Page 92 of The Lost Bones

Brett’s face crumpled, and he started howling into his hands, droning on about how he didn’t know how to move forward anymore.

“This is what we’ve come to.” Nick clicked his tongue. “Now we have to worry about the victims’ families retaliating.”

“Have charges been filed?” Mackenzie asked.

“Hell, yes.” Nick’s eyes were aflame.

“What if I don’t want to press charges?”

“Are you out of your mind?” He grimaced. “He doesn’t even regret it. He’ll do it again.”

“He has kids! He’s all they have now.”

“That’s exactly why I think he should go to prison. Remember the case of that guy who couldn’t handle his wife dying in a car crash? He poisoned his son and then hanged himself.”

Mackenzie remembered it all too well. The memory of it always left something foul in its wake.

They were interrupted by Peterson, who was breathing like he had just run a mile. “I got something. Luckily the residential office keeps records of all the units that have had any major renovations. They gave me the unit number and the name of the owner.” He bit his lip, his eyes twinkling. “It’s Rafael Jennings.”

“That NFL team’s co-owner?” Nick was aghast. “Wait a minute. You saw him at the house, didn’t you, Mack?”

“I did. Let’s go get him.”

FORTY-SIX

Rafael Jennings had bought a house in Forrest Hill, the plush cul-de-sac housing local politicians, athletes, and influential industrialists. It was not only a safe haven, being a gated community, but was also pleasing to the eye, with iron gates, high-end cars, and Italian-style mansions. Mackenzie always thought of escapism whenever she was in this neighborhood.

She waited in the lavish foyer adorned with large paintings and antiquities. She was staring at a painting of a watering can with flowers on, wondering how much money Jennings had dished out for something so simple.

“Has to be money laundering,” Nick commented from her side. “Can’t imagine anyone spending more than a hundred dollars on something like that.”

They heard footsteps clacking against the marble before two men appeared on the sweeping staircase leading into the foyer. One of them was tall, slender, with eyelashes so thick it looked like he wore eyeliner. His hair was a shiny black, obviously dyed. With one hand in his pocket, he had a lopsided, amused grin on his face.

“Detectives.” He shook their hands. “How can I help you?”

The lawyer, Tom Cromwell, was behind him and gave Mackenzie and Nick a sly wave.

“We need to talk. Can we go somewhere private?” Nick looked pointedly at the staff working in the living room.

Jennings gave him a tight smile before directing them to a study. He poured himself a Scotch and offered the bottle to Mackenzie and Nick, who refused.

“You must have heard that there is an investigation opening into Judge Hamilton,” Nick said.

Jennings and Cromwell exchanged a loaded look.

“There have been rumors.” Jennings sat in a leather chair behind the elaborate oak table. “I don’t know much. We don’t talk regularly.”

Cromwell nodded approvingly, standing behind Jennings. Mackenzie knew this was all rehearsed.

“Mr. Jennings, do you own an apartment at the Livmore?” Mackenzie asked. “It’s a residential complex in Lakemore. About a mile from the town square.”

His grip around the sculpted glass tightened, whitening his knuckles. “I’d have to check. I own a lot of properties.”

“You do, actually.” She took a piece of paper from her jacket pocket, showing proof that the unit was registered to him.

“I see.” He scratched his head. “Well, then I must.”

Cromwell’s eyes darted between the paper and his flustered client. “What is this regarding?”