Page 122 of Axe-identally Married
“Did he have a gun?” I squeaked, the realization of how much danger we could have been in settling in.
He blew out a breath and tugged his hat off his head. “I think so. Did you see the watch on his wrist?”
I nodded. “It was huge. Looked really fancy.”
“Exactly,” he said, already dialing. “And he knows we saw it.”
Chapter Forty-Two
Cole
Imet Parker at her house before sunrise. She lived with her husband and baby near town on a cul-de-sac filled with enormous newly built homes. The driveway was clearly heated, as there wasn’t a flake of snow on it when I pulled in.
“Walk me through again,” Parker said, bouncing her baby on her shoulder.
“Charles Huxley owns Deimos,” I explained, pulling up the email Marcus had sent overnight, where he’d attached a list of over three dozen corporate holdings.
“The trailer park is owned by Phobos Management.”
She nodded.
“Which we know is owned by Charles and Dennis Huxley. And in Greek mythology, Phobos was the brother of Deimos.”
“That doesn’t prove anything.”
“I know. But these receipts for campaign contributions do. Look.” I turned the laptop around so she could study it.
“Mayor Lambert is subject to federal campaign contribution laws. His aids spend months preparing these reports. Marcus told me that the Huxleys always contribute to local political andcharitable campaigns. Usually as individuals, but occasionally from their corporate entities.”
Nodding, she slowly scrolled through the documents.
“And last year, someone screwed up and sent a payment from a bank account held by Deimos Industries. Which sent Marcus and the mayor’s staff on a wild adventure to determine ownership so their boss wouldn’t get investigated by the FEC.”
“And do you know what they found?”
“Deimos is owned by Scylla, Inc. I’m not great at understanding incorporation paperwork, but it appears to be an entity of Phobos Management.”
“And they own a ton of stuff.”
“Yeah, lots of real estate up here and on the mid-coast. Phobos shows up in FEC databases all the time. They are a politically active family, but someone messed up with Deimos.”
She was grinning now. “And the police chief?”
I slid the Post-it with the license plate number on it across the table. “I could swear I caught a glimpse of a fancy Swiss watch on his wrist. And my wife grabbed this plate number from the truck parked by the side of the road. It was a black F-350. Really fancy.”
“On it,” she said. “I can make a call to run the plate and put out some feelers. If we’ve connected Deimos to the Huxleys, then they have a lot of explaining to do. Not just for me, but with the FBI.”
“Good.” All of this—the corporate holdings, the late-night meetup—was raising red flags left and right.
“And you think the chief might be involved? I’ve had my suspicions since I started working with the Gagnons, but I’ve never found anything to indicate he’s not above board.”
“It could be my dislike of the man.” I shrugged. “But there was a clear vibe. At one point, he took off his gloves and reached into his coat.”
“Fuck,” Parker hissed.
“Exactly. This wasn’t some innocent roadside run-in. There was a third person too. But they peeled out the moment we arrived. And there were boxes in the bed of the truck. Gray plastic bins. And why would he take off his gloves—it was ten degrees out and snowing—if he wasn’t reaching for a gun?”
Parker pinched the bridge of her nose. “This could get ugly.”
