“That’s true. We can’t prove where it was taken. Yet. But whoever sent it to me could probably provide that information. We’ll see what else he sends me.”
All three men freeze for a moment. Then Holland leans forward and lays his hands on my desk. “I don’t think the police or the sheriff’s department will be picking up Mr. Cowart based on your reporting.”
“No. But the FBI might. We’re making sure all evidence related to Buck’s murder gets sent to every agency that might have jurisdiction.”
Tommy Russo has been leaning calmly against my office wall, chewing gum. But at my mention of the FBI, he makes a face like he just bit into something bitter.
“You have no idea what you’re doing,” Holland says. “You’re interfering with people’s lives, their businesses. With this whole town’s future.”
“Am I? I thought I was just trying to solve a murder.”
Cowart grimaces, then shakes his head like all this talk is a waste of time.
“You’re about to get an education,” Beau Holland says with relish. “You keep printing stories like the one I read today, you’re going to find out exactly where you stand in the food chain around here.”
“The bottom, is it?”
Beau gives me his superior smile. “Another thing. Keep this up, and we’ll sue you into bankruptcy. It wouldn’t take much, from what I hear. We’ll own this rag, McEwan. And the day we do, we’ll chain the door shut.”
Russo is watching this scene with his usual expression, that of a languid predator at leisure. Given his background, Holland’s threats must seem about as tame as those from a kindergarten playground.
“I think you’re overestimating your influence, Beau,” I say calmly. Leaning forward in my chair, I turn and point to a tall picture frame on the wall. Under its glass is a copy of the first Bienville Watchman ever printed. “This rag, as you call it, has been published continuously since 1865. Through world wars, depression, civil rights battles, and hurricanes. I think we’ll survive you and the Bienville Poker Club.”
Holland gives me an eerie smile that promises undreamed-of revenge. “Our club’s been around since the Civil War, too. We know what makes the mare go. You ignore my advice, you’ll be lucky if your fellow citizens don’t burn this building to the ground. They know who’s on their side, and it’s not this fake-news mill.”
I let his threat hang in the air, waiting for his smile to fade. When it does I say, “If Dave had come in here alone, yelling and raising hell, I’d have blown it off. But since you two came in with him—a convicted felon—it’s pretty clear he’s still working for the Poker Club. So whatever he did to Buck, you’re all part of it.”
A shadow passes over Holland’s overbred features, but Tommy Russo still looks as though he wandered in here by accident. Beau straightens up and puts his hands on his hips, a vaguely feminine gesture. “Picking friends is an art, Marshall. But picking your enemies is survival. You’d better keep that in mind.”
“Got a lot of friends, have you, Beau?”
“More than you, after today.”
I fight to suppress a powerful urge to stick the knife in and twist it. In the end, I can’t resist. “I think I know one of your friends,” I tell him. “An interesting guy.”
“Yeah? Who’s that?”
“Say hello to Mr. Chow for me the next time you see him.”
Holland blanches. Dave Cowart looks blank, but Tommy Russo has stopped chewing his gum.
“Where did you hear that name?” Beau asks in a near whisper.
I turn up my hands. “Here, there—it’s hard to say with the way things are popping since yesterday.”
Holland fixes a superior smile on his face. “You have no idea what you’re fucking with. You’re not long for this world, my friend.”
I should keep my mouth shut, but all I can think about is Buck’s open skull on Denny’s drone video. I want to make Beau Holland squirm. “I think you and your buddies are one jury verdict from the penitentiary. People can’t wait to give you guys up. This morning somebody told me how you ripped off a bunch of homeowners on the I-14 corridor, using inside information. Somebody else told me about Tommy and Max and Wyatt Cash threatening illegal workers. Best of all, though, is how you jammed Avery Sumner into that U.S. Senate seat. I’ve got contacts in D.C. who’ll eat that shit up. All those insults about the other candidates? We might hijack the news cycle for a full twenty-four hours. So buckle up, Beau. You’re about to have a bumpy week.”
“I need to speak to Marshall alone,” Tommy Russo says softly.
Beau starts to protest, but before he reaches his third syllable Russo says, “Give me the fucking room.”
After Holland and Cowart shuffle out, Russo closes the door, then walks up to the edge of my desk. The predator-at-leisure expression is gone. The casino owner looks like a lion that could bare his claws and snatch me up by the throat any time he feels like it.
“You’re in the business of printing news,” he says, his Jersey upbringing suddenly evident in his voice. “I get it. You made your bones on some big political scandals. National stuff. But you need to think hard before you take your next step.”
“Tommy—”
“Let me finish, Doc. I’ve only known you five months, but I like you, okay? I respect what you do. We both know the future of this town depends on that paper mill. Also the interstate and the businesses coming in behind it—my new casino, for example. Bienville’s gonna be a showplace, while the rest of this state shrinks and sinks. I know a hometown boy like you don’t want to hurt the town he came from. What the old neighborhood is for me, this town is for you.”
“Tommy . . . I think this town can survive a lot. And I think the Azure Dragon deal can survive you guys taking a few hits.”
He sniffs and looks around my office. “Yeah? Well, maybe what you don’t know is a lot. What you got in your pocket? Some emails?”
“Yeah. Plus bank transfer records, deeds . . . It’s impossible to ignore.”
“That sounds like private information to me.”
“I didn’t steal it. A whistle-blower sent it to me. Fair game.”
“A leaker, you mean.” Russo makes an expression with his mouth that looks copied from Robert De Niro, circa 1974, then tilts his head to one side. “Sounds like maybe I need to call a plumber.”
“I’m not your problem, Tommy. Whoever’s throwing you to the wolves is. I think it’s one of your Poker Club buddies. Now, I need to get back to work.”
He stares down at me awhile longer, then walks to my door and opens it. Before he goes out, he looks back and says quietly: “I don’t fuck with a man’s livelihood if I can help it. I’m in a competitive business, but I don’t hurt nobody unless they come at me first. You’ve come to a fork in the road, my friend. You go one way, life is good. You see your old man out in style, sell this newspaper, head back to the city. But—you take the other road, things maybe don’t turn out so good.”
Russo rotates his flattened hand back and forth. “Anyway, the point I want to leave you with is this: It’s up to you. I’m not telling you which road to take. I’m just saying that whatever happens at the end of it, you got nobody to blame or thank but yourself.” He interlocks his fingers and cracks his knuckles so loudly that I start in my chair. “You have a good day now, Doc. I’ll see ya round the place.”