Page 97 of Torched Spades

Reaching into my jacket pocket, I pull out the three cards I found on him and toss them at his chest. “Care to explain these?”

With his eyes taped open, he can’t exactly look away, but from the sickly look on his face, he doesn’t have to. He knows what the fuck they are.

“He gave them to me—a whole stack of them. Told me to spread them all throughout her house before she got home.”

“Now why do you suppose someone would want to do that? I mean, it’s not even a full deck of cards. It seems someone prefers the ace of spades.”

And that someone has held onto that secret for quite a while now.

“He said she would know. That this wouldn’t come back on me because once she saw them, she’d know exactly who to blame.”

“Who?”

He struggles against his restraints, as if it will make a difference. “Please, man, don’t do this!”

“Last chance to come clean, Raymond. After that, I cut out your tongue.”

“George Reese!” he blurts out.

Bending down, I tap the flat side of the knife against his pale cheek. “Now how would Providence’s Chief of Police know this card would place the blame on me?”

“I don’t know, man. All he said is that if this doesn’t work, he’d have to result to bullets and blades or some shit.”

And there they are…The three words that have fucked shit up around Providence for twenty-two years. Only now, they’re about to be returned in Italian.

“Thank you, Raymond. You’ve been very helpful.” The man barely exhales his relief when I spin the knife in my hand, and in one swing, sever his carotid artery.

Dropping the blade onto the tarp, I pull Raymond’s phone from the inside of my jacket and hit redial on the last incoming call.

“Is it done?” a familiar voice asks.

“Yeah, just not the way you anticipated.”

“Ray?” There’s a weighted pause. “Who is this?”

“I have something that belongs to you,” I say. “If you want it back, meet me at Imperial Diner at midnight.”

“Diner?”

Surely, he doesn’t think I’m stupid enough to meet him in an abandoned parking lot somewhere. Not only is that cliché as fuck, but a blanket of darkness doesn’t serve my purpose.

“If you’d rather not, just say so, Reese. I’m sure my guest and I can find much more interesting ways to pass the time.” A little heavy-handed with the innuendo? Yeah, but when Reese sucks in a sharp breath, I know it hit dead center. He’ll find out soon enough he’s going down the wrong side road toward the wrong “guest.”

“Where’s Becca?” he explodes. “Put my daughter on the phone.”

“Unfortunately, she can’t come to the phone. She’s a little tied up at the moment.” The lie serves its purpose when he hurls a loud string of obscenities across the line. However, I don’t answer them. Instead, I disconnect the call and get to work.

George.

Fucking.

Reese.

I was right from the beginning. Carol Reese wasn’t just a victim. She was a statement—and if I don’t take this straight to the source, Becca will be the conclusion.

Chapter Thirty

JOHNNY