Brood-Robot LLC-Fagin Jones
“You think Ben wrote this?” Nico asks. Before Jenna answers, he adds, “What’s it mean?”
“I have no idea,” Jenna says. “But it lists an LLC, and I know someone who’s an expert at tracking companies and identifying people.”
“Who’s that?” Nico asks.
“An adorable tax lawyer.”
CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX
DONNIE
The rental car is vibrating. Donnie’s foot is to the floor and he hasn’t slowed since he peeled out of the hotel parking lot. His thoughts are swimming, his chest having a hard time capturing air, his knuckles white on the steering wheel. He needs to slow down. Breathe.
He takes controlled breaths, trying to level himself off, trying to stem the panic attack or whatever this is.
He can’t do this anymore. It’s all too much. Benny is gone and nothing he does is going to change that. If Derek Brood wants Donnie dead for what they did, so be it. He’s survived Derek before and he’ll do it again. But he’s spent more than half his life trying to escape what they did that night, and he’ll be damned if he’s going to do it again.
He needs a drink.
He eyes the landscape. There’s a billboard for a strip club off Exit 43. He’s always been popular at the clubs; one of Tracer’s Bullet’s songs is a staple for pole dancers. It’s no “Pour Some Sugar on Me,” but a close second.
He decides against it. The dancers love social media, and he doesn’t need attention right now.
He’s still in the afterglow of his fall—correction, push—off the cruise ship, so there’s a risk paparazzi would notice the posts and show up.
He sees a sign for Lester. There’s gotta be a hole-in-the-wall bar there. Every forgettable drive-over town has a dank bar where patrons mind their own business. He takes the exit and follows the signs into town.
Sure enough, there it is, a bar called Drink. If you insist, he thinks. He parks the car on the street and heads inside.
At the over-glossed bar Donnie orders a Maker’s Mark from the bearded barman. The customers include a barfly who wears too much eyeliner, an old-timer with a face like an old leather shoe, a tattooed guy crouching over his drink like he’s in the prison mess hall. If any of them recognize Donnie, they don’t show it. Donnie takes his drink to a table in the back.
The familiar sting of the whiskey reaches his sinuses and warms his insides. He doesn’t want to think about it all, but he can’t turn off the questions in his head. Will Jenna and Nico and Arty kill another Brood? What about that gal trying to kill them? Will they off her too? Where does it stop?
His mind floats to Benny again. It’s okay, I’m here.
But you’re not here. I’m scared, Benny.
He finishes the drink, walks over, orders another.
On his fourth Maker’s, he’s feeling the familiar soupy sensation in his head. The barfly keeps glancing over, but he’s not in the mood. His thoughts go to Reeves Rothschild, wondering what the writer will make of the fragments of life that he’s shared with the young man. The past few days, he’s opened old sores, exposed some of them to Reeves, and now it feels like they’re infected again.
Maybe his true fear is that when he reads the pages he’ll realize that his career, his life, are a joke, the punch line him falling out of a boat. He closes his eyes, massages his temples with a hand.
When he opens them, there’s a man standing in front of his table. It’s the FBI agent. Rodriguez is his name.
“Can we talk?” he asks.
Donnie considers protesting, telling him to piss off. But instead he kicks the chair opposite, sliding it open a gap, an invitation to sit.
“Get you a drink?” Donnie offers.
Agent Rodriguez shakes his head. “Not while I’m on duty.”
Donnie frowns, downs his Maker’s. “Suit yourself. But I’m getting another.” He stands.
“You know what? Sure, I’ll take a beer.”
“What kind?” Donnie asks.
“Surprise me.”
Donnie returns with two glasses of whiskey. “Surprise!” he says, setting down the drinks.
The FBI agent lets out an exasperated sigh. But he reaches for the drink, takes a sip, winces like it’s rocket fuel.
“I was hoping we could talk,” Rodriguez says.
“Talkin’ is a two-way street, man,” Donnie says. “Last time, our conversation went one way.”
The agent nods, gives a fair enough expression. “You have questions? Ask away.”
Donnie takes a pull of his drink. “All right, who killed Benny?”
“That’s what I’m trying to figure out.”
“I thought y’all made an arrest. One of the criminals he put away.”
“The FBI didn’t make that arrest. Philly PD did. Based on an anonymous tip. They’ve since had to release the suspect.”
Donnie narrows his eyes.
The agent continues, “It looks like a setup. Someone must’ve researched defendants who’d previously threatened Judge Wood. During his sentencing eight years ago, some dipshit threatened the judge, and it was reported in the newspapers. Google Ben’s name and the word ‘threat’ and it’s the first link that pops up.”
“And what? You think whoever killed Benny researched it and dropped a dime on the guy?”
“Looks that way. The guy has an airtight alibi. He was in Kansas City at the time, visiting his brother.”
“So, who, then? That woman in the picture you showed me?”
“Possibly.”
“Who is she?”
“I don’t know.”
“Well, what do you know? You came all the way here for a reason.”
The FBI agent retrieves his phone, shows a photo to Donnie. It’s a skeleton, displayed on a sheet or blanket. The agent swipes his finger and there’s a close-up of the skull, which has a hole in the forehead the size of a quarter with hairline cracks shooting out from its circumference. He swipes again and there are five shell casings that appear to be covered with mud or dirt.
“Damn, who’s that?”
“We’re not sure.”
Donnie shakes his head, puts on his best poker face.
“We had our computer forensic team do a deep dive into Judge Wood’s computer—his phone’s still missing—and they found these photos.”
Donnie tries not to react, but his thoughts trip to what Mia told him: Someone was blackmailing him.
“I don’t understand,” he tells Rodriguez. “Maybe it was from one of his cases or somethin’。”
“We considered that. But there was a message with the pictures. It said there’s DNA from the victim’s teeth and the gun and Ben could purchase it for one hundred K and help fix a case. Two days after receiving these photos, Judge Wood withdrew one hundred thousand dollars from his account.”
Donnie shrugs, tries to look befuddled. “His wife’s rich, so that’s not a lot of money to them.”
Agent Rodriguez frowns.
“So you think whoever sent the photos killed him?”
The FBI agent cocks his head. “I don’t know. But that doesn’t make much sense to me. Why kill him? He withdrew the funds, so it looks like he either paid the blackmail or planned to.”