Page 188 of American Hellhound
The perimeter cameras had captured headlamps passing back and forth no less than five times in the wee hours. They never stopped. But on one pass, Ghost saw a flash of movement, something dark landing in the grass along the curb.
“There,” he said, and Ratchet paused the video. “They dropped something.”
Ratchet called to Harry, who took off to retrieve whatever it was.
“You think this is gonna work?” Roman asked. “Your little gossip column routine?”
“ ‘Work’ makes it sound like that’s the only part of my plan,” Ghost said. “Which it isn’t, by the way.”
“It’s not?” He was just being a shit at this point.
“Nope. In a little bit, we’re gonna take a ride and go see a guy about some cocaine.”
Roman’s brows jumped. “We?”
“Yep. You think I’m gonna leave you around here unsupervised?”
Harry returned, out of breath from hurrying, a circle of black iron in his hand. “I found this,” he said, handing it off to Ghost. “No idea what it is.”
It had a clasp that locked with a key, and a little loop. It looked like a…
Roman set his coffee down, face pale.
…like a collar. An iron dog collar. Except, Ghost knew it had never been around a dog’s throat.
“Kris?” he guessed.
Roman nodded. “He left that for me. He wants her back. Both of them.”
“Yeah, well, he’s gotta get through me, first. Finish that.” He pushed his chair back. “And stop looking so freaked out. He’ll make fun of your ass.”
“Who will?”
Ghost smiled. “You’ll see.”
~*~
The first time he’d come to the opulent funeral home/kingpin headquarters, Ghost had been in the position Roman was in now: staring, taking it all in with quiet shock. Ghost thought he’d probably been less obvious about it, though. Roman had never mastered the Duane Teague Art of Nonchalance. Not the way someone blood-related to the man could.
“When Josephine said ‘Teague,’ I hoped she meant the other one,” Ian said as they settled into chairs across the desk from him. “Still. Good to see you, Kenneth.”
“Yeah,” Ghost said with a snort. “Flatter me how ‘bout it.”
Ian grinned, the expression a feral contrast to his immaculate blue suit and artfully rumpled white shirt.
If Ghost was honest, he could tell a difference in the guy since Carla Burgess’s death. He would always be lean, his dancer’s physique natural, but his face seemed fuller, his skin brighter, the dark circles beneath his eyes gone. His teasing grin had lost some of its mocking cruelty; he looked truly pleased to see Ghost, hands linked on top of his desk.
“Who’s your handsome friend?” he asked, cutting a glance toward Roman.
Roman’s eyebrows jumped and Ghost bit back a grin.
“I wouldn’t say ‘friend,’ exactly. He’s here so he doesn’t get into trouble on his own.”
“Ah.”
“I wanted to ask what you know about this.” Ghost reached into his cut and produced a small envelope of powder he’d taken from the brick Badger’s crew had left in the hotline caller’s barn. He slid it across the desk and Ian looked at it a moment before touching it.
Slowly, like it might burn him, he opened the flap and then dumped the contents onto his blotter. A few grams of white powder. He frowned at it, consolidated it into a tiny pile with a fingertip. “Hmm.” He licked the end of his pinky, dabbed up a bit of the stuff, and rubbed it across his gums. Made a face. “Cut with baking powder. And quite a lot of it.”
