Page 96 of Savage Daddies

“Expensive neighborhood.”

“What about it?”

“Are you making money illegally, Mr. Reeves?”

“No.”

“Members of organized crime groups can be punished anywhere from a few years up to a lifetime, depending on the nature of the crimes committed.” The man brings the computer back toward him, and silence rings loud in my ears as he examines the screen some more. “Zoe Fernando, maiden name Warrington, used to be your student, did she not?”

“Yes.”

“Have the two of you ever engaged in sexual activity?”

“No.”

More silence.

He types out something on his laptop, and then closes the lid. “We do not have any satisfactory evidence currently, so you are free to go, but I do caution you, Harrison—tread very carefully.” His eyes find mine, and his face turns grave. “Especially around Felix Fernando.”

Another FBI agent interrupts the intense eye contact, and instructs me to follow him out.

I raise from my chair with just one more question. “Can you tell me what happened to Paul Royal?”

With a nod of approval from his friend at the door, the interviewer answers, “The man had a lot on his plate. He was harboring millions illegally, and used his casino as a front. He killed a whistleblower to avoid the information from being leaked, and then killed himself thirteen months later from guilt.”

I frown. “How do you know this?”

The man’s face turns grave again, adapting the same gray expression. “We’re done here. Peterson, please escort Mr. Reeves to reception and get him signed out of the premises.”

I walk through the long corridor feeling somewhat lighter about the situation now that I’ve been excused.

Bullwhip and Wrangler sit in reception waiting for me. We get the hell out of the station once I get the sign-off, and each take a breath of air.

“That oatmeal sucked ass,” says Wrangler, grimacing as if reliving the memory.

“Almost as much as those feds,” adds Bullwhip.

“You’re the one with the evidence.” I turn my body to face him. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

Bullwhip shrugs way too nonchalantly given the circumstances. “I didn’t take any photos of the documents.”

“What did the documents say, anyway?”

“Not here,” he says. “It’s too busy.”

The station is situated on a road that leads out of the desert. Only two cars have passed by as we’ve been standing here.

“What are you hiding?” I ask him.

“I’m not hiding anything, it’s just the cops are right there.” He throws an arm behind him to point to the station that I don’t feel like returning to…ever.

“Our bikes,” says Wrangler, “are still outside of Felix’s place, by the way.”

“We should go get them,” Bullwhip says.

“That’s if the guy hasn’t already set them all on fire,” I joke, even though chances of that happening are high.

Bullwhip exhales a sigh. “We should listen to the cops. Lie low for a while. I can’t be getting into any more shit, can you? We’re just building a court case at this point.”

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