“What kind of dirt?” Brick asked.
“Seems that the boss called him to pick him up at the airport a few months back. He wasn’t due back in Chicago for another three days. When he got there, Vorhees took his car and told him to catch a ride home. Never saw his car again. It was a Chevy Tahoe.”
Brick’s mind ran through the timing.
“Fuck,” he swore.
“Senator Vorhees was so appreciative he gave the guy a brand new Escalade.”
“That still doesn’t prove anything,” Brick pointed out, frustration rising.
“I’d be inclined to agree if I didn’t have pictures on my phone of the wreck. Tracked it down to a junkyard in the ’burbs. Looks like it hit something head-on. I also have the Lyft receipt of our friend getting picked up from the airport that night.”
This was something. Something he could work with.
“Will he talk?” Brick demanded.
“I’m working on that. If there’s money in it for him, he has no problem singing like a goddamn canary. But it’s going to take some time to make him comfortable with the idea of the cops.”
“Make him.”
“This takes finesse, son. I’ll do my best.”
Great. Brick’s best shot at ending this before Vorhees came hunting was to trust his unreliable father to deliver results without leading a madman straight to Mackinac.
“He also mentioned he’s seen the senator get a little rough with his wife,” William added. “Didn’t go so far as to say he beats her. But he and some other team members have noticed it.”
Without Camille’s corroboration, they still had a whole lot of unsubstantiated rumors. It wasn’t enough, but it was something.
“Okay,” he breathed into the phone. “Okay. Let’s see where this lead goes. I’ll see about wiring some money if that’s what it’s going to take to get him to talk.”
“This girl must really mean something to you,” William observed. The smile Brick heard in his father’s voice annoyed him.
“My feelings for Remi have nothing to do with bringing a man to justice.”
“Of course not,” William replied, sounding smug. “But you have to know that paying a witness for testimony would shoot more holes in your case than a slice of swiss cheese.”
“Fine. Then I’ll make him talk.”
“Let me handle it. I’ll see what I can do.”
Brick blew out a breath. “Keep me posted,” he said.
“Will do.”
He disconnected before his father could switch back to small talk mode.
Looking around him at the storefronts, glass gleaming, products positioned just so, restaurants with their specials boards, he felt a rising sense of helplessness.
He needed to see her. Needed to touch her and remind himself that she was safe, for now. She was safe and she was here. For now.
Brick unhitched Cleetus from the post on the street and pointed him in the direction of home.
He was just jogging up the porch steps when his front door opened and a miserable-looking Kyle Olson stepped outside.
“Olson,” Brick said.
“Callan.” Kyle was dressed down in jeans and a hooded sweatshirt. An odd outfit for a trial lawyer on a Wednesday. He looked like he wanted to say something. Brick hoped he wouldn’t because he still felt pissed off enough to punch someone.
“I just don’t know what she wants from me, man,” Kyle said, shoving a hand through his thick blond hair, making it stand up on end.
Brick stifled a groan.
“When we were engaged, she wanted to be a mom and stay home and raise a family. She wanted to live here on this fucking expensive-ass island. So that’s what we did. Now, it’s not good enough. I became a trial lawyer because I needed the salary to pay off student loans and make everything else on Kimber’s wishlist happen. And now it’s not good enough.”
All he wanted to do was go inside and grab his girl.
“People change,” Brick observed.
“I get that. But how about a heads-up? How about giving me a shot to play catch up?”
Brick knocked his head back against one of the porch supports. “I don’t want to get involved.”
“My wife and kids and dog are living in your house. You’re involved.”
“I don’t want to get involved, but from the outside, she’s been giving you nothing but heads-ups for the past few years,” he said stonily. “You’re the one who ignored them. You’re the one who decided to be a lawyer first and everything else second. No woman wants to come in second place with her husband. No mother wants her kids to come in second with their father.”
“So what the fuck do I do?”
“Fix it,” Brick said and stomped past him into the house.
“Remi?” he bellowed from the foyer. Mega raced toward him, barking. When the dog reached him, he stopped, licked Brick’s hand, and then trotted into the dining room to collapse in a sunbeam.
“She’s in the studio,” Kimber called back from the bowels of the house.
He stuck his head in the living room. Kimber had taken over the round pedestal table next to the bookcases. She was frowning at her laptop, printouts and folders covering the tabletop.
“What’s all this?” he asked.
“A little project I’m working on,” she said, looking up from the screen. Her eyes narrowed. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.”
“You look like something’s wrong.”
“I just ran into your husband on the porch.”
She shrugged. “Who knew all I needed to do to get him to take a day off was ask for a divorce?” she said grimly.
“Are you sure Remi’s in the studio?”
On cue, the music changed, and they heard Remi belt out a few Missy Elliott verses.
“Yeah. Pretty sure,” Kimber said. “What did she do now?”
“Nothing. Everything is fine. Why do you ask?”
“Usually it’s only my sister that can put that half pissed-off, half panicked look on your face.”
“Everything is fine,” he repeated.
She raised an eyebrow. “You know, you can trust us to worry with you. You don’t have to carry it alone. She’s my sister.”
He still itched to see her, to poke his head in the doorway of the studio and make sure she was there. Safe. His.
“I know,” he said finally. “It’s under control.”
She pinned him with a mom look. “Are you forgetting who my mother is? My sister and I don’t need to be protected from the truth.”
In the past, he’d found that giving Remi the least amount of information possible had helped keep her in line. It’s when she knew what dangers lay ahead that she made some of her worst choices.
But Kimber was another story.
“The plan is to stop him before he ever comes near Mackinac, let alone this house,” he told her.
“Judging from the look on your face, it’s not going well,” she guessed.
The song in the studio changed to something with a thrumming beat. It tugged at him, pulling him toward Remi.
“It’s a slower process than I’d like it to be.” It was as much as he was willing to give her.