except to see Price Chastain behind bars.
Ross lifted the bottle to his mouth again. The alcohol burned as it went down. The sensation was nothing compared to the anger that burned in his gut at the thought of Chastain finally getting what he deserved.
Price Malcolm Chastain, born Gary Allan Paine, a self-made real-estate magnate who owned a sizable chunk of three boroughs. A glorified slumlord who’d expanded his empire by whatever dirty means necessary. Not to mention an all-around sleazebag, a man with almost as many underworld connections as the mob.
And the person who’d ordered the death of Jed Walsh, the man who’d taught Ross everything he knew and the only person in the world who’d given a damn about him when Ross was nothing but a kid scrambling to get by on the streets.
Of course neither Chastain nor Taylor, his head enforcer, had been charged for anything related to Jed’s death. There’d been no way to prove what everyone knew had happened. That was how it was with Chastain. More than one person who’d stood in the man’s way had wound up dead over the years, yet trouble slid off him like rainwater off a slanted roof. The feds were after him. The New York attorney general wanted a piece of him. After being made a fool of four times, the D.A. would kill for a conviction.
Yet nothing stuck. Ross wasn’t green enough to think the bad guys always got what was coming to them. As much as it stung, he’d finally had to face the fact that Chastain’s reckoning wasn’t coming anytime soon.
Maybe he should have held on to some of that old optimism this time.
The bathroom door swung open. Newcomb stepped out into the main room, tightening his belt with both hands. He cast an appreciative eye around the space.
“I wouldn’t have thought it, but this is a nice setup you’ve got for yourself here. Got myself a bit of land out in Jersey I’m going to develop if I ever get around to retiring. Maybe that day’ll be coming sooner rather than later, huh?”
That same hard gleam, the glitter of satisfaction, burned in Newcomb’s eyes. That Newcomb was so sure Chastain was going down only stoked Ross’s impatience.
If anyone but Ken Newcomb had shown up on his doorstep, Ross wouldn’t have given him the time of day. He wasn’t that comfortable around cops to begin with, despite all the years they’d spent ostensibly working on the same side of the law. He’d spent too many years in his youth outrunning them to feel at ease around them. It was part of what made him so good at his job; he knew what someone desperate to elude the law would do and where he would go. But Newcomb had been the lead detective on Jed’s case, as well as a member of that elite group that wanted Chastain to go down as badly as Ross did, if not more.
“When?” Ross said, cutting right to it.
“Two days, we think.” He eyed the now-empty bottle Ross cradled in both hands. “You got another one of those?”
Ross stalked over to the refrigerator without missing a beat. “You think? ”
Newcomb’s face darkened. “Taylor was supposed to be in court yesterday morning. His lawyer tried covering for him, but it took us about two seconds to figure out he wasn’t in the city anymore.”
“I’d say that was a couple hours too late. You should’ve had a man on him. You had to know he was going to run. He shouldn’t have even been out on bail.”
“You know it and I know it. Try telling that to the judge.”
Ross plunked an unopened bottle of beer on the table in front of Newcomb. “Who is it?”
The detective shook his head as he reached for the bottle, and Ross knew he’d understood the question he’d really been asking. Chastain had gotten away with too much for too long not to have greased a few palms along the way.
“Bernstein’s on the up-and-up,” Newcomb said. “Real hard-nosed law-and-order type. The D.A. was glad to get him. Besides, we were more concerned about Chastain running. He has a lot more to lose.”
“The case is that strong?” After the way Chastain had weaseled out of every charge ever brought against him, Ross couldn’t imagine him consigning himself to a life on the lam unless he was sure he was going down. And Chastain wasn’t one to concede easily.
Newcomb ticked off the evidence on his fingers. “We’ve got the blood on his suit and overcoat. And we’ve got the tape.”
“It’s that good, huh?”
Newcomb took a drink before answering. For the first time Ross sensed a crack in the detective’s confidence. “What?”
Newcomb heaved a sigh. “We don’t have a body, though witnesses spotted Taylor dumping something in the river that night. There’s no sound on the tape of course, which would help lock down the motive if we could hear what they were saying. Plus, it was kind of rainy that night, so Chastain’s lawyer’s probably going to argue we can’t see everything clear to enough to be absolutely sure. Reasonable doubt—you know the drill. His lawyer’s going to try everything he can.”
“So much for that slam dunk, huh?”
Newcomb glowered at him through bloodshot eyes. “He pulls out a gun, shoots her in the chest, she goes down, they drag the body away. It’s all there in black and white. Short of an eyewitness, it’s the best case we’re going to get.”
“Why would Taylor run and not Chastain?”
Newcomb swallowed deeply from the bottle and pulled it away from his lips with a satisfied sigh. “Maybe Chastain still thinks he’s getting off scot-free. He’s a cocky SOB. Taylor’s just a hired gun. He has to know it doesn’t look good. He can either turn on Chastain or he can run. And the last guy who tried to rat out Chastain on this turned up dead.”
“Who?”
“Crowley, the other guy who’d removed Mulroney’s body with Taylor that night. He’d made some noises about wanting to talk to the D.A. Then he turned up dead. Everybody knows who did it.”
“But no way to prove it.”
Newcomb tipped his bottle in acknowledgment.
“So Crowley’s death left Taylor alone to stand trial with Chastain.”
“And maybe Taylor finally figured out that his chances of walking away this time weren’t looking so good.”
“Who’s on the case? Officially, that is.”
“Wes Miller.”
Ross nodded. He knew the other skip tracer. “He’s good. He shouldn’t have trouble finding Taylor. You don’t need me.”
“Miller’s good. You’re the best.”
“Jed was the best.”
“And he taught you everything he knew. More important, you’ve got more incentive than Miller. He’s only in this for the money. This is personal for you. You want Taylor to go down even more than you want Chastain to, and you won’t stop until he’s back here where he belongs. We both know it. That’s why I’m here.”
Damn. Newcomb knew him too well. He knew that
