There was a reason no one messed with Jack Phelps. A single call from him could make or unmake a man. Yet people respected his strength and politics—he got the job done, and sometimes the ends justified the means when it meant jobs, better healthcare, and safer schools. All of her research over the next few hours led her to believe they dealt with an implacable enemy.

"Mam?" an officer drew Colt's attention shortly after lunch.

"A corpse turned up floating in the bay; forensics say he was shot with the weapon used in the club but executed a day before the incident in the club and the same afternoon the key was created. The perp's a known gunslinger." He showed her a picture, and she frowned. "Thank you, Officer Charles."

"The sister is on her way to the station; she said she wants to speak to you and Boss," the officer said and left.

"Do you know her?" Gillian asked.

"Yes, Betty is a hooker and a regular. Her street name is Ebony B, but she's something else. If she tells you something, you can take it to the bank. She's odd that way and has a thing about 'lying for real,' meaning that part of her life that has nothing to do with John's. If she wants to talk to us, she'll have something to say."

***

Gillian watched from the other side of the mirrored glass as Boss and Colt listened to Betty, their frowns turning to scowls, but it surprised them as Hoight walked in a minute later, nodded at them, and sat beside Betty.

"Betty, I've known you since you were fourteen. I'll show you a couple of pictures, and you tell me if the man you spotted leaving with your brother, the boy on the bike, is one of these.

Gillian didn't expect Hoight to do this himself, but if push came to shove, he would have to be the one making decisions that could end his career and those of Boss and Colt.

Betty studied each picture as he placed them on the table, not indicating who he thought she was looking for. She waited until he positioned the last one before pointing out Jacob Phelps without hesitation.

"That him, but dressed all ratty like a Latino, hoodie and all. Tagged him for a rich white boy right away," Betty pulled the photo closer.

"Do you know who he is?" Hoight asked in his gruff quiet way, and she shook her head.

"Don't watch much TV, and I never read a paper. There's enough bad out there without bringing it into one's mind... My brother wasn't all bad. I loved him, and this boy had no right to kill him. Who gonna protect me now?" She turned those ebony eyes to them.

Even at age twenty-five, the ravages on her fine, ebony skin and skinny frame spoke as loudly as the shadows in that bottomless gaze, whispering of suffering, horror, and abuse. Without her brother, she was defenseless, soul-sick, and utterly lonely.

"Did he see you?" Colt asked.

Hoight glanced at Colt, understanding what she really asked.

"No, I know better than to let the customers see me. I don't want to be none of the business of a man who has business with buying a gun off the books." Her street logic was self-defeating, but it made a certain kind of sense.

"Will you testify to that?" Boss intervened, and Hoight glanced at him with a sullen, broody frown.

"I'll do you one better. Wily Willy was into insurance, and if he didn't like the look of someone, he taped the transaction so he had leverage in case the client gave him problems. Find Willy's car, there's a hidden camera, and your little white boy will be on it," Betty gathered her purse, her slightly shaky hands, and the fine sheen of sweat on her brown betraying more than trauma and fear.

Hoight shook his head.

"Betty, you can't leave until we find that tape. You may be the only witness to your brother's murder, and you owe him this," Hoight reasoned, and Betty would have protested, but with the two men staring at her, she nodded, her lips tight and her jaw clenched.

"He that dangerous?" Her shrewd question made the men nod. There was no point in lying to the woman; it would only sow distrust.

"Fine, but I'm hungry, and I want someplace to sleep," she demanded, and they rose as one.

Gillian watched Betty march outside, and it was better that she didn't know what this was really all about. She might not be so willing if she learned the truth. It still felt like lying but did Betty need to learn that her brother was instrumental in the mass murder of innocent people?

***

Four hours later, they watched the HD-rendered, perfectly intact video of Wily Willy's last moments.

Who would have thought a thug would spring to install a waterproof, shockproof camera the size of a pin into the blue Smurfette doll hanging from his mirror?

It was perfectly angled to catch everything, including Junior Phelps emptying the gun into Willy as he turned to get into his car, and Gillian noticed the borrowed bike standing off to one side.

