"Greg said I was being charged? Of course he did. It's not like you can call up the district attorney and ask. Not like you'd expect an honest answer if you did. We can neither confirm nor deny--that'd be the sound bite, and you'd take it to mean yes, they have a warrant out for my arrest, when the truth is"--he meets my gaze--"it's like me
telling this old man that you think he's hot. You know it's bullshit. I know it's bullshit. But he'd love to believe it, and there's nothing you can say to defend yourself."
"Actually, no," Mathias says. "I find the thought rather alarming. I would have to disabuse Casey of it immediately, and inform her that, as lovely as she is, I really do prefer women who were born before I graduated university."
"Whatever," Brady says. "My point is that I wasn't even on the investigators' radar. Why would I be? What's my motive? Did Greg even bother to mention that? 'Cause I'd love to hear it."
"Haven't you asked him?" Mathias says. "Or are you testing us? Seeing if your stepfather's story changes, depending on the handler? That would be odd, given that we could simply compare notes, as they say."
"Do you think any of my 'handlers' were talking to me?" He shakes his head. "Everybody's looking for the shooter, so it was an easy story to tell. Greg just had to move fast, before they caught the real guy. Get me up into Alaska, some off-the-grid place where no one can check the news."
"But someone did tell you what your stepfather said."
"No, I overheard two guards talking about it. Couple of jarheads, must have thought gagging me also took away my ability to hear. When they fed me, I tried to reason with them. They gave me this." He pushes aside his hair to show a scabbed gash. "The gag stayed on for the next eight hours. No food. No water. That's what a guy who shot six kids deserves. Which is why Gregory used that story. The whole damned country wants that bastard to burn in hell."
"What's your stepfather's motive, then?" I ask. "You said you know something."
He eyes me. Sizes me up. Finds me lacking and eases back into his chair as he says, "That's my leverage, and I'm not giving it up until it'll get me somewhere. For now, let's go with the obvious motive. The one that's partly true. Money."
"From what I understand, it's his company. Your mother married into it."
"No, it was my father's company. My biological father. Gregory Wallace was his employee. After my dad died, Greg took his wife and his company. But my dad made sure no one would get their hands on my inheritance. On my twenty-eighth birthday, I get a trust fund of fifteen million. Do you know how old I am now?"
"Twenty-seven."
"Yep. Last year, I heard something that made me suspect there wasn't fifteen mil in that fund anymore. I tried investigating. Greg blocked me. Gave me some song and dance about the stock markets and poor investments my father made. He promised there will be plenty of money but . . ."
"Not fifteen million."
"Far from it, I bet. That's part of the reason I'm here. I'm not a stand-up guy. I'm a bit of an asshole. But I'm not a sociopath. That would be the guy who sent me here."
8
When I walk into the Roc with Mathias, Isabel is already pouring a shot of her top-shelf tequila. She holds it out for me.
"It isn't noon yet," I say.
"It is somewhere."
"And I'm on duty."
"True." She downs the shot herself. "I have a feeling I'm going to need that."
She pulls over a bottle of single malt and pours a shot for Mathias. He arches his brows. She points to the side.
"Glasses over there. Ice, too, if you insist on ruining good Scotch."
"I do not ruin it. I chill it. Two shakes around the glass and out it goes."
"Waste of good ice, then, which isn't cheap this time of year."
"Put it on my tab, and come winter I shall replace the cube with an entire block."
Isabel grants him a chuckle for that. She even gets him a glass, though she draws the line at adding the ice. Mathias still smiles, pleased with his victory, and then admires her rear view as she crosses the bar to start the coffeemaker.
"Eyes off my ass, Mathias," Isabel says. "I'll put that on your tab, too, and it's more than you can afford."
"Oh, nothing is more than I can afford, cherie. And I do not need to pay. You would be offended if I were not looking. I am simply bowing to your iron will."