Blood and Justice: A Legal Thriller (Brad Madison Legal Thriller Series Book 4)

by J J Miller

  “Not just his money. It would double his clients’ money too.”

  I thought about it for a moment and shook my head.

  “No, the way Quinn’s been acting, he’s not at all comforted by the fact that he’s paid his premiums.”

  “Really? That’s interesting,” said Cliff.

  “Can you think of why that would be?” I asked.

  “Hell yeah. Maybe some of the stuff that was stolen, he can’t tell the cops about.”

  “Such as?”

  “Could be anything. Black market weed or cash from the black market. Or even…”

  “What?”

  “Look, this is what I heard but I’ve never seen it. Nate and Bo once said that Quinn would do anything to build his empire and crush Bravo. They believed he was considering getting into meth.”

  “What?”

  “Plenty of it’s being made up in Humboldt. Maybe that van had a secret stash of meth that’s been stolen. That would mean Quinn is not just out of pocket, he’s got a very unhappy client.”

  I didn’t have to think too hard to guess who that might be.

  Chapter 18

  Jack texted me that he’d found some juice on Rollins, and that he’d have a report written up for the morning. It was just after seven and I was about to leave the office for home. I wanted to hear what he had right away.

  “Obviously, it can’t wait till the morning,” he said by way of a greeting. “Or else, you’re sitting in your lonely little office with no one to talk to so you thought you’d pick on me.”

  “That smug thing you’ve got going on with your voice? It makes me want to puke, but I’m prepared to put up with it to hear what you’ve got on Rollins.

  Jack laughed. “Don’t give me that. You’ve just nothing better to do.”

  I could hear voices and music in the background. “Where are you?” I asked.

  “Vinnie’s. It’s a bar on Sunset. You know? Live music? Drinks? Good times? Remember when you used to partake in a little fun, Brad? That kind of bar. Which means, not your kind of bar.”

  “Oh, and you’re the party animal now? Having spent the past six months establishing yourself as the world’s most devoted and sexiest dad.”

  A few weeks back, Megan had shown me a story that a prominent lifestyle blogger had written about Jack, his wife Chanel, their babies, and their idyllic Calabasas home. Most of it was Chanel singing the praises of dreamboat Jack. How hands-on he was, how devoted he was, how lack of sleep never dented his humor, what a great cook he was, how he’d given up drinking during her pregnancy, how he’d… No, I can’t go on. Anyway, the story became something of a viral hit with women all over the world who swooned over this divine specimen of modern-day manhood. They were particularly taken by the photo of the family by the pool, with Jack’s chiseled six-pack snaring the limelight.

  “You saw the blog,” Jack’s said, his voice tinged with unease.

  “Unfortunately, yes. I did see it, and now I can never unsee it. So, world’s best dad, I guess you’ve earned enough brownie points to have a night out.”

  “Yeah, there’s this kid, Marcus King. Sings like Janis Joplin and plays guitar like Albert King. I’d ask you to come down but I know you hate the blues. You’re more a Carpenters guy.”

  “Asshole.” Jack knew full well I was a massive Stevie Ray Vaughan fan. “I’m coming over now.”

  “Really? You don’t want to go home first, do your hair and put on a frock?”

  “No, I’m good. And keep your fantasies to yourself.”

  “I guess chicks do love a suit. But it’s not very rock and roll. I guess you could pass as some kind of A and R guy.”

  “Suits make the world go round, my friend.”

  “Well, get over here and prove it. I’ll be your wingman.”

  Women were the furthest thing from my mind when I called. Now they were not so much.

  Half an hour later, I was walking into Vinnie’s, one of LA’s best live music venues. I weaved through the crowd and found Jack at the bar with a stool waiting for me.

  I ordered a beer and we clinked glasses.

  “You came by yourself, I see,” I said. “Guess that shouldn’t come as a surprise.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with that. I don’t need company to enjoy myself.”

  “That’s news to no one,” I said deadpan before laughing. “So I’m curious. What have you got on Rollins?”

