If I Should Die_ A Novel of Suspense - Allison Brennan [87]
“Here’s what I know. You’re a smart criminal. I saw that right off in your file. No, I’m not stroking your ego, because I also think you’re an asshole for manufacturing drugs. My sister died of a drug overdose. If I thought for a minute that you were part of her supply chain, I’d shoot you now. So we’ll call you a smart prick.”
No man likes being called a prick. Swain’s tell manifested itself. Very subtle—he was good—but Sean was better. He’d played poker with his brothers for years and always won. Even his brother Kane the badass mercenary had a tell, though it took Sean years to figure it out.
Swain’s tell was in his hands. They were cuffed in front of him. When Sean called him a prick, his right index finger tapped once on the table.
“If I weren’t in prison, I’d kill you.”
“You might try,” Sean said smoothly. “So back to the vandalism. It wasn’t smart. In fact, it was amateur hour.”
“You’re boring me, Rogan.”
“Your son led me on a pretty good chase. Over the hills and through the woods to the ventilation shaft on Travers Hill.”
No reaction.
“He busted the oil tank of the ATV he’d stolen and it stalled out. He was scared and defiant with a mouth on him. I liked him, I’ll admit. And he was smart—tricked me, and I fell down the mine shaft.”
Swain smiled, but his finger was steady. He didn’t know about the body in the mine.
“So I was pissed off. Tracked him down. Told him I would help, that I could protect him if he turned in whoever he was working for.”
“You sure you’re not a cop?” Swain grunted.
“I wouldn’t trust just anyone to protect the kid, not with what I think is going on. Unfortunately, he got some bad news yesterday and disappeared.”
Swain stared at him. “You claim to not like to play games, that you’re going to lay it out for me. Then you play a fucking game. Spit it out or I swear I’ll take you down. Where is my son?”
Sean leaned forward. “Jimmy Benson is dead. His truck went off the bridge in Colton, right in the lake. The evidence points to suicide or drunk driving. He sped up and intentionally went over the edge.”
“Get out.” Swain’s voice was barely a whisper.
Sean leaned forward. “If you loved your wife and don’t want her son dead you’ll tell me what the fuck is going on in Spruce Lake. Or I’ll assume you’re behind it and beating up your kid is simply a life lesson you’re trying to teach him. Why would Jimmy kill himself?”
Swain lunged forward. Sean didn’t flinch. He knew if Swain got his hands on him, the guard would be in the door in two seconds. He prayed Patrick was able to hold him back now.
“I’ll kill you!”
“Better men have tried.”
Swain was red-faced. “Anyone touches my son, I’ll slit their throat.”
“From prison? That would be a neat trick.”
“Let me rephrase,” he said with forced calm, working to control his rage, “I’ll have their throat slit.”
“I think I have the answers,” Sean said, pulling together the information he did have and bluffing about the rest.
“You know shit.”
“I know that someone turned state’s evidence on you, and I think you know who it is.”
Swain was shaking his head.
“And you had damning information on this person, so damning that even though they fucked you and you ended up in prison, they couldn’t take over your operation.”
The finger tapped once.
“I don’t know what information you have to keep this person in line,” Sean said. “I suspect it’s physical evidence, something that can’t degrade. Tapes, disks, a computer hard drive, maybe photos, something that experts could prove weren’t doctored. And you used that info to protect your son.” He paused. “I read the letters your wife wrote to Ricky.”