"You're a banker and should know you never start a business with your own money." He chuckled to soften his somewhat abrupt tone.
"Well… yes, but not many people… Never mind," Lewis gathered himself again before he cleared his throat and stacked the papers he'd printed into a neat pile, removed the disc, and handed it back. "Well, Mr. McFadden, I think you should hear from us really soon. The prospects look good."
"Fantastic," he responded with a smile, pushed from his seat, and shook Lewis’ hand firmly. "I look forward to working with you."
"Yes…indeed." The man rubbed his hand surreptitiously as Taylor left the building and strode out to the parking lot.
He narrowed his eyes as he approached Liz. The vehicle stood out like a sore thumb in the parking lot. He liked driving her, no question about that, but he would need something a little more fuel-efficient and that would be more maneuverable in the city. Maybe a lease, although he did want to have some return on any vehicular investment so it might make more sense to buy used.
But that was an issue for later, he decided, swung into the truck and started her, and eased out of the parking lot to return to his place of business.
Chapter Twelve
She had hoped to have already left Vegas by now. She didn't like the desert. People talked about the dry heat like it somehow mitigated the reality that it was as hot as balls all the live-long day.
Why anyone had elected to settle there and establish a large city that revolved mostly around gambling was beyond her.
Maybe some people simply liked the heat or even thrived in it. Niki knew some who hated the cold with the same kind of passion she felt for the heat.
In her defense, though, if you were in a cold location, there were all kinds of things you could do to counteract it. All were relatively simple—stay indoors, crank the heat up, and wrap yourself in a blanket while you sipped hot tea and you were golden.
Even if you needed to go outdoors, you could always bundle yourself up in a dozen or so layers and that would work too until you were back in the warm confines of the glorious indoors.
On the flip side, there was only so much you could do to counter the heat. There were air-conditioning for the inside and cold as fuck drinks to try to cool off, but once you were outside, there were only so many clothes you could remove before you were arrested for indecent exposure.
Besides, it wasn't like removing clothes really helped at all.
Unfortunately, she had matters she needed to attend to in the glorious city of Las Vegas and for some reason, people insisted on being annoying, which in turn kept her there.
The worst part was the unavoidable reality that the most annoying part of her job was still to come. McFadden had something of a reputation, apparently, based on statements from the people she had spoken to about his gigantic red ass.
By all accounts, he was stubborn, smarter than he let on, and insisted on acting like the barely tamed beast-man he appeared to be. He could have been on wall street based on his SATs and IQ score, but he'd chosen to join the military instead. True, it had ultimately paid dividends for him and he was proving that he knew how to invest the money he'd made in the Zoo, which simply confirmed her first assessment.
If he had elected to work at an investment firm in New York, she wouldn't have to track him to the literal ends of the earth.
That would have been the absolute definition of a win-win scenario, but she was stuck with the hard slog that resulted from his choices. Desk was fucking good at what she did, but when someone seemed to literally drop off the map overnight, even she needed something to work a miracle with.
"I'm sorry, ma'am," a secretary said and placed a hand on Niki's arm. "You can't go in there. District Attorney Goodman is not speaking to the press today."
Niki stared at the hand. "Do I look like press?" she asked and raised an eyebrow.
"I…well…"
The agent shook her head and raised a hand to stop the young assistant from saying anything else before she yanked the badge from her coat pocket. "I need to talk to Goodman about a case he should have on his desk."
"What case?" the woman asked and narrowed her eyes.
"I'm not at liberty to discuss that. Tell him Special Agent Niki Banks is here to see him rather urgently."
"Oh…right." The secretary looked a little put out as she pushed through one of the nearby doors. The office did seem to be in the middle of something significant and most of the assistants and aides rushed about while they talked on phones and seemed to get papers in order. They looked like they were preparing for a large case that was coming up.
Niki didn't know what they were involved with and honestly, she didn't care. DAs dealt with state cases, which the FBI usually had no jurisdiction over. She had no need and no time to stick her nose into their business.
The young woman returned from the office and closed the door behind her. "Mr. Goodman will see you now."
"I appreciate it," she responded and faked a smile as she skirted her to enter the office before she could do something silly like announce her arrival.
There was a literal mountain of paperwork on the desk when she entered. Given that they were in an age when almost everything was done online, she couldn't for the life of her understand why people insisted on keeping their legal business on paper. It was a damn waste of time. So much would be avoided if they simply kept their files digital.
While there obviously were problems with hackers and the like, there were ways to keep that from being a problem too. No, the transition into the new age was hampered by laziness and people who were stuck in the old ways of doing things.
"Special Agent Banks?" the short, stout man with a receding hairline said from behind the desk.
"Thanks for taking the time, Goodman," Niki said. "I don't think I'll take too much of it."
"We're always happy to help our pals in the FBI," he said and gestured for her to take a seat. "With that said, we are in a rush in this office as you’ve no doubt noticed, so I'm sure you can appreciate why I'd want this meeting to be brief as possible."
