The guy thought he was an expert. So smug.
He walked off and sank down onto a black leather sofa looking all pleased with himself. Kelly narrowed her eyes and ground her teeth together before counting to ten under her breath. Okay, you can do this. She got up and joined him on the sofa leaving a wide gap between.
“OK, so what do you know?”
“Her son was one of the first murder victims. Yeah, some say the case got to her and that’s why she left the Chronicle. Others think she got too close and this guy you’re looking for isn’t the angel these witnesses make him out to be but has ties to the mob. You see, when I was looking into the case, I managed to talk to a source of mine down at SFPD, and rumor has it there was a big shootout between the cops and mobsters down at Pier 1 and among those they brought in was some guy who they did a deal with for immunity.”
“Immunity?”
He drained his bottle and clicked his fingers to get the bartender’s attention. The guy ignored him and Kelly smiled. “Yeah. So, like I said, the chances of you finding this mystery man are slim to none and even if you do, I wouldn’t be surprised if you find out that he’s more demon than angel. And you know what? They never did find that money that went missing.” Zach twisted in his seat frustrated that the barman wasn’t tending to his every whim. “Hey bartender. What’s going on with service around here? Do they pay you to just wipe down counters? You know, it only takes me two seconds to leave a crappy review on this establishment,” he said holding up his phone.
“Zach.”
Kelly went a deep shade of red and mouthed the word sorry to the bartender.
“What? I’ve seen better service down at my local Chinese restaurant and don’t get me started on that shithole. It took me a year to recover from food poisoning.” He turned back and requested two more bottles.
Kelly put her out her hand. “One is enough for me.”
“Fine. I’ll have yours. Anyway, as I was saying. I think our best bet is to milk this shit for all it’s worth. We tell Johnson that we are on a hot lead. We book into a five-star hotel in Telluride, take in the sights, run up one hell of tab on food and booze, followed by me coaching you in the fine art of lovemaking and we return and write up some bogus article about the guy being some dead mobster. Boom! Promotions all around.”
Kelly almost spat her drink out. “First, I doubt you even know how to make love and even if you could it’s out of the question. Second, that’s lying and third, are you outta your goddamn mind?”
He leaned back in his chair. “Johnson hasn’t a clue. All that man cares about is subscriptions and rubbing shoulders with the who’s who in this city. The way I see it is if this ship is going down, which it is, I’m taking it for all it’s worth, and believe me, it owes me a shitload. And if you’re smart you will do the same. I didn’t work my ass off for twenty-plus years to be turfed out on my ear without a nickel.”
“You really are a piece of work, Zach.”
“Yeah, I’m priceless.” He smiled before tossing another nut in his mouth.
At that moment, more than a thousand miles away, Jack settled in a spare room for the night. It was small, rectangular, with a built-in closet, a mahogany dresser to the right of the single bed, and an old bulky TV resting on top. Beside the bed was a round table with a lamp, radio and dirty ashtray. At the far end was a rocking chair with a hand-woven blanket draped over the back of it. All over the walls were photos of family, and there was a cross on the back of the door and a framed image of the Virgin Mary. Jack had noticed a Bible on the coffee table. Dalton would have felt at home here. He tossed his bag on the bed and pulled out the tablet to watch the video of Dana again. Just seeing her broke something inside him again. It frustrated him that he didn’t have anything to go on except a few old articles about unsolved murders. He’d scanned them a few times on the way down from Telluride but as he’d shared the rear seat with others he was conscious of staring.
There was a knock at the door.
“Come in,” he said.
Tyson’s mother Shanice entered. She eyed him suspiciously and looked around the room as if to check that he hadn’t stolen or damaged anything.
“Tyson told me what you did for him. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
“He’s a good kid. A little too trusting at times but good nonetheless. Me? I’ve been on this earth long enough to smell trouble. Are you trouble, Mr. Weslo?”
“I’ll be out of your hair tomorrow.”
He glanced at the oxygen tank and she noticed. “Cystic fibrosis,” she said taking a seat in the rocking chair and wheeling the tank around to her right side. “After Tyson’s father left us my health went downhill. Doctors thought it was hormonal disorders, then kidney disease, lupus and finally depression. It took another year before an ENT doctor figured it out and had me tested for CF.” She breathed slowly. The sound of air was faint but noticeable. “I was diagnosed with it six years ago. I’m waiting on a lung transplant but it’s tough and I’m not guaranteed to live beyond another ten years. Staying alive isn’t cheap, Mr. Weslo. Just the cost of treating this has put us in the red and that doesn’t take into account the cost of
