I sat opposite him. “I’ll do what I can. If you tell me what’s going on.”
He glared at me, his bravado coming back. I was about to explain things more clearly for him when the shadow appeared on the patio, cool and smooth and noiseless. I had a moment of panic, but then the shadow knocked. Oliver jumped, and I exhaled in relief.
“That’s Trey,” I said. “And if he’s knocking, he’s coming in peace. So you sit very still while I let him in, and we’ll see what he has to say.”
Trey was remarkably calm, considering. He’d given up on the cheap jacket and had his white shirt unbuttoned at the throat, no tie. Sleep had restored his cognitive capacity, and even if his temper remained prickly, he was willing to hear Oliver out. I knew this was only because every word of the conversation was being recorded, but still.
He put his back to the wall and faced Oliver. “What happened last night?”
Oliver shook his head. “I’m not talking until I get WITSEC.”
Trey’s jaw tightened. “I told you, I cannot—”
“Then you get nothing. And the bad guys keep on being bad.”
“Mr. James—”
“Mr. Seaver. I know my rights. WITSEC or nothing.” He smiled behind the wreath of smoke. “Tick tock.”
Trey started to reply, but I held up my hand. He inclined his head, shifting the lead my way.
I smiled at Oliver. “In that case, it’s nothing. You know why? Because we don’t need you or your testimony. We already know everything we need to know, and we learned it from the Buckhead Burglar himself, who knew more about this mess than anyone imagined, and who is now in the custody of the Atlanta Police Department. You can check yourself, if you wish. But while you waste your time verifying things, the bad guys are, as you explained, out there cooking up badness. And while you do have some leverage, it’s got an expiration date.” I smiled wider. “So tick tock yourself, Oliver.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Trey fold his arms. He said not one word, knowing better than most how to work a silence.
Oliver closed his eyes and sighed. “The men who stole the cars work for the men who run the underground poker game we go to.”
“We?”
“Quint and me.” He sucked at the cigarette. “Quint’s deep in the red, and not for the first time. Last year, he decided to cook the Talbot Creative books to relieve some of the heat. A series of fake vendors, one of the older tricks in the book. I spotted the ruse instantly.”
“And you blackmailed him?”
He looked stunned. “What? No! I never blackmailed anybody! I did, however, let him bribe me to keep quiet. And I taught him how to work the numbers with more finesse.”
“What about your own debts?”
“I played for fun, cut my losses. Quint? He chased it like heroin, right down the rabbit hole. Atlantic City, Reno, Vegas. Atlanta hit him hardest. Six figures.”
This was a common occurrence, and not just in Atlanta. Big city rollers came down South thinking the tables were run by hayseeds. They figured it would be easy pickings, maybe a little low-rent, but profitable. They usually got their asses handed to them.
Oliver continued. “So Quint made a deal. He offered the gamerunners corporate shares in Moonshine as collateral.”
“He can do that?”
“He’s an executive producer. He can do whatever he wants. With the proper tools, of course.” Oliver waved the cigarette. “Have you ever seen a studio contract? It’s a maze, a tangle of legalese and loopholes. You can make money appear and disappear at will, depending on how you define your terms. Back end deals. Gross versus net. Shares versus stock.”
“Can you prove this?”
“Of course. You met them at the party. The three men at Quint’s elbow all night. Well, until the unfortunate surprise nuptials cut the event short.”
I remembered them from the photo shoot too. Three men, well-groomed. Important investors, Bree had said, especially interested in Portia. Especially keen on talking to Quint.
“Racketeers take movie studio shares as collateral?”
“They’ll take anything of value, hence the vanishing of Quint’s Jaguar. And my own vehicle, the sons of bitches.” The cigarette shook between his fingers. “But the shares are legit, a very solid investment. They know that. They also know that without Portia, the series will tank. So they want guarantees that she’s staying.”
“Which Quint can’t provide.”
“Of course he can. Portia’s still under contract, so if she ever wants to work in Hollywood again, she’s not going anywhere unless Quint lets her go. Which he is most decidedly not doing.”
“Is that why he ramped up the script schedule? To assure his investors that Mad Luna Malone remained a part of the series?”
“Yes.” Oliver put the cigarette to his lips and spoke around it. “Quint’s tapped out. He’s emptied his own savings, emptied the company. Emptied Nicky’s accounts too. It’s quicksand, and as soon as Addison gets access—which will be any day, now that they’re married—the whole shebang comes crashing down.” Oliver shook his head. “Quint’s destroyed Talbot Creative, and he knows it. All the embezzlement, all the laundering—”
“That you helped him do.”
“I never said I was innocent. But these people coming after us are stone cold killers. They murdered Jessica, then they tried to kill Nicky, and—”
I waved a hand at him. “Wait wait wait…what did you just say?”
Chapter Fifty
Oliver let the smoke trickle out the corner of his mouth. “You heard me. They killed Jessica. What, you think this is the first time Quint’s gone into arrears? Please.”
Trey stared. He was calmer than I’d expected, but I could see the turmoil in his face, sharpened by that irresistible need to know, to understand, and to punish. He was close, and he could taste it.
He stepped forward. “Why Jessica? She was Nick’s wife, not Quint’s.”
Oliver stubbed out his first cigarette in a wine glass, pulled the crumpled pack from his pocket. “They were having an
