Page 106 of Things We Left Behind
“Who did he work with? Who were his friends?” I asked.
“Like I said, everyone knew him. Everyone liked him.”
“Then who was he closest to? Maybe someone outside the game?” Nolan prompted.
Duncan tipped his head to the ceiling. “I don’t fucking know. Maybe his girl?”
“He had a woman?” I asked. Nolan and I shared a glance. This was news.
“One he paid for, if that counts. I saw him once having lunch with her. Real high-class. Way too good for him.”
“What was her name?” I asked.
He took a drag and blew out a cloud of smoke that swirled lazily between us. “Maureen Fitzgerald.”
I sat back in my seat.
Duncan’s smirk was back. “Huh. Maybe you’re a client too? Isn’t that a small, incestuous world?”
“Prisons give me the heebie-jeebies,” Nolan announced when we hit the parking lot, the barbed wire and block walls behind us. “Every time I walk in, I’m worried they aren’t gonna let me walk out.”
I grunted and continued toward my car.
“Was it my imagination in there, or did that ginger asshole insinuate that you were acquainted with Maureen Fitzgerald, DC’s highest caliber madam?” Nolan wondered.
I yanked open the door of my Jaguar and grabbed my phone.
“It wasn’t your imagination, and I am acquainted with Maureen,” I said, thumbs flying across the screen.
Me:We need to talk. Call me.
“Huh. Didn’t think a guy like you would have to buy a date. Makes me feel pretty damn good about myself.”
The phone vibrated in my hand. But it wasn’t Maureen. It was Special Agent Idler.
I swore under my breath, ignored the call, and slid behind the wheel. I never should have allowed Nolan to tag along. I needed to think, to plot. I didn’t want the feds talking to Maureen before I did.
“Get in,” I ordered.
“Hey, listen, you’re the boss. You don’t have to tell me anything as long as you keep paying me,” Nolan said as he climbed into the passenger seat.
I waited until both doors were closed. “Maureen is a friend. She feeds me information on some of her more depraved client requests. I use that information as I see fit.”
“And you don’t want to give the feds a reason to look directly at her,” Nolan guessed, securing his seat belt.
I nodded and started the engine.
“Seems kinda odd. Maureen Fitzgerald associating with a Felix Metzer type?” he mused. “I’ve seen her in person a few times. Gorgeous lady. Classy. Rich.”
It wasn’t just odd. It was completely implausible.
My phone vibrated again, and I fantasized about tossing it out the window and backing over it but managed to refrain.
A glance at the screen told me it wasn’t Idler.
Karen:Tonight we will be dining on the finest frozen pizza and a reasonably okay-ish bottle of wine.
Fuck.I’d nearly forgotten.
