets will often auction off confiscated equipment and weapons to pay for their precinct’s needs,” I answer, trying not to smile and completely offend the poor man. “It’s all legal, and I resell them only to either our military or to our allies. I’m not interested in fueling wars or terrorism.” I shrug. “I love this country.”

He’s starting to sweat. He clearly wants to pin me as a terrorist so badly he can taste it. But other than transporting illegal chemicals, most of which are punishable by fine, not by jail time, I’m exactly what I said—not a threat.

“Are you and Officer Schaeffer romantically involved?” he asks.

Tap-tap-tap-tap-tap.

“What the fuck does that have to do with her being in danger?” I yell, beginning to finally lose my patience.

“It would explain why Tim Kennedy hasn’t been heard from in over a week.”

Whoops.

I can’t help it. I quirk a brow at that one, my mouth twisting in a smile.

No one will miss that good-for-nothing pencil pusher. He had underage torture porn saved on his hard drive. He signed his own death warrant the moment he left his mark on Viv’s neck.

“Tim who?” I ask, probably doing a terrible job of hiding my smirk. Gavin just scoffs at me, shaking his head.

“You and Viv shacking up is just the only explanation,” he says with a sneer. “You took advantage of a lonely woman, exploited her good-natured desire to help the citizens of this city, and sent her into the clutches of a prevalent LA gang in order to get back what was stolen from you.”

It’s my turn to slam my fist into the table.

“I never wanted her to go there. I fucking told her not to! She tricked me, evaded me—she’s fucking clever, if you haven’t noticed—and damned stubborn. Once she found a way to stop that bomb from being made, there was nothing keeping her from going to that club.”

“Well, the way I see it, she’d still never be in the hands of Thiago Marquéz if you had stayed the fuck out of her life.”

And just like that, the same sickening statement that’s been repeating again and again in my head is spewed right back in my face. It’s been churning around since I found out Viv’s destination early this morning. Despite the pride and the brave face I’d like to hide behind, the pretty boy’s words pacify me.

He’s fucking right. It’s my fault she’s there, no matter what.

“You might think you’re on your high horse with the ‘legal’ chemicals and weapons, Barone,” he says, punctuating the air, “but it doesn’t change why Viv is there. And,” he holds up a finger, “I know for a fact that you have, at times, purchased your shit from some seriously shady characters.”

Gavin flips through the file, bringing out photos of me having conversations over the years with said shady characters.

Gato, Frankie “The Crank” Watson, even a very old photo with Hookey “H” White, a 14th Street gang member, his affiliation of which I didn’t know at the time. H supplied me with the cheapest glycerol I’d ever found—before I solidified a more trustworthy buyer—a key ingredient in synthesizing my medical-grade nitroglycerin. There are many, many others, including accounts by low-level drug and arms dealers that have been caught, that describe me in their statements to try and get off easy. They never know my real name, of course, but when combined with the screenshots of me meeting with them, it certainly is a compelling web woven against me.

---