Jason froze midlunge, forward motion checked by surprise. He'd only seen the man behind the desk once before, but it hadn't been five hours ago. Seen him from Washington's living room, standing beside Ronald, the two of them staring out the front window at a man who could give away a half million dollars and not miss it. "You're Adam Kent."
The man behind the desk narrowed his eyes, looked past Jason to DiRisio. "Did you-"
"Of course not." DiRisio's voice was calm. "He's a smart kid. I told you that."
Kent nodded, sighed. "Ah well." He unbuttoned his tuxedo jacket, soft and expensive looking, not the shiny fabric of a rental.
Jesus. He was at the party, too. And on the heels of that, Of course he was. He threw the party.
Jason's mind whirled. It didn't make any sense. This guy had given Washington all that money to save former gangbangers. And at the same time he was arming them, setting them against each other? Burning out houses and buying up property?
Kent gestured to a chair. "Mr. Palmer. Have a seat."
Jason hesitated, then started forward, eyes scanning. Studying the battlefield. A large office. Padded chairs fronting an open fireplace big enough to park a car. August, the rest of the city gasping and sweating, and Kent had a fire battling his air-conditioning. In the center of the room lay an elegant desk of pale wood fronted by three angular chairs, the lines modern and uncomfortable. Jason spotted his cell phone and wallet along with Cruz's purse, sitting on the center of the desk. Behind it stood French doors leading to the backyard, the darkness outside dotted with landscape lighting.
He sat on the edge of his chair, watching DiRisio and Scarface take up guard positions. After a moment, Kent came around the desk to lean against the edge, his posture casual and friendly. He looked like a bank manager. Medium jaw, plain features, salt-and-pepper hair. Ronald had nailed it: You'd walk right past him on the street, never think a thing.
Then Kent crossed his arms, blew a breath and said the last thing Jason expected. "Mr. Palmer, I owe you an apology."
If the man had screamed and raged, Jason would have been prepared. If he'd made threats of torture, promised pain beyond bearing, he would have been ready. But this, this left him speechless.
"First, I'm sorry for the way you were brought here. The circumstances demanded it, but it's a bit crude. Which leads to my second apology." He laced his fingers in a gesture of contrition. "I am so very sorry for what happened to your brother."
Jason's mouth fell open.
Kent continued. "Anthony is overzealous. All I asked him to do was talk to your brother. The last thing I want to do is hurt people like Michael. It's bad for business."
Jason looked back and forth, feeling like he was racing to keep up. Scarface looked at him impassively. DiRisio picked at something in his ear. If what his boss said bothered him, he didn't show it.
"Business?" Jason could feel the heat rising in his cheek. "You mean inciting a gang war for profit? Burning a neighborhood?"
"Yes." Kent's voice was matter-of-fact. "Look, when a house is infested with termites, you don't put up new drywall. You tear it down and start over."
This man gave Washington a half million to help gangbangers? Then the last piece clicked into place. It made sense, in a twisted sort of way. "I get it."
"What's that?"
"Why you helped Washington. You borrowed a play from the CIA. Because you're a white guy from the suburbs, and all of Crenwood looks the same to you. You need on-the-ground intelligence. Right?"
Kent nodded. "Washington is a good man, and I'm happy to help him help those boys. Especially since that also means I can learn everything I need to know."
"Help him?" Jason sputtered. "You used him to commit murder."
He shook his head, sucked air through his teeth. "No. 'Murder' is an emotional word. It's petty, and small. You may not like my methods, but I'm building something. When I'm done, Crenwood will be a safe neighborhood, the kind of place people want to raise kids. And yes, before you bring it up, of course I'll make a lot of money in the process. But the world will be better. I'm a businessman and a pragmatist, but I'm not a monster. I don't even have a moustache."
Jason narrowed his eyes. "Okay."
"Okay?"
He remembered Cruz on the river front. "A friend of mine taught me that as long as someone's got a gun on you, the correct answer to anything is 'okay.' "
Kent laughed. "I see your point. But I want your full attention."
"Believe me, man. You've got it."
"Fair enough." Kent glanced over to DiRisio, gave a quick nod. DiRisio made the gun vanish, then left the wall and moved to stand just behind Jason. "Now," Kent continued, "you have something I need."
"You really think I'm going to give up my nephew?"
"Your nephew?" A bemused smile played on Kent's lips. "What would I want with him?"