  “I’ll get to that. Have you eaten? I’ve just ordered the house burger.”

  “Sounds good to me.”

  Jack caught the bartender and placed the order. That done, he turned to me. “This Quinn Rollins dude, his story gets more interesting the deeper I go.”

  “That doesn’t surprise me at all.” I gave Jack a quick rundown of what Chip and Cliff had told me. From both accounts it was clear that no matter how much money Rollins was making it was never enough. What was not yet certain was exactly how far he was prepared to go to build his empire.

  “The thing is,” said Jack, “everyone thought HardShell was on this unstoppable roll when it wasn’t.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Look, when Proposition 64 happened, it triggered a green rush. It was like what happened in ’96, when California made medical cannabis legal, but on a much bigger scale. All of a sudden, everyone wanted in, from Mexican mafia to big pharma to college kids with start-up stars in their eyes.”

  “And Rollins’ timing was perfect.”

  “True. And instead of production or retail, he went for the service sector. They say the best business to be in during a gold rush is pans and spades. All the wishful thinkers out digging are just buying into a lottery, you’re supplying them with the tools they have to have. So yeah, he got the timing right and the position right.”

  “And HardShell went gangbusters.”

  “That’s right. But then it started to come off in a big way.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It was thought that illegal growers would go legal under the new law. But it costs a lot of money to go legit. You’ve got high taxes, compliance costs. You’ve got to have seed money and business plans. The expense is prohibitive for most growers. So guess how much of the cannabis market is still illegal?”

  I shrugged my shoulders.

  “Eighty percent. Instead of stamping out the black market, the laws have kept it flourishing. It’s cheaper to buy on the street than to buy in a shop, so these fancy new dispensaries are struggling to survive.”

  “So where does that put Rollins?”

  “Even before he got rolled, his business was hurting. And from what I hear, he wasted no time hedging his bets. He’s been setting himself up to play both sides of the law. On the books, he’s the world’s biggest legal cannabis courier. Off the books, he’s servicing the black market. And for both, he turns profits into digital assets that are as easy to access as an ATM.”

  “So, he’s laundering the proceeds of illegal cannabis while he’s handling the legal cash.”

  “Yes. But that’s not all. I heard he’s handling meth too.”

  “I was told the same. Why take such massive risks?”

  “Because the rewards are so massive.”

  “Ambition’s one thing. This to me sounds like pure, rampant greed.”

  “Greed’s only one of his prime motivators. There’s also revenge and hate. You ever heard of Bravo Security?”

  “As a matter of fact, I have. It’s run by a guy named David McClean. He’s a fierce rival of Rollins.”

  “That’s right. They used to run a business together—a security consultancy serving mining and construction companies in Iraq. They fell out badly, each accusing the other of syphoning off funds. They actually came to blows inside the US base at Abu Ghraib. Had to be pulled apart. They were fit to destroy each other. And that’s been their mission ever since.”

  I told Jack I’d heard Nate and Bo might be up to no good with a couple of Bravo guys.

 
“Well, it works any way you want to twist it. One way is that McClean planned the heist to deal Rollins a critical blow. And if Rollins caught wind of it, who’s to say he didn’t drop the two employees he thought were traitors and frame Chip to cover his tracks.”

  “So, Chip was his sacrificial lamb?”

  “Could be. But that’s just one way to look at it. The whole thing’s as murky as a Louisiana swamp.”

  “How do you know Rollins is into meth?”

  “Let’s just say a not-so-little birdy told me.”

  “Jack, it’s me asking. I want to know where you got this info.”

  “Why?”

  “For all I know, it could just be lies spread by McClean.”

  “Could be. But I don’t think so.”

  “Who are you getting this stuff from? A reporter?”

  “If I tell you, you have to promise me you won’t…”

  “Brad?”

  A woman’s voice came from my right shoulder. It was a voice I recognized instantly. A warm voice, slightly husky. A voice I wasn’t ready for.