"The image quality on this is excellent and as good as gold. Willy even had a sticker on the bumper that said there was a camera onboard, but his killer either didn't see it or thought it was a joke," Colt said as they reviewed the images on her computer. "Willy provided us with a full facial shot of Junior, black shades hiding his eyes but not fooling facial recognition, even with a hoodie covering his hair and forehead."

The film lasted long enough to show junior dumping Willy into the river, besides which they were doing business less than three minutes before.

"That is damned cold," Hoight said, tugging at his tie.

The slow-flowing water churned sluggishly beneath the old bridge as Phelps weighed Willy down with a set of chains and a piece of girder lying beside the neglected pier

"Is it just me, or does he seem too damned comfortable doing this?" Hoight asked.

"It isn't just you, sir," Colt agreed.

"He's as cool as a cucumber," Boss said, "Not even nervous enough to glance around and make sure nobody saw him."

"Who's that?" Gillian asked, drawing their attention to a second boy arriving from off-camera, loading the bike onto a trailer, and driving off.

"It looks like Mike," Colt said.

"No, that isn't Mike," Gillian said without a doubt.

"That is Preston Scott, the son of Dan Scott, the Industrial Billionaire. He was implicated in the murder of four campers during the summer but acquitted of all charges. Needless to say, good cops got fired, and the police had to cough up millions in libel. One of those cops was my first partner, Dan Jacobs," Boss said, his lips tight, his eyes squinted, hardness and tension creeping into his manner.

"Scott doesn't own a truck with that partial plate and fitting the description. But there are only seven of the same make vehicle in the state, and three of them belong to people going to university with Jacob. The partial plate matches two, but the color narrows it down to one," Colt said. "Mackenzie Hail, the only heir of Hail industries."

"Wasn't he the main suspect in the killing of his girlfriend, her twin sister, and their friend on an island vacation in Hawaii?" Gillian asked, checking her phone.

"You are right, and he got off scot-free, too," Colt confirmed.

"It was all over the news for a while," Gillian said. "Is it me, or is this all making a sick kind of sense? One killed three, another killed four, and one went for the jackpot—his killing total having risen to fourteen." Gillian's words brought their attention to her as everything came to a standstill in the closed boardroom.

"Slap me silly and call me Tilly. How the fuck did this happen?" Hoight asked.

"And if it weren't for Willy, we wouldn't even suspect the truth," Boss confirmed.

"Are you telling me this is a game? Bored rich kids are killing people and getting away with it?" colt asked, rubbing her temple as if she couldn't wrap her head around it.

"Play the rest of the tape. Let's make sure we miss nothing, and no one learns what we suspect until we have our ducks in a row," Hoight said, undoing his cuffs and rolling up his sleeves. He glanced at Gillian again. "You'll do just fine. They did more than send me something pretty, after all."

She didn't expect him to say that, and it took her a moment to turn her eyes toward the computer to watch the car drive down a warren of alleys.

They watched as the car on the computer drove off down a warren of alleys. As she did, her eyes caught in those of Boss, and she couldn't read his expression. It was almost as if something about her didn't add up for him. She avoided his gaze, uncomfortable under his intense scrutiny. She couldn't help seeing him as a man, but she couldn't ignore that more than being her superior and out of her league, he was human. Humans and the supernatural did not mix, plus he probably saw her as a kid.

The camera kept filming until the batteries died.

"We would never have found the vehicle if Willy hadn't installed a GPS device. It was connected to his actual phone, the one he left at home for his girlfriends to call," Colt told them as she closed the file and copied it onto a thumb drive.

"Don't forget that we would know Jack Shit if Betty hadn't had the guts to tell us," Hoight reminded.

***

Gillian listlessly typed keywords into her search engine as they waited for the warrants to come through. Colt seemed agitated, her body stiff, shoulders squared, jaw tight, and manner terse. They were all strung out, and if not for a direct order from Hoight, they would camp outside those high, imposing house gates on their bulletin board instead of cooling their heels in the office.