Page 66 of Deadly Avarice
“Bit of advice, don’t wait too long. If you’ve found someone to put up with our shitty hours and even shittier cases, then that person’s a keeper. You lock that person down, pronto.”
It was my turn to chuckle. “Yes, ma’am. Message received and understood.”
“Good man, O’Hare. I’m here if you need me. You’ve got the state’s attention and any resources we can spare. Get this scum off the street.” I liked the note of steel backing up those words.
“Promise I’ll do my best,” I answered.
“That’s all any of us can ask. Stay safe, Detective O’Hare. I like you, and I don’t get to say that often enough.” Decatur ended the call, and I set my phone aside before pulling open a nearby drawer. I’d printed out a few engagement ring options. I fully intended to speak with Warlock Holland regarding a wedding ring. I wanted something more than what was locally available—something with more magical punch. Something that would help protect the man I loved.
Eleven thirty-five rolled around and, true to her word, Detective Decatur sent me what was known about Dustin Boggman, a.k.a., Boggs. The jackass had a shitty name. I didn’t think Boggs was much of an improvement. If the snort Becks sent my way when I gave her the name was any indication, neither did she.
I pulled up the file and began reading. The information was sparser than I’d like and so far hadn’t given me much more than Becks had already found out once I got her a name. Born Dustin Boggman, Boggs was a local. He’d grown up in a suburb of Tupelo and moved farther south sometime after graduating high school. I was kind of surprised he’d managed to get that far in his education. That wasn’t exactly judgmental; it was experience. Boggs had been in and out of jail a few times, but he always seemed to evade anything heavy. The guy had a way of slithering out of sticky situations. It seemed like there was always someoneelse he rolled on that took the bigger hit while Boggs walked with a deal.
Boggs went quiet about seven years ago. On the surface, it looked like he’d finally cleaned up his act and got his life straight. In reality, he’d just gone deeper underground. Boggs had lackeys that did his dirty work and took the risks while he pulled the strings. Boggs was the proverbial head of the snake and needed chopped ASAP.
I searched the records for any hint of family. Family could be a weak spot. Not always, but it happened often enough that it was worth a shot. Family sometimes knew what hole the snake had nested in. Unfortunately, there wasn’t much. Boggs’s mother took off and had been MIA since he was four. Boggs’s father died fourteen years ago. There was a sibling. One older brother who died five years ago. There was no record of marriage, children, aunts, uncles, grandparents, or anyone else. For all intents and purposes, Boggs was a man without familial connections.
The file was disappointing. I wasn’t sure if it was so thin because Detective Decatur truly hadn’t had time to do a deep dive into the man or if there simply wasn’t anything to find. With that in mind, I headed to Becks’s desk. The list of necromancer mother names had definitely taken a backseat to our current case.
“Got anything interesting?” I asked while heavily sitting in a nearby chair.
Becks let loose a low, frustrated growl. “Not much. It’s not that Boggs is a ghost. I can find you bank accounts—far too modest accounts,” Becks said, her eyes narrowed with suspicion. “I can also get you a home address, but I doubt that’s where he truly lives.”
“Why do you say that?” I leaned closer, trying to get a glance at Becks’s computer screen but she stubbornly blocked me out.
“Easy. The guy’s not an idiot,” Becks huffed. “Oh, I’m sure that’s where his mail is delivered and that’s what’s on his driver’s license and such, but that’s not where he washes his dirty laundry.” With a shrug, she added, “I suppose he might actually live there at least some of the time, but it’s not truly his home.”
I understood. Home wasn’t simply a brick-and-mortar structure. Home was where your soul hung its hat. Boggs’s soul wasn’t clean enough to find solace in such a quaint, conventionally modest house.
“Any ideas where he’s really operating out of?”
Becks cocked her head to the side and answered, “Maybe. I’ve got a nagging thread I’d like to pull on a little harder. Nothing concrete yet. Give me until the end of the day, tomorrow if something else jumps to the priority list.” We both knew that could happen.
“Thanks, Becks.” I stood and placed a hand on her shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze and earning me a smile wide enough to show pristine, white teeth.
“Anytime, O’Hare.” Stretching her arms, Becks intertwined her fingers, cracking her knuckles.
“God, that sounds awful.” I shivered. The sound was like nails on a chalkboard to me.
“But it feels oh so good.” Becks’s laughter followed me back to my desk.
Heavily sitting, I checked my phone and saw I had a missed text from Boone followed by a missed call. My brow furrowed with worry. I didn’t like the double contact this close together. The text was a simple,I’m home. When I checked my voicemail, there was nothing. Quickly pulling up Boone’s number, I hit the send button. Thankfully, he answered after the first ring.
“Franklin?” I hated the hesitant quiver in Boone’s voice.
“What’s wrong?” I immediately asked. “Did something happen? Are you hurt?” My memories of Warlock Holland’sphone call, telling me Boone had been run off the road and shot at, flooded my mind and made my heart race. I was already reaching for my coat and keys, ready to bolt from the precinct.
“I’m fine, at least physically.”
My butt was halfway out of my chair when those words sank in. “I need more explanation, Boone. Did something happen with your client or the deceased?” My ass hit my chair, but I remained tense and ready to spring into action.
Boone blew out a breath. “No, that was fine. Better than fine actually.” I tried to wait as patiently as possible but my anxiety was still high. Boone’s next words pushed me a little further up that anxiety slope. “I got a call from Tenzen Huxley.”
I swallowed hard. “What did the director have to say?” While I might not know the words spoken, I already knew I wouldn’t like their implication. I’d like to say I was wrong, but by the time Boone was done summarizing the gist of the phone call, my hands were clammy and my skin felt cold.
“How does he know what happened?” Boone asked. “Did he call you again? Or maybe Pops?”
“He didn’t call me, and I certainly didn’t inform Huxley. As for Holland, I can’t imagine he did either.” I’d spoken to Holland recently and he hadn’t mentioned it. While Boone’s pops and I might not always see eye to eye, we easily agreed on one important thing—Boone’s safety.
