Page 91 of Claimed By the Deputies

“Denning Raddison, yes, I know it,” I reply.

“The Stallions leadership meets there once a month along with the mayor and a couple of other big players. Fitz facilitates the meeting because he’s got some shady deal going with the hotel manager. That’s all I know. It’s the last Friday of every month; they meet there and talk business.”

“Probably because it’s out of the sheriff’s reach.”

“And crappy security,” he adds with a shrug. “The hotel manager turns the cameras off and the restaurant doesn’t take anyreservations in that time frame. I had to ride up there a couple of times as part of Jake’s security detail. I saw them. I know Fitz.”

“And you know for a fact he was there, at Tim’s place, after you killed him.”

“Yes. I watched him walk in right after I left. He always carries his tools with him in the trunk of his car. Fingerprinting kits, luminol, bleach, wipes… all sorts of stuff to alter a crime scene. He doesn’t wipe it all down so it doesn’t blow back on him in any way. He just?—”

“Sabotages the crime scene to make it damn near impossible for any forensic experts to build a case against a suspect.”

Dante nods. “Now, I’d like some of that fish.”

I’m going to have to hand feed it to him, and while I’d rather just shove it down his throat and watch him choke on it, Dante Brunswick just proved he’s more useful to us alive than dead.

Today isthe last Friday of the month.

The meeting time is a couple of hours away. If I drive fast, I’ll make it there just before it starts.

A sense of urgency takes over. There wasn’t enough time to get the guys involved before the next meeting happened, so I decided to go on my own. I know I’ll catch hell when they find out, but I didn’t see any other choice.

My plan is to do some surveillance, get Lucas and the others information they can follow up on. I won’t do anything to jeopardize the case. Or myself and my unborn child.

Looking around, I make sure no one sees me as I take out one of Mitch’s surveillance cameras he keeps at home. This one comes equipped with a telescopic lens that gives me a spectacularly detailed view of the restaurant’s interior.

“There you are,” I mutter as I spot a man who has to be Fitz seated at one of the tables near the bar, farthest away from the window.

He’s not alone. Trevor is with him. So is Dexter Wright, the Stallions’ president.

Multiple waiters service their table, moving the food and drinks from the kitchen to a service cart, discreetly positioned around the other side of the bar.

A black town car pulls up in front of the restaurant. I slink down in the driver’s seat, my eye glued to the camera. I watch as Jerry Spring gets out of the back seat—swiftly joined by Mayor Hamilton himself.

I can’t believe I’ve got Hamilton, Spring, Trevor and Dexter in the same room, and at the same table, conspiring with a man Dante just gave up as the cleaner, the fixer who contaminated Tim’s crime scene.

I snap as many photos as I can.

The waiters move about like busy little bees, serving water and coffee. I notice how no one pays any attention to them.

“Oh, Lucas, you’re going to be so mad,” I whisper, glancing down at the listening equipment I also snatched from Mitch’s home kit.

It’s a short distance mic connected to a recorder, discreet and light enough to hide anywhere near the table.

Around the side of the building, by the service door, I see one of the busboys coming out for a smoke. He doesn’t look happy.

“Game on,” I embolden myself and set the camera aside.

I grab my phone and the listening device, then cautiously get out of the car. I snake between parked cars until I can safely cross the street, completely undetected. Silver Stallions are parked on their bikes up ahead, part of Dexter’s security detail, but they can’t see me as I slip around the side of the building.

Keeping my phone and listening device out of sight, I analyze the busboy. Early twenties, a bit of a slob judging by the state of his pale blue uniform. He’s nervous, chain-smoking two cigarettes before he decides to light up a blunt.

This might actually work.

I pull out a wad of cash from my back pocket and walk up to the guy.

“You look like you want to be anywhere but here,” I say with a wry smile.

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