Private: #1 Suspect

CHAPTER 116

“Take a look at this,” I said to Tommy.

I cued my iPhone to Mo-bot’s video and handed the gadget to my brother. He pushed the “play” button, and I heard the tinny sound of reporters shouting to get my attention outside my office on a day I would never forget.

“This is you being taken to the hoosegow,” my brother said. “That’s a rough crowd.”

“Keep looking. You see someone we know?”

“Huh. Clay Harris. What’s he doing there?”

“He works for you, Tom.”

“Part-time. He’s a charity case, believe me.”

“So you had nothing to do with him being there?”

“Hell, no. What are you saying? That I knew you were going to jail? And that I called Clay? Why would I do that?”

“Let’s go talk to him,” I said.

“Now?”

“No better time than now.”

“If you say so. I’ll tell Annie I’m going out for a while. I’ll meet you at the car.”

A few minutes later, Tommy met me in the driveway. He was wearing a jacket, different shoes. He walked around to the back of my car.

He ran his hand over the Lambo’s left rear haunch and along the crease to the door. His jacket fell open, and I saw the gun stuck in his waistband.

“Christ,” he said. “What the hell happened to your car?”

“I went to the supermarket. When I came out…”

“I’ve got a great body shop guy. I’ll give you his number. But as good as Wayne is, this is never going to look the same again,” Tommy said. “It’s a damned shame.”

“Get in, will you?”

“Are you allowed to drive?”

“Get in. Try not to shoot yourself in the dick.”

Tommy got into the car. I pulled out onto West Sixth, toward the 5 going north. I figured it would be forty-five minutes to Santa Clarita at this time of night.

“Why do you want to talk to Clay?” Tommy asked me.

Clay Harris had worked for my father as an investigator, and when I took over Private, he was on the payroll.

I didn’t like him, but he was great at surveillance. He could stay on a tail or sit in a vehicle for days at a time. He looked like an unemployed factory worker, could blend into a crowd on the street. And he knew his way around electronics.

But he was a cheat and a liar.

Clay Harris had fattened his expense report. He had done work on the side. And one day he sold photos of a client in a compromising position. I found out.

That’s when I fired him.

Next day, Harris went to Tommy, who gave him a job.

Thinking about him now, standing in the crowd, smirking as I was marched off to jail, put Clay Harris in a new category. He disliked me. He had the skills to hurt me. And I couldn’t say murder was out of his league.

I said to Tommy, “I want to talk to Clay about Colleen.”