"Then I’ll keep it short. A file would have come across your desk last night or maybe early this morning regarding an attempted robbery and an arrest involving five… Well, I guess the term 'the usual suspects' applies in this case."
"Oh, right." The DA turned, attacked a stack, and sifted through some of the documents before he drew out a file near the bottom of the pile. "Okay, yes, an arrest last night. Five hoods were beaten by the owner of a property and were brought in by the cops. Open and shut.” He looked up. “What does the FBI want with it?"
"No interest whatsoever in the five criminals you want to prosecute. My issue is with the man who was involved."
"Is he…well, what about him?"
"I'm afraid I'm not at liberty to discuss the details of it," Niki said firmly. "But the long and the short of it is that the man in question, Taylor McFadden, is something of a critical player in a federal operation. The kind of player who can't be involved in the arrest of local toughs."
"I understand." He leaned forward. "How can I help?"
"I merely need his name removed from the record—redacted, cut, or simply not mentioned."
"We…uh, well, we need him for the case against those men," Goodman protested.
"All but one of them have already contacted their lawyers and filed for some kind of deal that involves confessions and lesser jail time," she pointed out. "The other… Well, he's either loyal or afraid. Either way, the video footage involved should be enough to encourage his lawyer to cut a deal too. I don't want to tell you how to do your job but I need you to keep Taylor McFadden's name off the file."
The man nodded. "Understood."
"I'll owe you a favor, Goodman," Niki said. "Having a federal agent owe you a favor is no small thing."
"I understand that, Special Agent, and I appreciate your consideration," he replied smoothly. "Anything to help a fellow law enforcement officer, right?"
"Correct," she agreed with another fake smile.
She left his office, ignored the assistant who hovered in the hallway, and strode out toward the elevator. That had gone swimmingly, she thought smugly.
Maybe her people skills were improving after all? Now, all she had to do was make one final call to McFadden and all would be right with her world.
Her phone vibrated with a message as she stepped into the elevator and she pulled it out with a frown, almost tempted to simply ignore it. Fortunately, she didn’t.
Her boss did not like to be ignored. Her frown became a scowl when she realized that yet again, she had to put her potential new recruit on hold while she dealt with the latest clusterfuck long-distance. It would take hours to resolve too and she’d have to go back to her hotel to do so.
So much for finally seeing the end of her frustrating quest and fucking going home.
It was another long, productive day for Taylor.
The approval for the loan had come through about half an hour after he had left the bank and they’d sent him the number for the account in which the money would be deposited. There would be credit available in the bank as well, and credit cards would be sent in the mail in two or three business days.
The bank appeared happy to have him as a client. Initially, he’d wondered if Lewis had perhaps viewed him as a charity case—a military man they would assist with finance as part of a PR campaign.
He chuckled at the idea of him in the bank's national commercials about how they supported the military or something along those lines.
Once it was clear that he wasn't there for a handout and could prove to be a valuable client, things moved swiftly. In the meantime, he did eventually find the boiler room in the basement of the grocery store. He fixed what he could but parts were missing and would arrive the next day via mail order.
For the moment, though, he was not in the mood for takeout food. He made a quick trip in the truck to Jackson's. This time, hopefully, things wouldn't turn out the way they had the last time.
Well, the drinking and the food had been damn good but being the replacement bouncer had intruded—although, he admitted to himself with a grin, that had also been fun.
He pulled the truck into the parking lot and activated the alarm and security before he wandered toward the entrance. He could see a powerful, six-foot-eight man standing in what looked like a uniform suit with the Jackson's logo on the front.
"Evening." Taylor nodded. "Marcus, right?"
"And you must be Taylor McFadden," the linebacker said with a small grin.
"I…did we ever actually meet?" he asked and wondered how he could have forgotten it.
"Nah, but Alex told me about how you filled in for me when I was out with family issues."
"Right, but how did you—"
"How many big fucking redheads do you think come to this bar?" Marcus interjected.
"Uh…yeah, good point. I hope the family issues have since been resolved."
"Well, it'll be a while, but she’s on the road to recovery.” He gestured towards to the door with his head. “Have a great evening."
"I appreciate it, Marcus, you too." He patted the giant of a man on his shoulder before he stepped inside to be greeted by the comfortable sight of the green and gold everywhere.
It looked a little fuller than it had been the last time he was there. Closer to the weekend, people tended to spend more time getting shitfaced, he assumed.
"Hey, Taylor!" Alex called from behind the bar. "Take a seat, hon. I'll be right with you."
He did as he was told and chose one of the bar stools while she refilled glasses for some of the other customers who were too busy playing video poker to look up and thank her. For a moment, he had to resist the urge to make a caustic comment that he hoped they would leave a sizable tip for their bartender.
Once she was finished, she turned to face him.
"How are you doing?" she asked. "Beer and whiskey sour, right?"
"I think I'll start with a beer and see where the night goes. Thanks, Alex. How the hell have you been?"
