by Logan Ryles
Reed averted his eyes and crossed his arms. “Kelly.”
Banks tipped the bowl up and sucked down the broth, then wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “Did you love her?”
Reed thought back to the last time he saw Kelly, standing by her kitchen counter, just the hint of a baby belly building beneath her shirt. She looked different than she had in Monaco— less fit, a lot less wild. She wasn’t the girl who rescued him from the French police, but she resembled her.
“Yes,” he said. “I loved her. I was never in love with her, but I cared about her very deeply.”
“Huh, isn’t that nice. Guess that didn’t work out for her either.”
Reed gritted his teeth and stood up. “I’m sorry, Banks. I lied to you, I hurt you, and I hurt those closest to you. I’m a despicable, deplorable human being. There’s nothing more I can say. I came here because I felt like you deserved the truth and an apology. I’ll go now. Good luck with everything.”
Reed started for the door, his own words echoing in his ears, ripping deeper than hers had.
“If what you say is true, those people are still alive. The people who killed my father.”
Reed stopped and put his hands in his pockets. “Yes.”
Banks stood up, and he turned to see her bright blue eyes blazing fire toward him.
“Then you’re not going anywhere until you bring me justice. Am I clear?”
Reed nodded slowly. “Yes . . . you’re clear.”
“Great. I’m going to change. I hope you know where to start.”
He didn’t hesitate. “Vanderbilt University. We’re starting at the beginning.”
“What the hell is this thing?”
Banks stood back from the Camaro, her arms crossed as she glared down at the car. She wore a loose Guns N’ Roses T-shirt that fell over one shoulder, with torn-out jeans and tennis shoes. The color had balanced in her face, but he could still detect the effort it took for her to make every step.
“Camaro Z/28. Slightly modified.”
“You drive it like you drove my Beetle?”
“It’s a little faster than your Beetle.”
“A little less destroyed, too.”
Reed chose to ignore the comment and unlocked the driver’s door. He leaned the seat forward and whistled softly. “Come out, boy.”
Baxter lumbered out of the back seat. With each step, he grunted as his scalded skin rippled over his body.
“Oh, my God,” Banks cried. She rushed around the front of the car and knelt in front of the bulldog. “You poor baby. What happened to you?”
Baxter tilted his head back, peering at Banks. She touched his head, stroking behind his ears as she examined the burn marks and singed skin.
“He’s a rescue,” Reed said. “He was in a house fire.”
“You poor thing.” Banks ran gentle fingers over his back and kissed his head. Baxter shot Reed a sideways look, his eyes laden with smug satisfaction.
“Oh, shut up,” Reed snorted.
“I’m taking him inside. He can’t ride around in that thing anymore.” Banks tugged on Baxter’s collar, speaking gently to the old dog as she led him up the sidewalk toward her apartment door. Baxter complied without complaint, his stubby tail twitching as Banks continued to stroke and console him with gentle words.
Reed slid into the driver seat and slammed the door. The motor coughed twice before its comforting purr filled the cabin.
Banks returned ten minutes later and plopped down in the passenger seat, shooting Reed another glare. “That puppy needs medicine, a decent diet, and a lot of rest. I don’t know what you think you’re doing dragging him around in the back seat of a car, but from now on he stays with me.”
Reed blinked. “Um . . . he’s my dog . . .”
“We’ll see about that, shithead. Now start driving. We’ve got work to do.”
Reed slid the car out of the parking lot and back onto the street. To the southeast, the Nashville skyline rose above condominiums and shiny business centers. The Camaro roared through a small residential district before turning south toward Midtown.
West of downtown, Vanderbilt University, a booming medical and legal college, lay nestled amongst a crowd of restaurants, housing, and small businesses. Reed had encountered several graduates during his tenure as a professional killer, but he’d never laid foot on the university grounds.
“What is your plan, exactly?” Banks demanded. With her arms crossed, she watched the passing buildings.
