These people are sick and ruthless. They have money, connections, and will do anything to protect those interests and their own asses. They wouldn’t flinch at killing Robert Justice or anyone else for that matter.
“Of course you speak Patois,” Pearl snarls when I turn to her.
“Jamaican born,” I explain.
Portmore, Jamaica, to be more specific, although I did most of my growing up in Kentucky. My mother moved us there when I was only three but continued to speak Patois at home.
“What did he say?”
“The kid was dropped off on Key West. That’s all he was willing to tell me.”
“He’s back in the U.S.?”
“So it seems.”
She mutters a string of unladylike expletives before she turns on her heel and heads for the parking lot.
“Hey!” I call, jogging after her. “Wanna grab some lunch? I know a place—”
“I have to pack,” she says, already getting into her rental vehicle.
Of course she has an excuse ready.
Don’t know why I even bother trying to be friendly, she obviously hates my guts.