Page 35 of Broken Halo
I decided to try a different tactic.
Me: And you talked to my mother with that mouth?
Ellie: I fucking did. You should go back to ignoring me if you don’t like it.
At least I got more than three fucking words out of her.
I resort to going back to being an asshole since that obviously comes natural to me.
Me: I’m over this shit. How long are you going to play this game?
Ellie: Ten fucking years.
Dammit.
Outside of work, Jen is also giving me the cold shoulder because, in her words, “You can’t keep your damn mouth shut and now Ellie isn’t speaking to me, either. Maybe instead of demanding information and making my sister cry, you should work for it. Quit being an asshole. Get a dog.”
Pettit also won’t talk to me about Ellie, and when I asked, he just shook his head. “You’re not warming my bed at night. Sorry, man. You’re on your own.”
He knows what everyone knows—everyone but me.
Pettit is speaking to me about other things and keeps feeding me all the information he’s gathering on Ellie’s in-laws. The PI they hired must be shit at his job because Pettit seems to know every step he takes.
The Kettemans’ PI has been nosing around admissions at Juilliard, talking to companies she used to dance for on Broadway, and philanthropies she’s served here in the Dallas area.
Pettit assigned one of his guys to trail him. He’s gathered all the information the other guy has and some of it doesn’t look good for Ellie. Seems she went through a phase while she was still dancing and seemed to enjoy a toke here and there. That might’ve been fine if this was today and she lived in a state where blazing is legal, but it wasn’t. It was very much illegal in the state of New York eight years ago.
It’s hearsay, but coupled with the stash they found in her panty drawer, it doesn’t look good and looking good is important when dealing with CPS.
I need to discuss this revelation with my newest and most irritable client, but my current errand takes precedence. I turn onto the dirt road and dust swirls into a storm behind my car. It matches the one brewing in my chest.
I’ve spent the last two days tracking him down. He lost his last county election after a scandal killed his chances. From the sounds of it, it had to do with him interfering with an investigation.
Imagine that.
He got such backlash from the local media, he tucked his tail between his legs and retired even before his last term was up, doing his best to disappear.
I get out, the thick air bearing on me with a force rivaling the bullshit circling my life like a dirty toilet bowl that just won’t stop flushing. When I make it up the wooden, splintered steps and rap on the door, I hear nothing but an old coon dog barking from somewhere inside the house.
Finally, a light flips on, the door creaks open, and the old man peeks through the small space. “Yeah?”
“Ron Logan,” I start and hold out my business card. “Easton Barrett. It’s been a long time.”
“Get back.” He pushes the dog roughly with his foot so he can reach through the door to take my card. He tips his head and I can see the rusty wheels turning, slow and creaky. Narrowing his eyes, he looks back up to me in a way I call bullshit. “Do I know you?”
I show no emotion because he doesn’t deserve any. He at least put my dad away which got him out of our lives for an entire decade. “I don’t know whether to be hurt or pleased that you don’t remember me. You helped put my father, Ray Barrett, away for ten years for cooking meth. You also tried to tie me to his shit when I had nothing to do with it. Ring a bell?”
I see the light come on and he looks me up and down. He’s shorter and balder than I remember, and definitely rounder, which is saying something. The last ten years have not been kind.
“It was a long time ago, but I need to talk to you about that case. You investigated me for months for purchasing high volumes of ephedrine with cash, which I did not do, and my only alibi refused to talk. I want to know what you remember about that.”
He looks down at my card again and frowns. “You’re the lead attorney for Kipp?”
“No.” I don’t add that I’d rather be dirt poor again before lifting a finger for Kipp Montgomery. “I work for his oldest daughter, Jensen. His youngest daughter, Ellie, was my only alibi and she recanted her statement. You’re the one who talked to her while she was in the hospital. I have questions about that.”
He kicks the dog back one more time and steps onto the rickety porch, not that I’d come in if he invited me.
Once he slams the door, he crosses his arms, glaring at me like he has some sort of authority. Not anymore, asshole. He hung his power over my head when I was twenty-two, sitting shell-shocked in his interrogation room, but not today.
