Page 64 of Givin' Me Fitz!
He jerked awake, and picked up his phone, staring at the screen. He looked at the bank of camera feeds in front of him, smirked, and moved his hand under the desk. Boyd laughed.
I turned to Mouse. “Now, run them together.”
Spider sighed. “Seriously, prez, what are you trying to prove? We believe you that Boyd might have been involved. Does this prove anything? We’re waitin’ on you to give us direction, Bones.”
I sighed and turned to the three of them. “You want me to do what? We can’t do a damn thing without proof. I want the proof.”
Mouse glanced my way, and I nodded, so he played the two videos at the same time, slowing them down when Boyd reached under the desk and the back door opened. I reached over and rewound the videos, playing them again before I turned to my brothers.
“Anyone dispute what you just saw?” My gaze shot from one to the next.
Finally, Ders stood. “We’re with you. What do we need to do?”
I had Mouse run the two videos together on split screen to show the aftermath of the break-in up until the point where Boyd ran through the building and out the back door where he lifted his foot and kicked the lower panel.
Mouse reached over and stopped the video. “That’s how the door got the dent.”
I turned to my brothers. “Find that motherfucker. He sold us out.”
Spider stood and nodded. “We’ll get him, Bones. What else?”
“Once we get him, and bring his old lady, we’ll decide where to go next.” I needed to talk to my dad about next steps, but at least my brothers knew I wasn’t bullshitting them.
I turned to Spider. “Find Hammer. Where’s Hobie? We need to know what Hammer knew when Boyd hit him up to go to Tumbleweeds. Take Tiny with you.”
My friend nodded and headed out. I needed to get shit in line for when my father arrived. Keller Abbott had expectations of the club, and I was determined to meet them.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Fitz
The day had dragged. Sawyer called to say he would have to cancel dinner and our slumber party that night because something came up with the club, and as disappointed as I was, I understood and didn’t give him shit about it. We were both in demanding jobs and having just returned from several days away from Vegas, I couldn’t fault him.
I was sitting in my bedroom reading a book my parents had given me for my birthday back in the summer when my phone dinged on the table. I picked it up to see a message from Lawry Schatz.
Fitz—call me. Casper
I checked the time on my phone to see it was just after seven in the evening, which meant it was after ten in New York. It had been a few days since I’d asked Lawry to check into a few people for me, and it seemed as though he had news.
I hit the button to call the man, and it rang once. “Hey, man. I’ve got news.”
“What’s up?” I held my breath, not sure if I was ready for whatever he had to tell me.
“TJ Middleton.” Casper told me things I already knew about TJ. Thankfully.
“Okay, no surprises. Jimmy Germaine?”
“Oh, he’s a real prince. He’s got a record in New Jersey. He was a fight promoter in Atlantic City until he was picked up for fixing a match where a local businessman lost an assload of money. He got out on bail, but he left town before he could go to trial. How do you know him?”
“Well, he’s turned up here in Vegas. Best I can tell, he’s working at a gym in town and setting up underground fights. I’m surprised the Atlantic City authorities haven’t caught up to him out here. The guy’s hiding in plain sight.” I’d check into that after I finished talking to Casper.
“Interesting. Anyway, on to Ricky Marlow. He used to be an agent with the ATF. I can’t find anything about what he was doing for them because his file is sealed, which usually means working undercover. It shows he left the office about seven years ago. He worked for them for ten years. You oughta reach out to Dallas St. Michael. He might know the guy or know of him.”
“Good idea. I appreciate the info, Casper. If you can talk your husband into coming to Vegas, dinner’s on me. Talk soon.” I ended the call.
After checking my phone again to see it was twenty to eight, I scrolled my contacts and found Dallas St. Michael’s number. We’d worked a case together when I was still working for Gabe Torrente, and I liked the guy.
He’d recently married a famous chef and was living full time in Vegas, so I called him, doubting he’d be sleeping—though he might be in bed, the lucky fucker. I wondered what Sawyer was doing.
