The meeting room was ahead on the right. Four or five people waited outside the door, bullshitting with each other or checking their phones. Couple of faces looked familiar. Kathi Lee came out of her office, crossed the hall, and entered the meeting room. No staff. An airhead.
A huge, shabby young man stepped away from the others and hurried toward him. Reporter. He carried a microphone and a couple of recorders hung from his shoulder. He held out the microphone when he arrived.
“Josh Shoe. Podcast news.”
Richter didn’t stop.
“Save it for the room.”
The kid walked with him.
“What’s your reaction to the funds found in Grady Locke’s home?”
Richter stopped so quickly his advisor bumped into him. He studied the kid and the microphone.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Richter plowed forward again, wanting to get away. The kid walked with him and kept shoving the microphone at him.
“The one hundred sixty-two thousand dollars found in his home. Mr. Locke says the money belongs to you.”
“Bullshit.”
Richter kept moving. You had to keep moving when these assholes accosted you. Scrambled possibilities spun through his head on a panicked whirlwind. Grady had suffered a heart attack while he was screwing one of his whores. Paramedics discovered the money. The police arrived.
Richter glared at his comms director.
“Do something.”
The kid shoved the microphone closer.
“Is it true you accepted bribes from the Crystal Future Hospitality Group and others to approve their development projects?”
Everyone in the hall heard him. Richter’s comms director tried to push between Richter and the kid, but the kid was as large as a truck.
“Mr. Locke claims Rachel Bohlen was murdered to protect your arrangement with Chow Wan Li and others. Is it true?”
“Fuck you. This is bullshit.”
His advisor shouted.
“Security!”
The kid stayed with him like a bulldog clamped to his neck.
“Mr. Locke admitted these things, Councilman. He confessed. Is he telling the truth?”
Motherfucker!
Sanford Richter escaped into the nearest office. His comms director and advisor clambered in behind him, slammed the door, and held it. Sanford heard them babbling but paid no attention.
Grady Locke.
Fucking Grady.
Richter clawed the phone from his pocket, shaking so badly he dropped it. He was scared to call Locke, and scared not to call. Grady could be with the police. He might be cutting a deal and fucking Richter and the rest of them.
Fucking Grady.
Fucking Chow and the simp, Tarly.
Richter had to find out.
He made the call.
58
Grady Locke
The door to his loft looked fine. It wasn’t cracked, battered, or knocked off its hinges. The knob and dead bolt face appeared undamaged and the jamb wasn’t split. Locke feared he might find it open, but the door was closed, locked, and perfectly normal.
Only the alarm had gone off.
Front door breach.
Grady unlocked the dead bolt, unlocked the knob, and stepped inside. He made sure the alarm was off, then closed and locked the door before turning to enter the living room.
Grady stopped, and listened for movement.
He heard nothing, so he continued. He moved deeper into the cavernous living room, listening harder, and suddenly froze in place as if struck by a bolt of cold lightning.
A painting stood against the wall above the bar. One of those things Skylar did. A graphic art painting three feet tall and a foot and a half wide filled with text messages. Grady recognized it the instant he saw it. He had seen the messages before.
Grady Locke murmured, “Holy shit.”
The phone was his. Initials identified the person he’d been texting. HT. Horton Tarly.
HT: Dropping off 60K. C U in 5.
GL: WTF??? Now???
HT: SR said send it. Chow sent it. WTF?
GL: UR early.
HT: This btw SR and Chow. U want it or not?
HT: I’m here.
HT: GRADY!! I’m standing here with a bucket of CASH. Buzz me in.
GL: ok
They knew about the paintings. They knew about the photographs she’d taken of his texts. Grady knew the cash was gone even before he opened the cabinets. The empty chicken bucket sat upside down on the bar.
He lifted down the painting, placed it on the dining table, and ran to his bedroom. He ran past the open nightstands and into the closet. Gone. Open shoeboxes littered the floor. The sock drawer and underwear drawers hung open. His sport coats and suit jackets were a jumbled heap. He dropped to his knees and frantically checked the pockets. Gone. His cut and Richter’s cut, gone.