  Chapter 19

  “Abby,” I said as easily as I could summon, as though the sudden pulses of disquiet and delight running through my body at the sight of her didn’t throw me in the slightest.

  How long had it been since I’d laid eyes on that stunning face, those alluring eyes? How long since I’d inhaled her scent?

  Oh yeah, that’s right. It was seven years ago. When Hollywood darling Abby Hatfield told me she’d decided to call time on us because she’d met someone else. She added that she felt I wasn’t ready for a serious relationship so soon after splitting up with Claire. That was news to me. Anyway, the someone else she dumped me for turned out to be Tommy de Franco, one of her co-stars in the monumentally huge blockbuster Sister Planet franchise. So ended my foray into the fold of Hollywood celebrity. I was pretty bent out of shape by it all, as I was under the impression that we were very much into each other. Turns out I was wrong. Later, I saw somewhere that they got married.

  “Nice to see you,” was the next thing that came out of my mouth, and it lacked conviction. It was both a truth and a lie.

  Suddenly, in the middle of having a rational work chat with my buddy, I was compelled to deal with the kind of emotions that refused to yield to logic, the kind that bore a will of their own, no matter how many times over the years I thought I’d bashed them into submission.

  Before I could come up with another brilliantly smooth line, Abby jumped in. She didn’t look awkward in the slightest. She just looked perfectly pleased to see me in a platonic way, as though that was the natural state of the world.

  “Are you here to see Marcus King? Oh my God, isn’t he amazing? Are you a fan.”

  Abby and I had never reached the stage of exchanging mixed tapes, or Spotify playlists, or whatever is the done thing is these days.

  “I don’t know yet, to be honest,” I said. “I’m just tagging along with Jack. He’s the fan. You remember Jack?”

  “Of course,” she said. “So the dynamic duo are out on the town?”

  “Well, I was until he decided to gatecrash,” said Jack. “He didn’t come here for the music. He came to talk shop.”

  Abby looked at me fondly and put her hand on my shoulder. “Of course he did. Lawyer man’s never off the clock.”

  I felt her hand linger. And the way she looked at me laughing, there was no pretending from her end that we were not once close, that there was a time when we could not keep our hands off one another. Her expression was so warm and candid, I had to almost scream at myself that there was no way she was flirting with me. She was just being nice. She was being a grown-up.

  Since I was too stupid to do so, Jack offered Abby a drink.

  “I can’t stay,” she said. “I’m with a friend. But what about later?” she said looking at me. “I know it’s a school night, but do you want to meet up after the show? I can get us backstage.”

  “Are you in tight with the band?” asked Jack.

  “My friend is. He and Marcus went to school together.” I looked to where Abby’s head had turned. There was a good-looking guy in his mid-twenties at a table. That didn’t look like the co-star Abby had married.

  “Thanks but I’ve got a big day tomorrow,” I lied. It was just a normal day. A normal twelve-hour day that I was only happy to put in to keep myself occupied. I might as well have said, no thanks, I need my beauty sleep.

  The brightness of her smile dimmed a little. It wasn’t that I felt I couldn’t be platonic with Abby. The stronger feeling was that I just didn’t trust myself to be around her, to enjoy her company and make the mistake of thinking that it might be something more. At once I wanted to pull her close and walk away. And the smartest option in my mind was to do the latter. Say goodbye, leave, and hopefully never see her again for another few years.

  “Well, maybe we could grab a drink on a non-school night?”

  There was a moment’s pause as I stopped myself from agreeing instantly. The question, “Aren’t you married?” came to mind but to ask it would have been presumptuous, not to mention prudish.

  “Sure. Why not?” I said with a distinct lack of commitment.

  “Uh, okay then,” Abby said, almost officiously. “Good seeing you, Brad. You too, Jack. Enjoy the show.”

  With that Abby left and walked back over to her friend. I watched as she got there. It looked like he asked something along the lines of, “Who were those guys?” I saw her shake her head and pick up her drink.