Reed rolled to a stop at a light and fought to clear his tired mind. What was his plan? For some time now, his only objective had been to find Banks, then find the people who killed Kelly. After gunning down Cedric Muri, he wasn’t entirely sure where to look next.
“Your godfather attended Vanderbilt the same time as your dad. They attended a fraternity together, and Mitch indicated that things began—”
“What precisely did Uncle Mitch say about the fraternity?”
“Well . . .” Reed searched his memory, trying to recall every moment with Holiday as the senator lay dying on the lakeshore. “His exact words were, ‘From end to end.’”
“’From end to end?’ What the hell does that have to do with a frat?”
“I found a picture of him standing beside your father at a ceremony. The name of the fraternity was written on the back. Omega, Alpha, Omega—the last, first, and last letter of the Greek alphabet. From end to end.”
“Seriously?” Banks rolled her eyes. “That’s what led you to Vanderbilt? That could mean anything, shithead.”
“You know, I liked sailor a lot better than shithead.”
“Well, I liked Chris a lot better than Reed. Shame we can’t have what we like.”
Reed dug his fingers into the Alcantara covering of the steering wheel, biting back the urge to retaliate, and refocusing on the task at hand. “We’re going to find the frat house for Omega Alpha Omega and check the membership records. Find any photographs or meeting minutes we can. There had to be other members besides Mitch and Frank who can give us a clue where to look next.”
Banks didn’t reply and remained rock solid with crossed arms.
She’s devastated. She’s either aching inside or she hates me, but it’s no more than I deserve.
Reed navigated the car off of West End Avenue and through the main entrance of the university. Large, metal signs advertised Vanderbilt’s founding in 1873. Trees, barren of leaves, overhung the parking lot, sheltering a string of fancy foreign cars sitting in front of “reserved for faculty” signs.
Reed parked at the back of the lot under a magnolia tree, then turned to Banks. “I get it. You hate me, and I can deal with that. But if we want to find what we’re looking for, you have to work with me. I’m not asking you to like it, and you can cuss me out as much as you want in private, but when we walk through those doors, any animosity you bear toward me is only going to make things more difficult. Can you leave your anger behind?”
Banks rolled her eyes again. “Chill out, shithead. I’m not going to kill you just yet. Get your head out of your ass, and let’s go.”
She piled out of the car and slammed the door as Reed sighed and unholstered the pistol, dropping it into the glovebox before following her.
Here goes nothing.
Eighteen
The man that sat across the desk from Maggie was neither handsome nor homely. He wore a brown suit—yes, the man actually wore a brown suit—and a soft yellow shirt, unbuttoned halfway down with no tie. Bald, with a dusting of hair just above his ears, and a wiry goatee that matched his shirt. In spite of his frumpy appearance, his teeth were impeccably straight and white, his eyes sharp and bright, and his posture stiff. He had the look of a man who knew his worth, and didn’t give a fuck if anyone else did or not.
Maggie leaned back in her chair and tried to appear casual. In spite of her title, she felt a shadow of intimidation sitting across from Robert Coulier. The man had a reputation in the greater Texarkana area—a ruthless,
brutal, cold-blooded lawyer, with absolutely no interest in cutting deals or taking prisoners. Disbarred in Texas for repeated witness intimidation, Coulier now practiced international law for Chinese businesses out of his Shreveport office, but he was never there. Known simply as “The Dog”, he was feared by defense counsel and hated by legal academia as a brutish example of what law could become. Vile, profane, grizzly.
In spite of all this, Maggie had always respected Coulier. It wasn’t because he always won, although that certainly didn’t hurt. It was because he was true to himself. He knew what he wanted, he knew how to get it, and he didn’t compromise.
The only wild card? Sometimes what he wanted conflicted with standard ethics. The Dog would need a leash.
“Mr. Coulier, I can’t thank you enough for flying out on such short notice. I know you have a busy schedule.”
Coulier nodded once, but didn’t reply. He folded his hands in his lap and stared Maggie down, unblinking.
