Page 104 of Things We Left Behind
“I just don’t understand what you can do that a law enforcement agency can’t.”
“I have the budget and resources and technology the government wishes it had. I’m simply sharing some of my toys. By the way,” he said, buttering a piece of bread, “you’ll need to drive me home since I loaned my car and driver to your date.”
“Did you at least bring your wallet?” I asked, picking up my fork again.
17
Too Close for Comfort
Lucian
Duncan Hugo looked significantly the worse for wear since I’d last seen him being led in handcuffs to a police cruiser. The hair he’d died an earthy brown was showing a full inch of natural red root. He’d lost some weight, and the hunch of his shoulders hinted that his time behind bars had relieved him of some of his arrogance. The dark circles under his eyes almost made up for the fact that this was my second prison visit in two days.
This prison was in better shape than yesterday’s, I noted. It wasn’t winning any design awards, but the furniture wasn’t disintegrating, the paint wasn’t lead-based, and there was a faint scent of industrial cleaner throughout the facility. It still made my skin crawl, my tie feel too tight against my throat.
I focused on Nolan, who leaned against the wall, hands in his pockets.
He hadn’t managed to run my business into the ground yesterday, so when he’d insisted on joining me for this little field trip, I hadn’t said no.
I faced Duncan across the table in the interview room the FBI had arranged.
It could have been me, I thought as I studied him. If it weren’t for the Waltons, I could easily have been the one on the opposite side of the table.
Duncan hadn’t had a Simon or a Karen or a Sloane. He’d had a father like mine. That was why I was here.
“I said I wanted to talk to the feds, not some stuck-up dick in a suit,” Duncan said, slumping in his chair like a six-year-old on the verge of a temper tantrum. His baggy orange jumpsuit accentuated the red in his hair and scraggly beard.
“I’m an ex-fed. Does that count?” Nolan asked.
“Didn’t I shoot you?” Duncan asked.
“You missed, shithead. Your pal Dilton got lucky.”
Duncan grunted. “Don’t know which was worse. His aim or his personality.”
I cleared my throat. “Do you know who I am?” I asked Duncan.
His mouth pinched, but he nodded. “Yeah, I know who the fuck you are.”
“Then you can probably piece it together from there. You’ve already talked to the feds on several occasions. Yet you remain essentially useless.”
“So they send Lucian Rollins in here to do what? Break my fucking kneecaps?” He picked up one of the loose cigarettes on the table and lit a match.
Watching Duncan’s thin lips wrap around the filter was enough to make me consider skipping today’s cigarette.
“I’m here to dig into the space between your ears to see if there’s anything useful squirreled away.”
“What the hell else do you assholes want? I gave you drop locations. I gave you names. It’s not my fault if you’re not doing shit about it.”
“The information you provided was street-level. Any gutter rat would know it. It’s almost like you’re holding out or your father didn’t trust you.”
Duncan pulled the cigarette out of his mouth. A tic appeared in his jaw. “What the fuck does it matter? I’m stuck in this shithole for a fuck ton of years.”
“Felix Metzer,” I said.
“Already told that FBI bitch that’s who I bought the list off of.”
“Did she mention that his body was fished out of the Potomac yesterday? The two slugs in his brain indicate it wasn’t a boating accident.”