  A surge of anger welled up inside me, directed at no one but myself. With some effort, I pushed all thoughts of Abby out of my mind and turned to Jack. He gave me a quizzical look and shook his head.

  “What were you thinking, dude? She’s still into you,” he said.

  His words were nice to hear but unwelcome as well.

  “No she’s not. She’s married. We were done a long time ago.”

  “I didn’t see a ring,” Jack said.

  “I didn’t even look. And that doesn’t mean shit.”

  “You’re an idiot.”

  This was a well-meaning jibe but it gave me the opening to direct my anger elsewhere. I took a big swig of beer.

  “Listen, these biker friends of yours,” I said sternly. “The ones who told you all about Rollins.”

  “I never said they were bikers.”

  “You didn’t have to.” I was bluffing, running off what could best be described as a calculated guess. “Which gang, Jack?”

  Jack stood straighter. He shook his head soberly. “You know I can’t tell you that.”

  “Yes, you can. You just don’t want to.”

  “You’re half right. I don’t want to because you’ll go and do something stupid.”

  “It’s the Iron Raiders, isn’t it?”

  Jack’s face went blank. He picked up his beer. I was right.

  “And you know, don’t you?”

  “Know what?”

  “That they paid me a visit.”

  Now Jack looked genuinely confused. “They said nothing about you.”

  “They warned me off Chip’s case. Basically said they’d kill me if I took it on.”

  “Why would they do that?”

  “I have no idea. I can only think they don’t want Chip to get off. They want him left hung out to dry with some useless judge-appointed lawyer.”

  “Like I said. They said nothing specific about you.”

  Thinking about the bikers, an idea came to me. Call it an idea. Call it inspiration. Call it leverage.

  Or it might just be a dumb impulse that could get me killed. I drained my beer.

  “Come one, let’s go,” I said.

  “Go where, exactly?”

  “We’re going to go see them.”

  “No way. I’m not taking you there. They’ll beat the shit out of both of us.”

  “No they won’t,” I said as I got to my feet. I stood there waiting to see if Jack was going to follow suit.
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  “What about the band?”

  “Fuck the band. We’ve got work to do. A guy’s life is riding on me, on us, doing our jobs.”

  Jack threw the remainder of his beer down and got to his feet.

  “Shouldn’t you be wearing a cape or some shit? Let’s go, Batman.”

  As we made for the exit, I saw Abby’s head turn in my peripheral vision.

  To hell with her.

  Chapter 20

  I guided my Mustang GT eastward along the Ventura Freeway. It not only felt good to open up the throttle of my pride and joy, it felt good putting distance between me and Abby. It was like I’d left my confusion back there in that bar with her, while I proceeded elsewhere charged with renewed focus. Jack and I didn’t speak for the first ten minutes of the trip, save for him confirming the Raiders’ clubhouse was in Ventura. I did wonder if the biker who crushed my neck would be there be there, and what he’d do if he laid eyes on me.

  “Jack.”

  “Yup.”

  “How many Raiders did you get that info from?”

  “Just one.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Jeff.”

  “What’s he look like?”

  Jack looked at me. “He looks like a fucking Calvin Klein model. Waxes all over. Just the way you like it. Nutsack and all.”

  I kept my eyes, which had started to water, on the road. “Dude, I’m serious.”

  “He’s average. Average height. Average weight. Long black hair with some shit tattooed on his face.”

  Well, that wasn’t one of the guys who paid me a visit.

  “Will he be there at the clubhouse, you think?”

  “Probably.”

  “Do you want to let him know we’re coming?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because no one knows he’s my contact. And all he’s going to do is tell me to stay the fuck away.”

  I thought about it for a moment as I changed lanes to overtake a semi-trailer. “Okay,” I said. “Just thought I’d ask.”

  “We’re going to get the shit beat out of us. You know that, right?”

  “That’s not part of the plan, Jack.”

  We spent the rest of the trip in silence, during which I made mental notes to prepare myself for some fast, persuasive talking. Of course, I questioned the wisdom of my idea but I was convinced I had to go through with it.