Free House Justice by Mike Lawson Page A

particular day. He couldn’t remember Crosby’s credit card number, only that it was Visa, but he remembered the address in Fairfax. Thank God he had a good memory for numbers.
    “And that’s all we talked about and that’s all I know,” Tony said. “I swear to God. Please, just take my money and let me go.”
    “How were you supposed to get ahold of DeMarco? Was he planning on coming back to the hotel?”
    “He gave me his cell phone number. He told me to call him if I found anything else out.”
    “Give me the number.”
    Tony reached into his shirt pocket and handed the guy the yellow Post-it that he’d written DeMarco’s number on.
    “That’s it,” Tony said. “That’s everything.”
    The man didn’t say anything for what seemed an eternity, and Tony wondered if the guy was thinking about whacking him.
    “I want you to stand here for two minutes,” he finally said. “Count to a hundred and twenty. Slowly. If you turn around or come out of the alley in less than two minutes, I’ll kill you. And if you call DeMarco and tell him we talked, I’ll also kill you. I know where you work.”
    “I won’t call him,” Tony said. And he wouldn’t. No fuckin’ way was he going to get in the middle of whatever the hell was going on.
    Tony heard the guy walk away. He didn’t bother counting. He wasn’t leaving the alley for at least five minutes. As he stood there, he stared at
Jesus Loves You
and wondered if maybe he should give up his girlfriend. He figured adultery was the biggest sin he was currently committing. Plus, the girlfriend was becoming more of a wife than agirlfriend the way she nagged his ass, and even the sex had gotten kinda stale. Yeah, it was time to fly straight.
    After he figured five minutes had passed, he headed toward the mouth of the alley, reaching for his cell phone as he walked. He was going to call his girlfriend and say he couldn’t see her tonight.
    Right now, he just wanted to go home and hug his kids.
    The florist walked two blocks from the alley and stepped into a bar. He didn’t drink alcohol—he never had—but he needed to sit down for a minute and think, and he wanted to be someplace off the street.
     
    He ordered an orange juice from the bartender and then his hand moved toward his breast pocket to pull out a cigarette and he almost laughed out loud. He hadn’t smoked in years. It seemed as if doing the sort of work he used to do—following people, intimidating and threatening them—was doing more than just bringing back memories he wanted to forget. He was turning back into the man he had wanted to forget.
    Now what
? DeMarco had told the concierge he wanted proof that Sandra Whitmore had met with a man named Derek Crosby who lived in Fairfax, Virginia.
But why? Why would this Washington lawyer want to do that
? It was possible DeMarco’s interest in Crosby had nothing to do with Mahata’s death or the reason why Whitmore was in jail. Yes, that was possible, but seemed highly unlikely.
    So. He had three options. He could do nothing, just sit in New York and wait for Whitmore to be released from jail, but that could be weeks or maybe even months. The second option was to find DeMarco and talk to him, and since he had the man’s phone number and knew he lived in Washington, that shouldn’t be too hard to do. Or he could question this man Crosby in Fairfax, Virginia.
    He decided to talk to DeMarco, although he knew doing so could cause him significant problems. It was one thing to question the concierge, a man who had no vested interest in whatever was happening and who was afraid the florist might kill him. DeMarco could be adifferent matter. If he had to persuade DeMarco to talk—and he suspected he would—DeMarco would most likely call the authorities. Unless he killed him.
    Well, he would decide when the time came; all he knew was that he couldn’t stop now.
    “Do you want another orange juice?” the bartender asked. “Maybe a shot of vodka in it this