George’s dark eyes flared briefly.
“I knew the BMW from Junior’s funeral. I saw him. It was Nerone.”
“You were at the cemetery? With the feds?”
“Not with them, on my own. . . . I wanted to figure out a way to get to you . . . to tell you about Milo. . . . Your guy chased me through a cornfield. He tried to run me . . . off the road.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You know Contessa . . . Hart’s girlfriend . . . she died in her apartment. . . . They tried to make it look like a suicide.”
George’s fleshy lips parted, as if he hadn’t known that, either. I sensed he was back on his heels, so I kept going.
“Milo killed Contessa . . . because she could prove to you he was an informant.”
“No, that’s not why. Something else is going on.” George shook his head, and blood dripped from his lower lip. He straightened with a grunt, returning his tissue to his pocket. “I know Milo’s a snitch. Whose idea do you think it was?”
“Yours?” I asked, astonished. “Milo was playing the FBI . . . for you?”
George didn’t reply, but I couldn’t process it fast enough, trying to refit the pieces of the puzzle, and all of a sudden, it struck me.
“Milo is playing you.”
“Ya think?” George motioned me to stand. “Get up.”
I tried to get my legs under me, but fell back again. George shuffled over, grabbed me by the arm. He started to hoist me up, and I finally got my feet under me, bringing me to his level, then I felt rage from deep within me.
“George, you’re responsible for my daughter’s murder. Milo fired the gun, but you sent him.”
“No, I didn’t. I didn’t kill your daughter.”
“I didn’t kill your son.” We faced each other, two grief-stricken fathers, barely able to stand. Every inch of my body was in pain, but I saw a way to get out of this alive. “George, take off these handcuffs. We need to sit down and sort this—”
“Were you an altar boy?”
“Yes, why?”
“It shows.” George motioned to the thugs, and I felt panicky, so I went for broke.
“What’s the point . . . of killing me? How much time . . . do you have left anyway?”
George’s dark gaze shot to me. I heard the thugs coming from behind. I knew it was my last chance, so I took a flier.
“Milo killed Junior . . . because he wants your business. He knows you’re dying, he’s waiting you out. You just going . . . to let him take everything you worked for? I can help you . . . stop him.”
“Why would you?” George asked, his eyes narrowing. He halted the thugs with a hand signal.
“You said, ‘Something else . . . is going on.’ If Milo’s not working for you . . . he’s working for somebody else. That makes him a threat to my family . . . as long as he’s alive.”
George lifted an eyebrow, appraising me anew. “Not such an altar boy, after all, eh?”
Chapter Fifty
The cabin walls were paneled, and the windows small, so it was dim inside. There was a living room that had a galley kitchen along the left wall with a round wooden table, and on the right, a plaid couch flanked by end tables with cheap lamps. There was no clutter, so I assumed it hadn’t been used in a while. There was one bedroom and a bathroom that I had cleaned myself up in.
I sat at the kitchen table, in pain. My head throbbed. My right cheek was swollen, and there was a cut over my right eye. My side hurt every time I moved—a bruised rib or two, I figured. I had cuts and bruises on my face, but none required stitches.
George retrieved a bottle of Macallan from the cabinet, then set down two shot glasses decorated with black palm trees spelling out Montego Bay. He uncorked the whiskey bottle and filled my glass first, which I took as an apology for aggravated assault.
I downed the shot, ignoring the twinge in my shoulder. The whiskey burned, but I had no idea how much I needed the drink until it was gone.
George downed his shot, then sat down across from me. “I’ll tell ya one thing. You got balls.”
“You kicked the shit out of them, too.”
George snorted. “You’re a funny guy.”
“My wife thinks so.”
George poured us another shot. “I have a month, tops. It’s pancreatic.”
“I’m sorry,” I heard myself say.
“No you’re not.”
“I am until you get Milo.”
“Now, that’s funny.” George smiled, then downed his second shot. “I had a good run. My wife’s gone. My son, even my dog. I’m sixty-six. Nobody retires in my business. If it’s cancer, you won.”
This is how.
“So you believe me, that I didn’t kill Junior.”
“You wouldn’t come if you had. I knew you were telling the truth about Milo being a snitch.” George sighed, holding the shot glass between his thick thumb and forefinger. “I practically raised that boy. He worked for me a long time.”
“How long?”
“Fifteen years. I took him in from his junkie mom.” George shook his head, his face falling into resigned folds. “For what it’s worth, I didn’t send him or Junior out the night your daughter was killed. I didn’t know it happened until after. I was home, puking my guts out. Nowadays that’s what I do, that and go to doc appointments. MRIs, CAT scans, bloodwork. I gave up day-to-day operations a month ago. I let Junior run it with Milo.”
“You make it sound like a corporation.”
“It’s a business like any other.”
“It sells death and crime.”
“Cigarette companies sell death. Drug companies sell rehab.” George shrugged. “Anyway, I had to step off to give Junior his due. I was grooming him for the top spot, but the diagnosis sped everything up. He didn’t consult with me. His mistake was he trusted Milo, too.”
I believed him because it rang true. “What about the double homicide in Jennersville? You didn’t know about that?”
“No.”
“Why did they do it? Was it because those two guys were stealing?”
“That’s what Milo told me, after. Now I know it was a lie. He set Junior up.” George shook his head. “Milo was the first one I told about my diagnosis. I didn’t even tell Junior first.”
I tried to get on track. “What’s Milo’s relationship like to Hart?”
“Hart and Milo are close. I’m close to Milo and Junior. I was.” George poured us another whiskey, and I could see grief ambushing him, coming for bad guys and good guys alike.
“Something must’ve been going on between Milo and Hart. I don’t know what.” I tried to think out loud. “I’m guessing if Hart has some dirty work, he gets Milo to do it.”
“That could happen.”
“If that’s happening, Milo doesn’t tell you, does he?”
“Hell, no.”
“Has he ever done anything like that before?”
“Not that I know.”
“So we have to wonder why would he do it now.” I mulled it over. “With you getting sick, things are unstable, isn’t that right?”