Hour Game (Sean King & Michelle Maxwell 2)
Page 82
“Son. That’s an interesting word.”
She looked at him puzzled. “What do you mean?”
“Only that Canney never referred to him as his son. Just Steve.”
“That’s right. Although it might just be because Steve was almost a man, and the relationship was strained.”
“No, I think he might have given us the answer.”
“Okay, Sean. What was it?”
“He was explaining why their relationship had gone wrong. He said Steve blamed him for his mother’s death.”
“So?”
“Well, right before that he said…” King pulled out his notepad and read from it. “He said, ‘Steve was, quite simply, his mother’s child.’ ”
“Right, meaning he favored his mother over his father.”
“Or, more literally, that she was his mother—” King stopped and looked at Michelle.
His point finally dawned on her. “And Roger Canney was not his father.”
Outside, the pickup truck started up. The man had heard all he needed to. It was time to act. But first he had to lay the groundwork.
CHAPTER
48
KYLE MONTGOMERY
hadn’t had a response to his blackmail letter yet. He had rented a post-office box a while back and had given that address for the person to respond to. He’d sent it anonymously, of course. His letter covered up the fact—very cleverly, he thought—that he actually didn’t know much at all. He was counting on a guilty conscience to bring out something of importance, meaning, in his mind, something of material value. Yet he was starting to wonder if he was wrong. Well, if so, there was no harm done. Or so he thought.
He was heading to the Aphrodisiac with another delivery for his “client.” He hadn’t had to make another withdrawal from the pharmacy, having smartly taken extra quantities the last time. No reason to push his luck there.
He parked in the crowded lot and went inside. He didn’t notice the car pull in behind him. Lost in thoughts of forthcoming cash, Kyle was completely unaware he’d been followed since leaving his apartment.
He went inside and, as was his habit, spent a few minutes watching the pole dancers. There was one in particular he favored, not that he had much of a chance with her. He had neither the looks nor, more important, the money these girls required to show him s
pecial attention.
He went upstairs and started to go behind the red curtain when a woman appeared next to him. She looked drawn and wobbly on her feet.
“Where you going?” she asked.
“To see someone,” he answered nervously. “I’m expected.”
“Is that right?” the obviously intoxicated woman slurred. “You got some ID?”
“ID? For what? I’m not drinking and I’m not watching the girls. And do I look like I’m underage? Or did you miss the gray hair in my goatee?”
“Don’t get smart with me or your ass is out of here.”
“Look, ma’am, is there a problem?” asked Kyle in a more polite tone. “I’ve gone back there before,” he added.
“I know you have, I’ve seen you,” said the woman.
“You come here a lot?” asked Kyle nervously. It suddenly dawned on him that earning a reputation as a regular visitor wasn’t a good thing.