His question takes me by surprise. “Why?” I ask, not trusting his intentions.
“I need to know.”
“What else would I be doing?” I ask, sarcasm in each syllable.
“Helping them.”
I snort back a laugh. “You think I’m helping them?” I bet Castor wouldn’t think I was helping him, that’s for sure.
“You said you’d do whatever you were paid to do. And, given what I suspect about your past, I don’t think it’s outside the realm of possibility that you’re aiding them.”
I glance over my shoulder toward the kitchen. I doubt Logan can hear us, but I lower my voice anyway, hoping Rhett will take the hint. “Yeah, I do things for money. But I have standards.” Even when I worked for the Vice family I wouldn’t engage in scumbag behavior. And Big Man Vice hated traffickers with a passion. We didn’t do any of that shit.
“What about Shelby?”
“What about him?”
“I have reason to believe he’s working with these traffickers. Lots of reasons, actually. Hard evidence.”
“Bullshit.”
Rhett narrows his eyes. “You know something?”
“I know Shelby’s kid got murdered, and that’s why the man has a vendetta the size of Illinois. I doubt he’d be helping his own kid’s murderers do anything outside of finding a quick grave.”
“His kid?”
“Yeah,” I say. “His son got taken a few decades back. I don’t know where you got your evidence, but it’s questionable at best.”
“It’s legitimate,” Rhett intones. “But maybe there’s a reason for it all.” He gives me a long stare before continuing. “What if I paid you to help me with this? To ask Shelby a few things and record them?”
“Can you do that?” I ask with a chuckle. “Pay me to cooperate?”
“I thought you didn’t ask questions when money was involved?”
I cock an eyebrow. “How much?”
“Five hundred.”
Tsk. Small-time. But I guess asking an old man about his sources isn’t that risky either. “Sure,” I say. “I’ll talk to him.”
“You have something to record him with?”
“Phones do everything these days.”
Rhett reaches into his back pocket and pulls out his wallet. He plucks five hundred-dollar bills and hands the stack over. I offer him a one-sided smile and push the money back.
“You don’t do this very often,” I state with a hint of amusement. “Pay me after the job is done.”
“Given your lengthy track record, I figured there was nothing to worry about.”
I glare at the man. “I’m pretty sure the police don’t have a track record for Percy Adams.”
Rhett laughs and places his hands on his hips. “Look. I’m surprised you didn’t skip town the moment I confronted you, I really am. But it’s only a matter of time. Your new car, eye, and clothes aren’t enough to hide what I already know about you. And men like you eventually slip up. Always.”
“Making threats after we just struck a deal?” I ask. “You really don’t do this very often, do you?”
“I’m trying to be frank. You seem like the kind of guy who appreciates facts over posturing. And I don’t want you to get the impression that we’re business buddies. This is a onetime occurrence.”
“Fine. We done here?”
Rhett stares at the back door and then turns back to me, a pensive expression about him, like he’s just thought of something interesting. “Actually, there’s one other deal I’d like to strike with you.”
“Oh? What’s that?”
“What’s your price to stay away from Miles?”
I ball my hands into fists and glower. “Fuck you.” I turn to leave, but Rhett once again grabs my arm. I’m ready to throw a punch in his direction, but I grit my teeth and hold myself back as I turn to face him.
“You’re gonna slip up,” Rhett repeats, his voice low and threatening. “And I don’t want to see Miles go down with you.”
There’s a burning tightness in my chest when he says all this—what I wouldn’t give for a cigarette. I maintain my forced calm as I say, “Stay away from him.”
I jerk my arm from his grasp and walk through the kitchen without truly seeing my surroundings. Once I’m outside, I allow myself to breathe again. I fucking hate Rhett. Nothing would make me happier than to send him over the side of a bridge.
Someone puts a hand on my shoulder, and I wheel around, ready to fight. Logan flinches back, startled.
“Sorry about that,” he mutters. “I’m here to tell everyone the food is ready.” He waves to the backyard. “Food is up, everyone! Come get it!”
There are at least thirty people at this get-together; a lot more than I thought would be here. They’re all roughly the same age, I would guess in their midtwenties, but some, like Logan, are a little older, while others, like Miles, seem to be tweens. I give them all brief glances as they pass by and then make my way over to Miles. He’s by the barbecue, chatting it up with the guy cooking, but he stops once I get close.
Miles taps the cook on the shoulder. “Lars, this is my boyfriend, Pierce.”
I hate the word boyfriend. Every time he says it I curl my lip in disgust.
The cook turns around and gives me an odd glance. “Did you say boyfriend?” He quickly smiles and offers me his hand. “I, uh, didn’t know you were seeing anyone. I’m Lars. Nice to meet you.”
He’s a small guy, practically a foot shorter than both Miles and I. With a quick nod I say, “Same here.”
Lars gives me the once-over before returning his attention to the food. His brow is furrowed, like he’s worried, and I wonder if I’m giving off some sort of aggressive aura. I try to relax, but it’s easier said than done.
I pull out my cell phone and call Shelby.
Nothing.
I dial his number again.
Still no answer.
“You okay?” Miles asks me.
“Tell me,” I drawl as I dial Shelby a third time, “is it legal for police officers to pay people to be a mole?”
“Uh, yeah. Kinda. They’re called paid informants. I mean, not every officer is authorized to do that, but a police department could