The skin of Jason's shoulders crawled. "But the gangbangers, and DiRisio-"
"Were all looking for what I wanted." Kent leaned forward. "The papers, Mr. Palmer. All I want are the papers your brother had, the ones you told the alderman about. You give me that, we're done."
Jason stared, fighting to keep a straight face as the gears clicked. Remembering the party, how he'd hedged with the alderman, not explicitly telling him the evidence had been destroyed because he didn't want to shake the guy's trust. The alderman had reported back to Kent, who now believed Jason had his brother's files.
All Kent wanted was something Jason didn't have.
"You're saying that you'll not only let me walk out of here, you'll leave Billy alone?" He put as much scorn into it as possible.
"Absolutely. That's all we've wanted all along," Kent said. "Mr. Palmer, I realize you don't like me, and I understand why. But the truth is that I don't bear you any ill will. For you, this is a personal matter. But for me, it's just business. I'm in the middle of a very complicated financial venture. Your brother got involved when he shouldn't have. He wouldn't listen to reason. I didn't kill him for pleasure any more than I brought you here to show off my evil plan."
"Okay."
"All right. You're hurting and I can't change that. But listen to what I have to say." Kent ran a hand through his hair. "There's no advantage to killing you. Without evidence, there's nothing you can say that could hurt me. Nothing. I have a lot of money, and a lot of people eager to do me favors. What do you have? A history of petty theft and an 'other than honorable' discharge from the Army." He shrugged. "I'm sorry, but you're outmatched. So let's keep it simple. Give me what I want, and I'll give you back your life."
Jason felt sick. Wrong as it was, the man was right. But he also believed Jason had something he didn't.
"Look," Kent said, "this is a one-time opportunity to save the lives of your nephew and your lover. To watch Billy grow up. It's a good offer. Take it."
Jason sat back in his chair, met Kent's eye. The guy looked sincere, but that was like gauging the intentions of a crocodile. Still. Much as Jason wanted to doubt, Kent made sense. They were out of plays. Going to the alderman had been a last-ditch hope. If Kent let them go, there really wasn't anything they could do to hurt him.
Which only made his anger seethe hotter. Just like in the war, the real players were invulnerable. People talked about the immovable object and the unstoppable force. But the real story belonged to the people caught between the two. People like his brother.
" 'A complicated financial venture,' eh?" Jason shook his head. "You realize you're talking about people? You're killing them, burning their homes, ruining their neighborhoods. To make money. Just another rich white guy who can't get enough."
Kent snorted. He stood up, went around the desk, dropped in the chair. "It's not love that moves the world, Mr. Palmer, and the only color that matters is green. Black, white, brown, who gives a shit? It's about rich and poor. I'm very rich, so I win. You can spout coffeehouse crap all you like. But first decide whether you'd prefer to die tonight or to see your nephew grow up."
Think, goddamn you. Think. He looked away. Grit his teeth and tugged at his wrists. The zip-tie was unyielding, and his fingers thick and heavy. Every fiber of his body screamed to fight. To stand and make a move, to throw himself at Kent or DiRisio. He'd lose, but he'd go out fighting. A soldier's death. Not this terrible choice.
Not having to make a deal with the man who murdered his brother.
If he agreed, and Kent was honest, they'd be free. He could watch Billy turn nine, have another porch-lit drink with Washington, explore the thing between him and Cruz. And even if Kent decided to kill him, at least Billy would be safe. With the evidence gone and the witnesses dead, there would be no reason to come after the boy.
Kent spoke softly. "I know you hate me, Mr. Palmer. But you're a smart man. So do what you have to do. Tell me where those papers are." He ran long fingers through his hair, then laced them behind his head.
Sometimes you had to fold the hand. Jason dropped his head, stared at his lap. Forgive me, Michael. I tried. He opened his mouth to speak.
And saw Kent's gesture again. Running his hands through his hair.
"The big one was bald," Billy had said two days ago, sitting in the sunlight of Jason's apartment, telling a story that tore him apart. A story of two men that had come into the bar and killed Michael. One balding and big. The other thin and plain-looking, with black and gray hair.
And he realized that no matter what he said, Kent would never stop hunting his nephew.
DiRisio had been one of the guys in the bar. He'd bragged about it. The other man they had just assumed was Galway.
But Adam Kent's hair was also black flecked with gray.