Page 10 of Someone to Call My Own

The pain in my chest, whenever I thought about my brother, hadn’t lessened since the day Rick notified me of his death. Nate and I had tried to cram the forty years we missed with one another into the seven months we’d had together. It wasn’t enough time, and I didn’t get to know all the things I wanted to know about him. It was a hard blow that was a hundred times more painful than any injury I received in battle or on a mission. I learned that scars on hearts remained open long after the ones on our bodies healed.

Instead of moping around in bed, I got dressed and worked out in Nate’s—my—gym. The detective’s crack about me living in my brother’s house was spot-on because Nate had left his estate to me, but I did not take over his bedroom. I did buy out his silent partner in the club as soon as I could because Marlon Bandowe was a coward undeserving of my brother’s affections and I wouldn’t waste a second of my time looking at him.

Running Nate’s business was never one of my goals, but my brother loved his club. Selling it didn’t seem right to me either. It no longer mattered what I wanted, because it was mine, and I would keep it running successfully to honor my brother. I knew nothing about the kind of club my brother operated because my preferred haunts offered more debauchery, but Corbin Bouchard, my best friend, black ops brother, and owner of Voodoo in New Orleans assured me that a club is a club and offered his assistance.

“Good accounting, reliable employees, and sticking to your club rules are critical whether your patrons just like to dance to the latest hip hop single or they like to get tied down and fucked in the center of the room for everyone to see,” Corbin had said.

God, how I missed the freedom I had found in those private rooms at Voodoo. I wasn’t a man who needed to pay expensive club memberships to find sex, but I wanted it that way. Everyone there knew to follow the rules, or they were not-so-kindly escorted to the door. “Rule number one is toneverhave sex with an employee,” he’d warned me. Well, I fucked that all to hell—literally and figuratively. Luckily, Alexander wasn’t behaving weirdly around me or in front of the other employees. I might’ve caught a wistful gleam in his eyes a few times, but he never acted on it. I hoped it stayed that way.

I felt almost human after I completed my daily ritual of work out, shower, and jerk off. I had several hours left before I had to meet the detectives at the club, so I made a hearty breakfast and worked in my home office. The biggest piece of advice Corbin gave me was to install software that allowed me to keep track of my inventory and money instead of relying on my employees or accountant. “They smell fresh blood in the water and think it would be easy to skim a little off the top or take a bottle of hooch without you knowing it. No, sir, that’s not how you run a business.”

I’d diligently tracked every aspect of the business using the software that Corbin suggested, and I’d never had a single incident raise a red flag, but something about the inventory didn’t add up. I went back through the trends and flow from the previous week, and my suspicion rose even more.

“It’ll start with a few bottles of inexpensive liquor because they think that’ll fly under the radar. Next thing you know, the top shelf liquor is going out quicker, and the incoming money doesn’t match. That’s why I use a system where my bartenders enter the booze used for each drink, and it generates what the sales should be that night. If it doesn’t match up, I start knocking heads together until I either get them to quit being lazy and enter shit correctly, or I find the thief.” I had a feeling that anyone who stole from Corbin didn’t forget the lesson he gave them. The story went that Corbin’s family had ties to a French Quarter mafia; it was a rumor that he’d neither confirm nor deny.

Someone was either incompetently entering sales and liquor use, or one of my employees was stealing cash or liquor, possibly both. It was not a trend I would allow to continue. It appeared that I would need to have a mandatory staff meeting after I met with Detectives Wyatt and Dorchester. I sent an email to my club manager, Michelle, and told her that all hands needed to be on deck no later than five o’clock for an important meeting. If an employee couldn’t make the meeting on short notice, then they were required to check in with me personally later that evening. I might not have had mafia blood running through my veins, but I wasn’t a person anyone would want to fuck over.

“Come in,” I said after someone knocked on my office door.

Alexander opened the door and popped his head inside. “Detectives Wyatt and Dorchester are here to see you, Mr. Silver. They said they have an appointment.” He sounded and looked nervous. Why? Was it because the police were there or was he hiding something else? The discrepancy between the liquor and cash flow didn’t show up until after I fucked him. Was he trying to fuck me over or did he think his sexy, tight ass could save him if I discovered what he’d done?

I didn’t give away any of my thoughts when I looked at Alexander. I simply nodded and said, “Thank you, Alexander. I am expecting them.”

“You got it, boss.”

The detectives nodded cordially at Alexander before he shut the door then focused on me. I couldn’t get a read on their moods, and I wasn’t sure if they were going to tell me good news or bad.

“Thank you for seeing us on such short notice,” Detective Wyatt said, extending his hand toward me. Detective Wyatt had made it clear that he was not available, so I didn’t attempt any coy tricks when I shook his hand.

“It sounded urgent, and I must say that I was pleased that you turned to me for help instead of accusing me of killing my brother.” I held up my hand when Detective Wyatt started to speak. “I know that you’re just doing your job, Detective. I’m trained in interviewing… suspects.” My time in black ops was completely classified, but the man wasn’t stupid. He’d already realized that my sudden appearance in New Orleans was fishy. Funny how the government didn’t mind me sticking my body out for them, but when it came to retiring, they barely gave me sufficient credentials to rent an apartment. Jonathon Black became Jonathon Silver—new name, new life. Too bad it wasn’t as easy as it sounded. “Tell me how I can help you catch my brother’s killer.”

“What can you tell us about Nate’s involvement in the planning of a casino?”

“Nate said that he’d attended a few meetings and was definitely interested in pursuing the idea. Do you think that had something to do with my brother’s death?” I asked.

“It’s very likely,” Detective Wyatt replied then told me about the previous attempt to build the casino in Carter County where Nate had died and what little he knew about Lawrence Robertson’s death and how similar it was to Nate’s and someone named Owen Smithson.

Owen Smithson?The name didn’t ring a bell, and it was the first time someone mentioned the name in connection with Nate. Instead of interrupting the sexy detective, I let him continue.

“In Mr. Robertson’s belongings, we found notes from the meetings he attended, and he used initials to identify the others involved. This morning, we met with his attorney who represented him at all the meetings, and he identified the names of the people who represented the casino developer,” Detective Wyatt said.

“And?”

“There’s one person we can connect to both Nate and Lawrence Robertson,” Detective Dorchester said.

“Who?”

“Rick Spizer,” the detectives said at once.

I flinched in my chair like one of them reached across my desk and slapped me. I would’ve been less surprised if they had. There was no one in the world that Nate trusted more than Rick Spizer. There had to be a mistake. “Rick? You thinkRickwas involved in killing Nate, Smithson, and this Robertson guy?” I asked in disbelief. If they were right, Rick was the connection between Nate and Robertson at least.

“He at least knows more than he’s letting on,” Detective Wyatt told me. “I don’t believe it’s a coincidence.”

“I don’t either,” I replied absently while my mind tried to find ways to exonerate Rick because it was too much for me to believe that he harmed Nate. “Put a wire on me.”

“Excuse me?” Detective Wyatt asked.

“Put a wire on me and send me in to talk to him,” I repeated. “I can get him to talk.”