Page 110 of The Grave Artist

Nando shut his eyes and huffed out a long breath. “I’m trying to buy this place. I got every penny I own sunk into it.”

What Nando didn’t know was that Detective Ryan Hall of the Riverside County Sheriff’s Department was outside his jurisdiction and had no authority to enforce liquor laws in LA County.

Ryan had explained the issue to Selina when she suggested plan B—in the event Nando wouldn’t sell out Sweeney for money. They’d agreed on the idea after Judd, the con, had told Ryan how much Nando wanted to buy the bar.

Ryan was taking a massive risk by pulling this stunt but assured her he was willing to do it.

For her.

Fortunately, the bar was dark, and the lights looked like they hadn’t been cleaned in years. Nando saw the briefly flashed shield and credentials and took Ryan at face value.

After a fair amount of cursing, in English and Spanish, Nando finally relented.

“Look, I don’t know his real name,” Nando said. “And Sweeney’s just his nick. Yeah, he comes in here some, but I don’t know where he lives.”

“But you can get in touch with him,” Ryan said.

“He doesn’t roll like that,” Nando said. “He uses a burner and changes it a lot. When someone wants him, I have to wait until he comes around here to give him the message.”

“You mean the job,” Ryan said. “After which someone either dies or gets hurt. You could be considered an accessory, Nando.”

Beads of sweat stippled Nando’s forehead. “Hey, I just pass messages. I don’t know nothing about what happens after.”

Ryan leaned in and dropped his voice. “If you want to keep this bar, and your freedom, talk. Now.”

Nando swept his hand over his glistening bare scalp. “He came in here a few weeks ago and I had a message for him. He told me to get back to the client and say to meet him at Fillups in an hour.”

“Fillups?”

“It’s a gas station on Stone Canyon Parkway. Sweeney told me he was on his way to see a client who lives in one of those mansions up there. Sounded like he goes there a lot.”

“What’s he driving?” Ryan asked.

“A red Chevy Silverado pickup.”

Ryan looked him over closely. “A few weeks ago ... but you’ve seen him since.”

“What’re you, psychic?”

“Yeah, I’m a fortune teller. You want me to tell your fortune, Nando?”

“All right, chill, dude. Chill. He was here about an hour before you came. Had a couple of beers and left.”

So Ryan had spotted something in the man’s body language. Damn, he was good.

“And when were you planning to share that little piece of info?”

“I don’t want no trouble, okay? That’s all I know.”

No amount of threats could get any more information out of Nando, Ryan apparently concluded. After settling their bill—and promising not to tell the liquor board about the underage drinking if Nando didn’t tell Sweeney a cop was looking for him—they left.

Selina waited until they were in the car, then turned to Ryan. “What now?”

“Talk to local detectives. Get a file going on Sweeney and check out where he’s going up in the hills.”

“So we’re not doing anything right now?” The disappointment in her voice was evident.

“No,” he said firmly. “No more ‘off the book’ stuff. Now it’s ‘by the book.’”