Maggie gestured to the decanter sitting on the end table nearby. “Can I get you a beverage?”
Coulier smiled. “I don’t drink, Madam Governor. It disrupts my sleep patterns.”
“Of course.” Maggie offered a warm smile. “I hear you keep long hours. They say you barely sleep at all.”
“I sleep for three hours every ten. This enables me to be most productive.”
“Absolutely. That’s something we have in common. I usually sleep only a few hours a night, although I’m afraid it’s not as regular as I’d like. Burden of the office, I guess. Do you use sleep aids?”
Coulier’s smile remained plastered to his face, neither friendly nor cold. All business.
“Madam Governor, I appreciate your eloquence, but neither one of us have the time. Why am I here?”
Maggie placed her hands on the table, palms down. Her body language advisor told her this gesture displayed confidence and authority. It felt awkward.
“Right. Of course. Well, as I’m sure you know, we’ve recently lost out attorney general. The official statement is that the investigation is ongoing, but confidentially I can tell you his death was not an accident. We’re pursuing a homicide investigation now.”
Coulier didn’t comment. Maggie shifted her hands on the desktop, then cleared his throat.
“As Governor, it’s my responsibility to appoint an interim AG until a special election can be held. I’m currently reviewing candidates, and—”
“I’ll do it.” Coulier’s tone remained calm, but confident. Maggie raised her eyebrows.
“I didn’t offer you the job.”
“You flew me from Beijing on taxpayer dollars, and we both know you don’t have any other candidates. The only reason I came is because I want the job.”
Maggie sat back in her chair and folded her arms. She wasn’t entirely sure how to respond. On one hand, his confidence and directness were exactly the reasons she wanted him in the first place. On the other hand, she wanted to ask him herself. She needed him to obey and respect her authority. This wasn’t a great start.
“Why do you want the job?”
Coulier relaxed his shoulders and crossed his legs. “Why does anyone want to be the lead legal officer of a state? Power. Prestige. Influence. Access.”
Maggie smirked. “I appreciate your eloquence, but neither of us have the time. Why do you really want it?”
This time Coulier’s smile was genuine. He tilted his head and stared at her for a full minute, as though he were evaluating an expensive piece of art he was contemplating purchasing. She didn’t blink and stared right back, arms still crossed.
“I’m sure you’re aware that I’m not an altogether popular attorney,” he said.
“I am.”
“I’m sure you know why.”
“I do.”
“Only one thing makes me tick, Madam Governor. Winning. I live for the win. I breathe for it. Winning is in my blood. I don’t care about money, fame, or renown. I just want to conquer. Five years ago, I was engaged in litigation against a large oil firm which operates off the Louisiana coast. The case started as a single-plaintiff lawsuit about unsafe work environments on their oil platforms. One of their welders lost his leg to a falling piece of steel, and he wanted compensation. Seemed like a home run case to me, so I took it. But as soon as I began litigation, everything spilled over. I found thousands of cases of muted OSHA filings, wrongfully denied workman’s comp claims, workers who were fired for reporting unsafe working conditions, bribes paid to regulators, and every other type of corporate corruption. So, I advised my client to allow me to pursue a class action lawsuit and involve other plaintiffs. I didn’t see how I could lose.”
“But you did.”
Coulier’s smile faded. “You’re very astute. I was sabotaged. The defense delayed and drug their feet every possible way they could. They insisted on a trial, and stacked the jury, all while launching a slander campaign against me for my difficulties in Texas. I fought to the end, but I lost. Not a single dollar was paid out to my clients, and no regulatory measures were improved. Ryman Offshore Partners continues unmitigated operations to this day.”
Maggie lifted a glass of water from the executive desk and took a sip. Coulier waited, his expression impassive and unreadable.
“So,” she said. “Now you want revenge.”
“No, Madam Governor. Like I told you before, there is only one thing I want. I want to win. In this case, winning means destroying Ryman Offshore Partners. And when I’m finished with them, I will win with the state judge who presided over the case, who refused the admission of key evidence and sheltered the jury. Then I will win over the defense council.”
