Page 86 of The Grave Artist
“Okay. Let’s talk about that site on the dark web where you brokered your last deal.”
“You mean the job that landed me in here?” When Ryan nodded, Judd said, “That site was taken down.”
“I know. What I want are the names of other pros who used sites like that for pickup jobs.”
“Well, that’s quite a few people. Gotta give me more to go on.”
“Was there anyone who specialized in staging a hit to look like something else?”
“There was one dude had been a medic. He could get this shit that made people look like they had a heart attack. And somebody else we called the mechanic. He knew how to make brakes fail without cutting the line. That didn’t usually kill you, you know, airbags and everything, but then he’d follow ’em in his car and break their necks after. Oh, and he could also make an engine explode and it looked like a bad gas line. The guy was a freaking genius.”
Selina felt bile rising to the back of her throat as she listened to Judd’s recitation of—and admiration for—how ruthless killers ended people’s lives. She detected no sign of remorse, judgment or any other emotion as he spoke. He might have been discussing players with varying degrees of skill on a sports team.
Ryan pressed for more. “How about making the death look like a suicide?”
A long pause. “Now you’re getting into very specific territory. That’s hard to pull off. Cops like yourself and coroners, they’re trained to catch that. But if you can do it, it’s a fucking good cover. The vics are usually involved in something that could ruin their lives, so everybody’s more inclined to believe they offed themselves. I know this one asshole who was good at it. How was it done?”
“A jumper.”
“Oh. Him.”
She saw her own shock reflected in Ryan’s face as he urged, “Keep going.”
“Tossing people out the window was his signature move, and before you ask—yeah, he advertised on a dark website.”
“What’s his name?”
“Now see, Detective, that reminds me of the favor I need. The thing about last week? My cellmate? He got a little familiar, so I had to remindhim to behave himself. Simple little correction. The screws didn’t see it that way. And they’re gonna send me to some supermax.”
“The Q?”
“Naw, someplace else.” He paused. “I’ve been to one of those before. Didn’t like it. I like it here.”
“You don’t want to be separated from your crew. You’ll have to start all over in another place to run your hustles.”
“Hm. That’s a cynical way to put it. Let’s say a home is a home.”
“I’ll be straight with you,” Ryan said. “I can’t make any guarantees.”
“You got cred, Hall. You’re young, but your word is good. Probably you’ll find somebody who’ll listen. All I want.”
“Okay.”
“Say it.”
“I’ll talk to the DA and DOC about keeping you here instead of sending you to supermax. Now spill.”
“I don’t have a name to give you.”
“Then you’ll be on the next prisoner transport bus, Judd. We don’t have anything more to talk about.”
“Hold on. I just mean hisrealname. I’ve got his handle. Sweeney. And where he hangs. Or used to. It’s a bar in North Hollywood called Paquito’s. A bartender named Nando works every night. He can hook you up with him.”
“Give me something on Nando. Pressure point.”
Silence for a moment from Judd. “He wants to buy the bar from the owner. To make extra money, he over-orders the booze, then waters it down and lines his pockets with the difference in cost. Oh, and he’s an asshole.”
“The last one kind of went without saying.”
