Page 140 of Long Gone

He gave me an apologetic look. “Sorry we’re meeting under these circumstances.”

“You’re not the person I was expecting to see,” I admitted. “Kudos for the misdirect.”

“Still, you were getting too close.” He dragged a wooden chair from the wall so it was a few feet in front of me and sat down. “I see you found Hugo’s body. You were modest when you said you hadn’t found much.”

I shrugged, then regretted it, but steeled my face so he couldn’t see my pain. “No one likes a braggart.”

“True.” He leaned forward. “Did you find the money?”

“You mean the money that was transferred to your offshore account?”

He shook his head. “No money was transferred to my account.”

“You’re trying to tell me you didn’t kill Hugo for the money?” I asked in disgust. I was starting to see two of him, and I was struggling to figure out which one to focus on.

“Of course I killed him for the money,” he snapped in disgust. “And also for revenge. That man was running around like he hadn’t stolen my money. He had to learn you don’t cross Skip Martin.”

If Skip wasn’t behind the transfer, who was?

“I guess he didn’t learn it for very long,” I said. “Maybe not at all since he was shot in the back of the head. Did he even know it was coming?”

“Oh, he knew it was coming all right. And you’re correct, he didn’t live with his lesson for long, but long enough that he pissed his pants, cried like a baby, and begged for his life. I took satisfaction in that before I put the bullet in the back of his head.”

“Funny,” I said. “I didn’t think you had it in you to kill someone. I figured you’d left that to Pete Mooney.”

Surprise washed over his face, then he chuckled. “You really were modest about what you found.” He leaned back in the chair and spread his legs wide, resting a handgun I hadn’t noticed on his right thigh. “Mooney was an idiot who thought he was the favored one.” He shrugged. “I suppose he was. Until he wasn’t.”

Then a new thought emerged through the sludge of thoughts in my head. “Did you kill Pete Mooney?”

He laughed. “No, but I’m sure he outlasted his usefulness.”

“So you worked with J.R. Simmons?”

“Are you asking if I was one of his Twelve?” His jaw set with disgust. “No. He never found me good enough, but then I guess Simmons got what was coming to him in the end.”

“One of the twelve?” I asked in confusion.

“I figured you’d know about the Twelve since you’re working with Malcolm.” He drew in a breath. “J.R. had twelve men spread across the state, ruling their own empires but tithing to him. He set the Twelve up in their sections and they had to do J.R.’s bidding when he asked.”

I shook my head and instantly regretted it as pain shot from one temple to the other. “What does that have to do with Malcolm?”

He laughed again. “You idiot, Malcolm was one of the Twelve.”

His image came back together, then split apart again. A wave of nausea hit me, and I leaned to the side and threw up part of my dinner.

Disgust covered his face. “Gross.”

“I think I have a concussion, so I’m not going to apologize,” I said, wishing I could wipe my mouth with the back of my hand.

He looked like he wanted to douse me with water, not that he had any to use.

“So why am I here?” I asked. I’d gotten my confession, not that it would do me much good if he killed me before Malcolm showed up. “Why keep me alive instead of letting your assholes kill me at the scene of the accident?”

“Because,” he said, “I need to know who took the money.”

“I already told you I don’t know. I thought it was you.”

“And I told you it wasn’t me.”

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