Sharks by Matt Rogers (best book series to read TXT) 📕

guy Eric over at Hawksbill, behind the church. Cut his throat real quick so he don’t feel nothin’. Not his fault he had to get whacked. Mista Ricci promise to pay us fifteen k for the job. That’s like … retirement money out ’ere. But he ain’t paid us yet, miss, I swear it. We ain’t got no money for you to take.’

Alexis held up the diary. ‘What does any of that have to do with this?’

‘That belong to Eric. We take it off him, think Mista Ricci might like to see it. But we flip through it, and it’s just payments, ya know. For the loans Mista Walcott give out. That was his gig, ya know. Collector.’

So is Vince’s, Alexis thought.

‘Who told Vince to kill his coworker?’

‘Huh?’

‘You heard me.’

The guy wasn’t as dumb as he was pretending to be.

He said, ‘I dunno. Vince ain’t say. I think Mista Walcott?’

No, Alexis thought. Walcott wouldn’t get Vince to do it. He’d do it himself.

Maybe Vince had different plans than serving Dylan Walcott for the rest of his life.

A cold chill washed up Alexis’ spine, despite the muggy heat of the night. She glanced all around and saw nothing but shadows. She figured she’d tested her luck enough on the west side.

She said, ‘You tell anyone about this, or I see you again, I won’t be so nice.’

‘What about Zidane?’ the guy said, staring at his buddy’s motionless body. ‘What if ya killed him?’

‘That’s his problem,’ she said. ‘Or yours. What were you two going to do to me?’

Silence.

‘Maybe just scared ya,’ the guy said.

Alexis rolled her eyes.

She could have put a bullet in each of their heads and gotten away with it, but there was something different about doing it in cold blood. Her first kill wasn’t like this. The guy in Vegas had been in the act of snatching for her leg, trying to tip her over so he could strangle her. The labourer was dejected and defeated, his friend possibly dead. He wasn’t going to make a lunge for her. He and his buddy were murderers, and they’d been seconds away from being rapists, but somehow she couldn’t bring herself to do it.

You came in here, she told herself. Walked into a place you didn’t belong, a place you weren’t welcome, and came out the other side in one piece.

That was enough progress for one night.

She gave the guy with the leg wound a wide berth, circled round him, and left him to wallow in his misery alongside his maybe-dead-maybe-not partner.

She clutched the vig logbook in her hand and didn’t look back.

36

On the basis of a tight budget the dwelling was simple, but Lyla Barrow had impeccable taste.

Slater stepped inside and got struck by the same sensation as when he’d first entered Alexis’ old loft in the Bowery.

This feeling of homeliness was something he would only ever experience by proxy.

Slater had to forgo the little things in exchange for the big picture. His life was one of chaotic movement, not careful attention. Making his house perfect and taking his careful time to transform it into a home had to fall by the wayside in exchange for relentless productivity. He had to push his body and his mind instead of settling to carve out some sort of life for himself. He’d accepted that sacrifice long ago, but that never made it easy. It’s what had made his multi-million dollar Upper East Side penthouse in New York feel like a hollow shell. He’d packed it with expensive furniture and expensive art and expensive decorations, but they hadn’t given the space anything resembling a soul.

This place had soul.

So did Lyla Barrow.

She appeared in the entranceway, small and quaint, her facial features delicate. She wore her grey hair in a tall bun. There was an awful lot of it. She was beautiful, her attractiveness somehow accentuated by old age. The lines in her cheeks and forehead were poignant, giving depth to her expressions. Now she smiled, revealing perfect white teeth that had to be dentures, and offered a thin hand as she stepped forward.

Teddy hadn’t called ahead, but she wasn’t fazed.

‘Hello,’ she said. ‘You’re not my husband.’

Slater shook her hand. ‘What gave it away?’

She smiled again. ‘I’m Lyla.’

‘Will.’

Teddy hustled in behind them, stooped and sheepish. ‘Sorry, love. I should have called.’

‘It’s quite alright,’ she said, then her gaze turned to the even bigger man behind Slater. ‘My, you two are a sight to behold, aren’t you?’

King said, ‘Are you Lyla?’

‘No, I’m Teddy’s mistress,’ she said. ‘Lyla will be home any moment.’

King’s smile was genuine. ‘I’m Jason.’

They shook hands, just as delicately as she had with Slater. ‘You’re Teddy’s friends?’

‘You could say that,’ Slater said. ‘We think we might be able to help.’

‘Help?’

The eyes never lie. She was spectacular at acting nonplussed, as if she couldn’t imagine why she or her husband would ever need help. A strong woman, despite her size and stature. Hesitant to accept aid from anyone, especially for problems she knew full well Teddy had created for himself. But her eyes took a second to catch up to the rest of her face, and before they transformed Slater saw resignation.

He said, ‘You’re as noble as your husband, Mrs. Barrow, but we already know your situation.’

She looked at Teddy. Still devoid of anger, still non-judgmental, but with a subtle look that said, Really?

Teddy winced. ‘I’ve got some explaining to do.’

‘It’s our fault,’ King said. ‘We wouldn’t take no for an answer. And we’re in a unique position to help. If you’re going to blame anyone, blame us. Not your husband.’

‘Would all three of you relax?’ she said. ‘Did you each expect me to blow my lid?’

Teddy nodded.

King and Slater shrugged in unison.

She smirked and gestured them through. ‘Come in, my dears. No point standing around all cramped like this.’

She stepped aside and let King and Slater pass into another beautifully furnished sitting room. There was nothing in the room that didn’t serve a purpose, functionally or artistically. Cheap pot plants