“Double jeopardy law prevents you from trying them for any of the regulatory infractions they’ve already been acquitted of,” Maggie said.
“I won’t need to. Dirty hands are seldom soiled with a single variety of mud. Trust me when I tell you Governor, I’ve been collecting ammunition against my enemies from the day the ruling was issued. All guilty parties will be charged within two days of my inauguration.”
Maggie laid her hands on the desk again and stared Coulier down. She tried to imagine what was happening behind that impassive stare and blunt honesty. She didn’t think he was lying, or would have a reason to lie, and she appreciated his absolute candor. This was exactly the sort of agenda-driven bloodthirst Coulier was known for, and she could only imagine the meltdown Dan would descend into if he were sitting in the room with them. Obviously, that was why Dan wasn’t invited to attend the interview. She anticipated Coulier would have some type of personal agenda from the moment he readily accepted her invitation to the Capitol. Granted, this was a bit more extreme than she had hoped for. Somehow, it still didn’t alarm her.
“Well, I appreciate your bluntness,” she said. “Do you know what I want?”
The smile returned to Coulier’s thin lips. “You want to fulfill your campaign promises. You want to destroy political and corporate corruption.”
Maggie returned the smile. “Yes, sir. I very much do, and I need a pitbull to make that happen. They tell me you’re a dog. Can you be a dog who hunts more than one racoon?”
The smile spread into an unabashed grin, fully exposing the flawless white teeth. “Governor, I was born to hunt.”
Maggie stood up and offered her hand. “Welcome to Baton Rouge, Mr. Attorney General.”
Nineteen
Reed didn’t have a great deal of experience with college campuses, but he guessed that most of them weren’t as pretty as Vanderbilt—a fusion of old trees and older brick buildings, with sidewalks that wound between them like hidden paths in a magic forest. Students bustled back and forth across the streets, burdened down with backpacks and laptop cases. Some were teenagers, but many were much older.
They found their way to the student information hall, and Banks stopped Reed at the foot of the steps. “You’re gonna need to look less like a killer, or the police will be here in no time.”
“W
hat do you mean? I look fine.”
Banks rolled her eyes and ran her hand through his hair, ruffling it up before she yanked at his shirt, untucking it. “I’m not going down for your sins, you fool.”
Fool is better than shithead.
She turned and started up the steps. “All right, shithead. Be cool.”
Annnnnnnd we’re back.
The big brick building at the top of the steps featured dual glass doors guarded by a concrete arch. Inside, small clusters of students gathered around desks with old, tired counselors seated behind. Must hung in the air, as though many of the books were far older than the librarians who kept them and would likely sit on these shelves long after their guardians had passed on.
Reed slouched his shoulders and leaned forward, trying to imagine what a college student looked like. The young males around him were as diverse as a promotional billboard. Some wore ties and button-down shirts, with slicked-back hair and rimless glasses. Others appeared more classical—sports T-shirts and tennis shoes.
“Can I help you?” The overweight woman behind the counter sounded as though she were interested in doing anything but. Even so, she offered them a polite smile as they approached.
“My brother is looking for information on fraternities.” Banks smiled so sweetly, Reed felt his heart skip. He looked away and feigned interest over a poster on the wall.
The old woman grumbled. “Rush week is over. I can give you a list of on-campus organizations, though.” She rustled through her drawer and produced a glossy brochure with a group of smiling kids wearing backpacks. She passed it across the counter, and Reed scooped it up. A quick scan of the names and addresses listed under the “fraternities” tab came up emptyhanded.
“What about Omega Alpha Omega?” he asked.
“I’m sorry?”
“I don’t see them on the list.”
She shook her head. “I’ve never heard of Omega Alpha Omega. Every Vanderbilt fraternity is on that list. You must have the name wrong.”
Reed scanned the list again. Many names he recognized from years of reading assassination profiles, as some of his more professional targets were frat members. But Omega Alpha Omega wasn’t on the list.