aside, his shiny shoes dull with dust. He looks up at my mansion. “You’re lucky. They could have taken out the entire house.”
Lucky? My private suite is obliterated and I nearly lost Rose. Rising to my full height, I turn away from him and head for the house. “You going to find out who did this?”
“I was hoping you might be able to enlighten me.” Spittle follows me without invitation, taking a hanky from his suit pocket when he makes it inside. Sitting on the bottom step of the staircase, he wipes at his shoes.
“Do I look like an FBI agent to you?” I ask. “You think I would be here now if I knew who just sent a bomb sailing into my bedroom?”
He grimaces at his blackened hanky and folds it neatly. I head toward my office, my mind set on the Scotch awaiting me. I take the bottle and two glasses and drop into my chair, Spittle joining me on the other side of my desk. I hold up a glass and he nods, prompting me to pour. Passing him his glass, I sink back into my chair as Brad walks in, helping himself to the hard stuff after giving me a nod. It’s going to be a bloody afternoon.
“Is your house being partially blown up anything to do with the shoot-out in Fort Lauderdale?” Spittle asks. “Because you may have cut CCTV, but I know you were there.”
“Nothing to do with me.”
He sips and nods his approval at the Scotch. “Not the shoot-out, no. Officers chased down the gunman a few miles away.”
I hitch an eyebrow. “Oh?”
“He won’t talk.”
“Give him to me,” I order. “He’ll talk.” I’ll torture the fucker until he gives me what I want.
“Nothing to do with you? Come on, Danny. Why were you there?”
I sigh, bored of the twenty questions. “There’s a kid there. Jepson. Parents just died in a plane crash. He survived. Someone wants him dead.”
“A kid? Who? And why?”
“Just get the kid protection, Spittle, there’s a good boy.” I don’t have time to fill in all the blanks. “The man, the shooter. Let us pay him a visit.” They’ll be no torture, but there will be threats galore. “And then maybe I’ll give you something more to keep you busy.” As soon as I find out who the fuck has strolled into my town wreaking fucking havoc.
“Fine, Black. You’re a fly in my fucking ointment.”
Yeah, yeah. I know. “His name?”
“Like I said, he’s not talking. We’ve run face checks, fingerprints, DNA. Nothing. The man’s a ghost.”
Just like all those men in Vegas. “Get Brad into wherever he’s being held.”
“If you insist.”
“I do.”
Spittle regards me across the desk. “Since we’re on the subject of explosions, your jet ski was found off the coast burnt to a cinder. What happened?”
“It was stolen.”
“Then why didn’t you report it?”
I shrug. “You know me, Spittle. Bigger fish to fry. Have it dropped off at the boatyard.”
He visibly deflates, exhausted by the brick walls he keeps hitting. “It’s beyond repair.”
“I’m rather attached to it.”
“Fine. And I have someone working on the phone.”
“Forget about it.” I strain the words. “Like I said, bigger fish to fry.” I stand, my way of ending our impromptu meeting. “If that’s all?”
“That’s all. As ever, thank you for your time, Mr. Black.” He bows, the sarcastic wanker. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Tomorrow. My father’s funeral. Amid the rolling madness, I almost forgot. “He told me to shoot any FBI who show up.”
Spittle laughs his way out of my office. “I’ll be sure to wear my vest.” Stopping at the door, he turns back, something close to concern marring his rugged face. “Someone is clearly determined to put an end to you, Danny.”
“Is that your way of telling me to be careful?” What a joke. Me winding up dead would relieve Spittle of endless stress. “I’m touched.”
He waves his hand flippantly. “I’m just pointing out that the whole of Miami, hell, the whole of America, knows you’re burying your father tomorrow.”
“I’ve got it covered,” I assure him, pouring more Scotch. “See you there.”
I’m left in peace for all of two seconds before my phone rings. I’m grateful. Silence leaves too much space to think, and I’m not thinking about shit I should be thinking about. I look down at the screen and smile. “Adams,” I answer. “Called to tell me you’re declining my invitation to visit me?”
“You tried to kill the kid.”
My teeth grind impatiently. “I didn’t try to kill the fucking kid.