Page 74 of Black Sheep

Growing up in a family such as mine exposed me to the reality of greed and corruption from a very early age. By the time I was ten years old, I could spot a bent cop from twenty paces; I could negotiate, bribe or threaten my way out of just about every situation by the time I hit puberty. It was only when I grasped the true extent of Finnan’s ruthlessness that my family name became an anchor around my neck.

But those early years of training came in handy when needed. The end result was Mac Malone. Weighed down with two alimony payments and crippling gambling debts, he was ripe for the plucking when I needed serious work done after four private investigators hit a dead end.

“So?” I press.

“My contact at the Bureau is still drawing a blank on those accounts. Without a name of a bank or an account holder’s details—”

“If I had those details, do you think I would’ve sought out your services?”

“Look, I’m just saying we started this thing with one needle buried with a million needles in a haystack whose location we don’t know.”

“And five years later, despite countless promises, you haven’t found the haystack. If I didn’t think you knew better, I’d think you were using me as an ATM.”

The middle-aged man sighs wearily. “The money’s great, sure, but beating my head against this particular brick wall is beginning to give me a concussion.”

“Say the word, and I’ll sever ties,” I reply coldly.

“No! There’s no need for that. If you would let me talk to the other individuals who were present—”

“No. Finnan is the one who issued those orders. I’m the one who drove the car into that lake. This is on the two of us. No one else. The man and woman were picked up in New Jersey in a sky-blue Camaro. Surely that should’ve yielded some results by now? You have the date and a starting point.”

“You assume he was picked up in New Jersey. I’m digging through traffic camera footage for where you say the Camaro was picked up. But you have to allow for the fact that it’s been almost ten years,” he says, the way he’s been saying for far too long.

My black temper frays as I stare at the blank screen that epitomizes the conversation I’m having.

“What about Bearwood Lake? It’s a public park. Surely someone would’ve seen a two-ton Camaro being dredged from the lake bed and taken away?”

I receive a dark, cynical chuckle. “With respect, sir, you were a soldier once. You’re also a Rutherford. So you know any desired result can be achieved with the right amount of incentive.”

“And yet you don’t seem to be incentivized to achieve mine. You have one week to find me something, Detective.”

I hang up and slide the phone back into my pocket. My fingers brush against metal. Cleo’s phone.

I take it out and press the home button. The picture on her home page surprises me. Camilla McCarthy’s beauty was flawless as well as timeless but she never possessed her daughter’s vivacity or traffic-stopping body. Plus she never smiled. Not like she’s doing in this picture.

Also, Cleo never got on with her mother, Camilla’s controlling nature constantly pushing her daughter out of the house. And more often than not, towards me. Which made Camilla hate me more than she already did for my blatant interest in her daughter.

In the months before Camilla and Michael McCarthy went to Boston never to return, Cleo and her mother fought constantly. Mostly about me. I made the mistake of trying to talk to her once to smooth things over. She told me she intended to leave Connecticut for good. Take Cleo with her. The conversation didn’t end well. I may have threatened her a little. Or a lot.

In later years, I discovered that the McCarthys had gotten onto Finnan’s radar because Michael McCarthy had been encroaching on Rutherford territory, doing deals with the Armenians, much like I am doing now. Only he hadn’t been destroying the drugs. He’d been cutting them with other cheap and dangerous substances and selling them in his own clubs. Michael and Camilla fought about those clubs because Michael wouldn’t let them go and because the girls in the clubs were being made compliant with drugs. General Courtland’s transgressions arrived at a critical moment, a way for Michael to stave off retribution from Finnan by offering to share the private military contract deal.

But drugs started it all. It was the reason I kept my nasty little habit from Cleo. And the reason I kicked it to the curb the night after the Camaro incident. No way was I turning out like Bolton.

Luckily, I wasn’t hooked enough for it to be a problem. Or maybe my addiction to her was stronger.

* * *

The phone goes dark, and I slide it back into my pocket. I return the remote to its slot, cast another glance at the blank screen, and grit my teeth.

What the fuck did any of it matter when my victims remain faceless? When my penance rings hollow?

Weariness drags through me as I stand. I’m halfway to the door when my phone rings. The caller is unknown. My hackles rise as I answer. “Axel.”

“Mr. Rutherford, your request for a meeting is granted. Shall we say your club in one hour?”

The voice is different than the Bratva lieutenant’s I met with the last time. This one holds more authority. Clearly, I’ve been elevated another rank.

“One hour. I’ll be there.”

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