the answers I wanted had probably been under my nose the whole time. I just didn’t know Torch’s real name.
I found his file within five minutes. Thomas Anthony. Age 15. Just as Torch said, he’d been tried as an adult. There was no time to copy the whole file. I took a risk. George rarely came up here anymore, and as far as I knew, nobody else would have cause to rummage through these files.
I took the whole thing. I tucked it under my arms and raced downstairs. The lights were off. George had closed up shop for the day. Only I had no idea how soon he might return. I went into his office.
Juice had said something about paying him handsomely to do a job. What job exactly? The trucking routes. The delivery schedules. God. I fired up my uncle’s laptop. It took forever for his browser to load. When it did, I went into his bookmarks.
Would he have been dumb enough to take a payment directly into one of his business accounts? Well, he was apparently dumb enough to leave his passwords on auto-fill. I pulled up his main business checking account.
Sweat rolled down my back. I printed out his statements for the last six months. That’s as far back as it would let me. Then I switched over to his lawyer’s trust account. It was the place where Uncle George was legally required to hold client money, retainers, and such until he’d billed enough hours to pay himself. Settlement checks would go in there too at first. I printed out six months of statements for that too.
It took eons as my uncle’s printer flared to life. I stood there, catching sheet after sheet so they wouldn’t fall. Finally, I had them all. I could worry about sorting them out later.
I tucked Torch’s file and the statements in my bag and ran for the back door. My steps faltered at first. I was in sheer panic. But as soon as I’d covered three blocks, my heart began to settle. The bus pulled up just as I arrived at the stop. A kind smile from the driver put my mind further at ease.
I climbed inside and paid my fare. Then I settled into a seat and prayed.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Torch
I left my wallet, my keys, my phone in a bin. The cop searched me up and down, frisked me, and used a metal detector wand. The place smelled like mold and piss covered up with bleach. Gray. Desperate. Hell.
If I closed my eyes, I could be right back here. If I opened them, I could almost see the spider webs weaving through the rusted springs of the bunk above me. I could feel the walls closing in. I could feel the fresh bruises on my arms and legs from the beatings I’d taken. I’d been a marked man from the second I walked in all those years ago. Retribution for the killing of Carl Barrett, one of their own.
I could walk out of here this time. The man I came to see couldn't.
Colt was waiting for me at the metal table. He wore prison blues with orange striping down the side of his leg. He sat up straighter when he saw me, but I caught him just a moment before that, his face lined with despair. He would put on a show for me. That would make two of us.
I jerked my chin at him and sat down. There were only three other tables of inmates and visitors. The guards kept a close eye, standing with hands folded in every corner of the room.
I put my hands on the table and clasped them together.
“Give me some good news,” Colt said. I had just been ready to ask the same thing.
“Can’t open the Den,” I said. “The feds are still crawling through there. Even when they’re done, we’ve had our liquor license pulled pending the outcome.”
Colt lifted his mouth in a smirk. “I said good news, Torch.”
“Sorry, man,” I said. “How are you holding up?”
Colt shrugged. “Don’t worry about me. I need to know you’ve got things handled.”
We had to be careful, talk in code. The guards were listening.
“I’m taking care of what needs to be taken care of,” I said.
Colt leaned back. “Well, you look like hell. I’m having a hard time believing it.”
“You know you can count on me, boss. What’s George saying?”
Colt worked his thumb into the palm of the opposite hand. “We’re not getting out of here anytime