Arrow's Rest Joel Scott (best authors to read .txt) 📖

about the duo apart from the glaring contrast in size and strength, and then he realized it was their nearness to each other. Rodgers was standing so close behind Ivery that he was almost touching his employer. Over the years Clarke had spent a lot of time in interview rooms studying body language and this seemed odd to him. Most people would have been uncomfortable with the proximity.

“Your name came up in connection with an old drug case,” Clarke said. “Louie Tardif. I wondered if you could tell us anything about him.”

“I don’t recall that name offhand. How long ago would this have been?”

“Five years, give or take. You had a transaction with him at that time. Perhaps more than one.”

“Five years ago I was still a recovering addict. More addict than recovering for most of that period, to be honest. After my accident there was a lot of pain for a long time. Still is for that matter. I got hooked on painkillers, prescription opioids for the most part. I was in and out of a few rehab programs, and I bought a lot of drugs, not always legally.” He shrugged. “That part of my life is behind me now, I’ve been clean for going on three years. It’s pretty much public record if you can call those gossipy rags masquerading as news magazines public records. I was a bit of a tabloid sensation for a while. Tragic young millionaire, money can’t buy happiness, and all that. If you’ve done your research, I’m sure you’ve seen the stories. I was a bit of a mess there for a time.”

He spoke calmly, without rancor or emotion.

Danny studied Rodgers. The more he looked at the man the bigger he seemed. Danny had been in a few fights over the years, sometimes against men considerably bigger than him, and had won more than his fair share of them, but he found it hard to imagine going up against the Slab resulting in a good outcome. The man was so outsized there was nothing to grab onto. From the polished head atop the square body down to the thick wrists protruding from the tailored cuffs, it was hard to see how you could get a hold on him. Not hard to understand about the cauliflower ears, they were about the only grips there were. Rodgers, aware of Danny’s thoughtful study, gave him a slow wink and Danny looked away.

“Do you remember anyone called Louie Tardif from around that time, Thomas?”

“No sir, I can’t say that I do.”

The accent was upper class, surprising coming out of that beat-up face, but the toffee-nosed schtick was his thing back in the day, and apparently he’d kept it upon retirement. Or maybe it was how he always spoke. Clarke realized he didn’t really know anything about the man apart from his lurid wrestling PR, which would be mostly invention, and reminded himself to check out Rodgers’s background when he returned to the office.

“So is there anything else I can help you with, Detective?” Ivery said.

“I understand you’re a contributor to the PC party.”

“Yes. And how is that relevant to your inquiries?”

“Have you ever chartered your boat out to them?”

Ivery regarded Clarke for a moment. “I think you already know the answer to that question, Detective.”

Clarke waited.

“The answer is yes. I’m a registered donor to the party, and I’ve leased the Blue Harp out to them at different times over the past two summers for a nominal fee, for which I receive a tax deduction for making a political donation. I don’t use the boat much these days and it makes sense for me. Everything is above board and a matter of public record. If you have any specific questions about the lease, you can contact my attorney. He will have all the details.”

Clarke smiled. “And your attorney. Would that be Richard Sullivan by any chance?”

Ivery nodded.

“I’m sorry to have to tell you that he’s gone missing. As has John Newcombe, another person with connections to the party. Might you know him as well, by any chance?” Clarke watched him for a tell, but Ivery revealed nothing.

“I think we’re done here. Thomas will see you out.”

The big man moved out from behind the wheelchair and ushered them to the elevator.

Ivery was annoyed but not particularly surprised. He’d always thought that his minor incursion into crime when he was heavily addicted to the opioids might come back to bite him in the butt. He’d become involved in the wholesale purchases of illegal drugs on a silly and arrogant whim. It went against the grain to be ripped off by such eminently stupid people back in the day when his habit was costing him thousands of dollars a month and he’d decided to move a step up the chain closer to wholesale. Since the day the stoned driver had run a red light and wiped out his family and turned Ivery into a lifelong wheelchair jockey, fine moral distinctions didn’t much concern him. Even then, everything would have been fine if his dealer hadn’t tried to add blackmail to his cupidities.

Not satisfied with the excessive profits from the opioids, his dealer, a man Ronald knew as Jean-Paul Delveaux — not his real name it turned out — had threatened to reveal Ivery’s addiction in a tell-all interview with a local TV station. He and an accomplice had secretly filmed Thomas purchasing the illegal drugs complete with a shot of Ronald seated in the car in the background and obviously complicit in the transaction. They said they’d showed a TV reporter the video, and he’d agreed to run the story with Delveaux’s face blocked out. Unless Ivery paid two hundred grand within the next seventy-two hours, the story would be broadcast on the weekend news. If Ivery handed over the money, the reporter would be paid off, and the video would disappear.

They showed Ivery the tape and he agreed to the terms and set up a meeting with Jean-Paul