Page 75 of What's Left of Us

“I know you’re interested,” he says, and even with my back turned, I know he’s directing it at me. “Because it has to do with your old buddy. What was his name? Conklin. Yeah, Matt Conklin. He came to see me a while ago about what I knew.”

Dickers clears his throat. “What kind of information, Welsh?”

“If I talk, I want a deal, or else you ain’t getting shit from me.”

The guy could be lying, which is likelier than him actually knowing something about my ex-wife’s father. Welsh associates with lower-level dealers in the area to get his heroin fix, not businessmen who own multi-millions-dollar companies.

But I’ll play the nice guy for now. “Look, bud. We’re not at liberty to promise you anything, even if you give us something good. We’ll still have to charge you for the criminal possession and assault second.”

Welsh leans his back against the wall and stretches his legs out as best he can with the shackle around his ankle.

“If you can provide us information on Del Rossi that we deem credible, you’ve got a chance at lowering or dropping some of your charges though,” I add. I don’t mention Conklin. As far as I’m concerned, Welsh doesn’t deserve to even utter his name.

The guy is a well-known perp in the system, mostly for drugs and domestics, which means there are more things for him to lose if the judge decides he’s had enough chances to clean up hisact. So maybe he does have something up his sleeve that could help his case. Doesn’t mean I’m going to wake up one of the other investigators over something that’s probably bullshit.

“So, Welsh.” I rest the side of my arm against the wall and cross them over my chest until the fabric of my button-down stretches over my shoulders. “Why should I believe a word you’re saying?”

He’s oddly silent for somebody who was willing to sing like a canary only moments ago. If he does know something, he could be weighing his options and the consequences. If the wrong people find out he was talking to us, he could wind up six feet under like other snitches tend to.

“Word on the street says you’ve got a lot invested in the Del Rossi’s business,” Welsh says, nodding his chin toward my bad shoulder with a smug look on his face. “At least that’s what it seemed like when Conklin came to me asking questions. Something tells me you wouldn’t be entertaining me right now if you weren’t a little bit interested in what I have to say about him and Del Rossi,Detective.”

My eyes narrow at his tone. It could be deductive reasoning that he knows my title—I’m not in a uniform like road patrol officers are. I get to wear suits. Nicer clothes that don’t make my balls sweat in the wool that the state tortures us with year-round. But Welsh isn’t that smart.

He’s being fed information on me.

Question is, by who?

When the news reported on the shooting, they hadn’t gone into the specifics of where I’d been shot or what my title was within the state. They’d focused on Conklin’s untimely demise and noted the other law enforcement agent in critical condition.

Welsh is letting me know he’s got an in with somebody who knows all the right details.

“Guess you better talk,” Dickers tells Welsh, sitting on the edge of the desk in front of the bench Welsh is shackled to.

Welsh isn’t paying attention to Dickers, though. He’s staring directly at me. “Your friend asked me who I was getting my supply from. I wasn’t willing to talk to him then.”

Then why is he willing to now? “What makes you so interested in being the one who talks now?”

Welsh’s nostrils flare. “Because they’re everywhere. Always watching. Always listening. Always waiting. I can’t fucking stand it. They show up and talk to my girl when I’m gone too.”

“Who is ‘they’?” Dickers asks, picking up a notepad from the desk. “Give us a name.”

Dickers and I sit silently, waiting for him to tell us.

Welsh’s eyelid tremors get worse. “I only have one. Little J. He gets his shit from the city. He knows a guy who knows a guy.”

Isn’t that always how it works? “So this guy is your dealer? What does he have to do with Del Rossi? I don’t like my time being wasted.”

“He said he had a big clientele list,” Welsh tells me. “That Del Rossi was cutting into some of the supply and not paying full cost for it. Little J told me he didn’t want to be punished for Del Rossi’s addiction. That his boss was going to blame him for the money not counting right.”

I suspected from past interactions that Del Rossi used. But I need to play dumb and let him confirm it. “That doesn’t make any sense. Why would Del Rossi take the drugs?”

“Little J said he looked like he needed to take the edge off.” Welsh shrugs. “But how the fuck am I supposed to know? J never said anything more about it. Just that Del Rossi was going to screw him over if he wasn’t careful.”

Dickers and I share a skeptical look.

“Who is Little J?” I ask him. It’s not uncommon for dealers to go by nicknames. I’ve arrested a guy named Shorty too manytimes to count. Then there’s Mr. Hush, who was dumb enough to get a custom license plate made with the name that basically advertised that he was a goddamn dealer.

Welsh sniffles, using his shoulder to wipe his running nose. “You already know who he is. Your buddy knew damn well who he was by the time he tried getting the info out of me.”

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