Page 13 of Nick
“What about Simon Norville? Last I checked, he still has visitor privileges. Gets family visits. Two sisters and one brother are on the visitor logs. He could have hired somebody. Man hates my guts.”
He heard Calvin’s long sigh. “According to the warden, Norville’s been a model prisoner. Never rocks the boat or initiates trouble. Bugger’s got everybody snowed, thinking he’s a little milquetoast, but we both know he’s got the mind of a bloody genius. I have been assured, however, that he still has no access to computers or cellphones, nothing where he’d have access to the internet.”
Nick rolled his eyes at that. “Right. And I believe I’m a little green man dancing around in a tutu. We both know cell phones get smuggled inside practically every day. For every illegal phone the guards confiscate, there are half a dozen more available to the inmates for the right price. One simple phone call or e-mail on a burner phone, and Norville could have access to anything he wanted. He had any visitors lately?”
“You mean besides the Sheilas lining up to see him? The man’s got a bloody fan club. He’s become some kind of online celebrity ever since his arrest. They’ve made him into this Robin Hood of the internet, and we’re the horrible monsters who keep him from doing his good work of stealing from big corporations and spreading the wealth to the little guys. Can you believe this wanker? Making folks believe he’s sharing his ill-gotten gains with everybody and keeping none of the money for himself.”
Nick drew in a long breath, his mind trying to process the fact that women, and probably some men too, were buying the baloney Norville pedaled. There had been a mountain of evidence against him, accumulated over months of painstaking computer work and interviews before they’d been able to track the illegal transactions back to him. The man was smart, he’d give him that. Brilliant, in fact. He’d been illegally funneling money from large corporations and transferring it to charitable accounts. Programs that were meant to help those people who needed it most. Too bad those charities didn’t actually exist but were an elaborate scheme set up by Norville. He ended up bilking corporations of hundreds of millions of dollars.
“What’s your gut telling you, Calvin? Do you think it’s him?”
“Everything I’ve been able to uncover says he’s not our guy. At least on the surface. Could have been Fleming, but the man’s trying to rebuild his reputation with the Hollywood crowd, and he’s keeping his nose clean. Well, other than the cocaine he’s snorting almost daily, but you didn’t hear that from me.”
Nick laughed. He was well aware of Fleming’s nose candy addiction. As much as he tried to hide it, the truth was bound to come out sooner or later. Too many paparazzi and tabloid reporters still dogged his heels, trying to catch him around kids again.
“I’ve discounted Brashear too. He’s locked down tight. I spoke with one of the guards there yesterday, and they said he’s all bluster and no bite. For now, I’m crossing him off my list. He’s a wannabe kingpin but he’s a tiny fish compared to some of the sharks he’s locked up with.” Nick spoke softly, though he wasn’t afraid of anybody overhearing. He knew he’d be telling the Boudreaus anyway. They deserved to know any information he and Calvin uncovered, if only for Antonio’s sake.
“I agree. The others who are out, I’m not feeling them for this. My gut’s telling me it’s Norville. The question is two-fold. How’d he get in touch with a hitman, because I want that leak plug right bloody now. And who took the shot? We need to find them and shut them down before anybody else gets hurt. And by anybody else, I mean you, you blockhead.”
“You do know I can take care of myself, right? I’m a big boy now, Calvin, and can tie my own shoes and brush my teeth without you holding my hand.” Nick’s voice held a teasing note. This was a conversation they’d had many times over the years. To Calvin, Nick would always be the snot-nosed kid he’d rescued, brought into his home where he and his wife had helped raise him, get him past the trauma, and loved him like he was their own son. Something he never forgot. His life might have once been in a whirling cesspool, but he’d been lucky enough to find not one, but two families who’d proven to him that love was real and he wasn’t really alone in this world.
“Shut it, Nick. You’re not too big I can’t whoop you.”
Nick laughed out loud, a belly laugh at the picture that presented. He was a good foot taller than the older man and could probably pick him up with one hand.
“Thanks, dude, I needed that. Listen, keep checking. I’ve got people checking the smaller airports, to see if an out-of-towner might have flown in locally instead of using Houston or Dallas.”
“Good idea. I’ve got Hopkins checking international, seeing if somebody flew from here to Europe or Asia and then backtracked to Texas. Don’t worry, son, we’ll figure this out. Gemma said to tell you she loves you, and to call when you get a chance. She misses you.”
“Miss her too. Give her my love and tell her I’ll be home soon.”
Disconnecting the call, Nick leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees, frustration riding him. He didn’t feel like they were any closer to figuring out this problem than they’d been from day one. But he wasn’t about to give up. Nope, whoever had taken the fateful shot that started this whole debacle had made one single mistake. They’d underestimated the tenacity of a family who loved their children with a ferocity that defied words. And like Nick, the Boudreaus wouldn’t give up until they had the shooter behind bars.
With a sigh, he stood and headed toward the kitchen, ready to update the Boudreaus on his conversation with Grant Calvin, and let them know he wasn’t giving up on finding out who’d shot Antonio.
And it looked like he still had a bull’s eye in the middle of his back. It would be easier to narrow down the suspects if he was home in Australia, but he was reluctant to leave Shiloh Springs just yet. There was something coming, and whether good or bad, he was here until the case was solved.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Gracie hadn’t stoppedshaking since she’d hung up the phone. How had Jeremy gotten her number? It was under her new name, which he shouldn’t have known, and it also was unpublished and unlisted. She’d made sure her carrier knew it wasn’t to be posted anywhere it could be accessed by the public. It was a small measure, but it was the best she could do to keep from being found.
She’d disconnected the call the second she’d heard his voice and fought back the nausea pooling in her stomach. The shakes had given way to pacing, back and forth across her tiny living room and kitchen. Her hands trembled to the point she’d dropped her cell phone twice since she gotten the call. Shoving her phone into her jeans pocket, she continued her pacing across her small apartment.
Somehow, some way, he’d found her. After Alvarez’s call to Rafe earlier that morning, she knew Jeremy was being considered for parole, but to hear his voice, feel the panic roiling deep inside? The need to run, as far and as fast as she could to get away from, him boiled up within her. She took an instinctive step toward her bedroom, ready to grab her go-bag, which she kept under her bed. The one she kept packed and ready in case she needed to leave in an instant. Because that’s what she wanted to do. Run and never look back.
“No,” she forced her feet to keep from taking another step. “Stop being an idiot. No more running. No more hiding. He’s still in prison, he can’t hurt me. There’s no reason to panic. Yet.” She added the last word at an almost whisper.
Remembering her promise to the ladies before they left, she flung herself on the sofa, leaning all the way back until her head rested against its pillowy softness, rubbing the heels of her hands against her burning eyes. She’d sworn to call the Boudreaus if Jeremy or someone who worked with him contacted her, though she’d never considered what she’d do if Jeremy contacted her himself. At the moment, she wanted to gut him like a fresh-caught fish.
Now that she’d had a few moments to calm down, her brain processed the fact he was still in prison. He couldn’t show up on her doorstep, couldn’t intimidate her the way he used to, or control her. She was free of his manipulation and his machinations. Drawing in a ragged breath, she reached into her pocket, pulled out her cell phone, and dialed. It was answered on the first ring.
“Rafe, it’s Gracie.”
“What’s wrong?”
“It’s Jeremy. He—he called me.”
“When? Never mind that. What did he want?”
