Total pages in book: 127
Estimated words: 127715 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 639(@200wpm)___ 511(@250wpm)___ 426(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 127715 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 639(@200wpm)___ 511(@250wpm)___ 426(@300wpm)
Rus nodded.
“Been kind of busy, what’d you see?”
“Consistent deposits. Cash. Five hundred here, a thousand there. Nothing the IRS would ask questions about. But also not on any schedule. Sometimes months would go by, nothing. Then there’d be random deposits for a few months, then nothing again. Though, over the years, that shit was adding up.”
“To what?”
“Last count, around forty K.”
Harry whistled.
“I called the bank. Asked them to dig back further, give me everything they got,” Rus said.
“Bribes?” Harry asked.
Rus shrugged. “My guess, yes. We’ve heard no word he had alternate employment, unless he took cash under the table. Though, why the man would be stupid enough to deposit them, I have no idea. But if that’s the case, he’s been on the take or hiding income from the IRS for at least the last seven years, even after he quit the department and before Ballard was killed.”
Abruptly, Harry felt his throat close.
Now he knew what it meant when that shoe dropped.
They’d been working together long enough, Rus instantly went alert.
“What are you thinking?” he asked.
“Even after he quit?” Harry asked back.
“Yeah. Actually, there were more then.”
“And before Ballard was killed?”
Rus fell silent.
Then his body jerked when his mind hit the same plain Harry’s was on.
“Get on the bank, Rus. Expedite that shit,” Harry said.
“Saw a picture of him,” Rus replied. “Dark hair. White guy. Beard.”
Dark hair, white guy, always wore a beard.
Goddamn it.
“He’s shit scared,” Rus said quietly.
“He’s shit scared,” Harry agreed.
“Cheryl Ballard is even more scared. She knows.”
“She knows,” Harry stated.
“And if he can find her, she’s next.”
“Yep. She’s next,” Harry said. “I’ll talk to Theresa. If there’s anyone in line before Farrell, I’ll owe her a marker to get them bumped. I want Farrell’s death declared a homicide. I want it everywhere we’re looking for Karl Abernathy as a person of interest in four homicides. I want the Dietrichs’ son to understand we’re now worried for their safety, and they need to come in so we can see to it. I want Cheryl Ballard’s next of kin to know the same thing. And I want Dern, Patterson and Bakshi back in my interrogation room.”
“Abernathy’s also wanted for two cases of sexual assault, along with five of attempted sexual assault.”
At this news, fury coursed through Harry’s body, and he had no choice but to stand there and let it burn down deep.
“Abernathy committed the robbery at the Dietrichs’ behest,” Rus spoke the words out loud.
“He committed the robbery,” Harry agreed.
“He framed Sonny and Avery.”
“He framed Sonny and Avery either because Dern was involved and wanted it that way, or for the reason he tracked Sonny and Avery to Idaho, something Dern knew nothing about. Because Karl thought Sonny saw him at the Dietrichs,” Harry confirmed.
“And he killed them there,” Rus repeated.
“Yup.”
“And he’s been blackmailing the Dietrichs since then,” Rus kept running it down.
“Mm-hmm.”
“He left the gun with the bodies so if they were found, the Dietrichs would be tagged, because this asshole is all about the frameup and covering his ass,” Rus continued.
“Right again.”
“The prints on the gun will be one of the Dietrichs’, because it was their gun, and he wouldn’t have wiped it in order that he could tag them if it came down to it.”
Harry nodded.
“He told Cheryl, somehow Muggsy found out, Muggsy wanted in on the action, that was going to be his big payday.”
“And Karl took him out, Roy covered for him, and now Karl is cleaning up after himself,” Harry finished it.
“Fuck,” Rus said.
“Oh yeah,” Harry agreed.
Rus walked away, pulling his phone out of his pocket.
Harry crouched again and looked at the little blue pill.
“I’m going to find you, you motherfucker,” he whispered.
Then he stood and prowled out of that fetid house right to his cruiser.
FORTY-ONE
The Natives Are Restless
Harry
“He’s got bruising around the torso consistent with receiving repeated blows, a particularly nasty one on the back of his thigh, and he took some hits to his genitalia, and as we both know, that would incapacitate even the fittest man,” Theresa said in his ear. “And this gent was far from the fittest man.”
Early that evening, Harry stood in his office, staring unseeing out of his window toward Main Street, and listening to the ME give a preliminary report on Roy Farrell.
“He was dead before the contusions could fully form,” she went on. “But they aren’t older and faded. They were just rising. I haven’t cut him open yet, but from what I’m seeing on a visual inspection, I’m already leaning toward foul play.”
Fucking perfect.
“Gotcha,” Harry replied.
“I’ll dig in now. You’ll have my full report tomorrow.”
Now was late. It was after five o’clock.
He was struggling because he wanted to tell her to go home and let murder wait until tomorrow.
But there was so much riding on this.
For Lillian.
In the end, Harry was powerless to do anything but say, “We’ll run with what you’ve already given us. Go home. We can wait on the full report.”