"It’s all busy shifts and working on my studies so I haven’t had much in the way of any time off," she said. "Not that I really do much with that time anyway, so it's all for the best I suppose."
"I'll take your word for it," he said and reached for his wallet as she placed a glass in front of him.
"Don't worry about this one," she told him. "Marcus said he would cover your first drink for helping me out the other day."
"You guys need to stop giving me free shit. Otherwise, I might not even bring my wallet here the next time around." He grinned and took a sip of his beer.
"Oh, you still owe me for the tip, mister man," she retorted warningly. "Don't think you can pull any of that cheapskate bullshit on me, even if you do get some free drinks."
"And food," he reminded her.
"Don't think you'll get any freebies. Well, aside from the drink, I guess, but no more free food."
"Well, that's fair enough. You guys do run a for-profit place here, I suppose."
"Imagine that."
"Well, I think I'll have something to eat anyway, the fact that I need to pay for it notwithstanding.” He looked around. “I don't suppose you have a menu around here."
She ducked under the bar and retrieved one for him, then moved quickly to where one of the customers asked for another refill on her soda.
"So, what will you have?" she asked when she returned.
"I guess I'll have your chicken fried steak dinner and a side of fries." He closed the menu and pushed it toward her.
"You know we can replace the veggies or the mashed potatoes with the fries?"
"Yeah, but you know me. I have to stay healthy and shit. I have to eat my vegetables."
"Coming right up." She punched the order into the computer to her left. "So, have you found a place to stay yet or are you still hanging out at that hotel?"
"No. I have a place now."
"So, are you settling into the town?"
"You know me, I'm a rambling man." He took another long sip of his beer. "I'll find me a place of business—which is what I did, by the way—but I don't think I'll ever settle down."
"Everyone says that," she pointed out.
"What?"
"Everyone says they don't think they'll ever settle down," she explained. "They love their freedom and will always be a packed suitcase away from hitting the open road to see where the winds take them. Then, they find a place they like, get comfortable, and soon, the idea of an open road simply seems exhausting."
"You sound like you speak from experience." He took a sip of his beer.
"Well, yeah, sure. My folks moved around a ton when I was a kid. They were a musical duo and had to get to gigs and the like all over the damn place and dragged me along with them and even wanted me to make them a trio. They eventually found a place and settled down."
"Fuck me, that sounds like it must have been tough. Especially for your education."
"And yet I still managed to get me a solid slice of that scholarship pie." Her grin was a little smug as one of the wait staff came out with his order. "What does that tell you about how smart I am?"
"In fairness, I never really doubted that you weren’t as smart as a whip." He nodded his thanks to the kid as he placed the two plates on the counter.
She raised an eyebrow. "How smart is a whip?"
"Ask me again when you've been lashed across the face with a bullwhip," he said. "My folks were fairly well-settled and my dad owned a tiny car shop, but my mom's folks had a ranch and she liked to take me and my siblings out there for the weekend."
"Ouch."
"Yeah, I was caught across the cheek when my brother was messing around." He showed her a small yet thick scar across his cheek. "People assume it was from a punch which, in fairness, is a good assumption."
"Well, yeah, I can understand that. A guy who fights like you do probably has scars that have a s
tory or two behind them."
"And you just heard one," he quipped with a nod.
She turned to help one of the customers and his gaze drifted to the TV. They were taking a break from sports for national news. The story in question was happening near Washington DC, indicated by the text at the bottom of the screen.
"Police are looking into a series of deaths in the area about twenty miles from the Pentagon," the cute blonde reporter said. "There has been no comment from the local authorities on what might have been responsible for these deaths and whether it is natural, an animal attack, or maybe perpetrated by a human."
"Do you believe this crap?" Alex asked and scowled at the screen.
"Let's say that my standard for what is believable and what isn't is a little skewed." He narrowed his eyes and focused on the anchorwoman.
"There has been no mention of the condition the bodies are in, but the word from one of the family members who claimed the bodies indicates that they will have a closed casket funeral," the reporter continued.
"And that's simply in bad taste." He growled annoyance and shook his head. "I swear to God they'll do almost anything to get people to watch these days. They've really subscribed to the 'all press is good press' philosophy."
"Agreed," she said and shuddered. "So…do you mind if I ask you a question?"
He shook his head. "Go ahead. I might not answer, though."
"Fair enough. So…what is your problem?"
Taylor narrowed his eyes. "Your question makes sense but the genuinely inquisitive tone doesn't."
"Come on, guys like you don't grow on trees somewhere," she retorted. "They're made—generally in the most fucked-up ways, but still. Take it from someone who’s heard enough sob stories that I might as well charge fees as a therapist as well as a bartender."
"Take it from me, you'd make one hell of a lot more money that way," he pointed out, finished his meal, and started on the fries.
"See what I mean? Regular dudes don't need therapy like that."
"Well, maybe if their parents were rich, fucked-up people," he quipped. "But I'll tell you what. I'm coming in tomorrow and I'll give you another story then. How about that?"
Hired Killer (Cryptid Assassin Book 1) Page 11
