"That's not what I meant, and you know it," I shot back, rolling my eyes. "I meant, what is the goal here with waiting around every night? To catch him in the act?"
"I... I guess," she said, shaking her head, starting to maybe see how problematic that could be. The one night she had other plans could be the night he did it again.
"You're seeing the flaw in the plan, right?"
"I guess, yeah. But what the hell else can I do? Storm in, accuse him, hope he confesses? That would never happen. And even if by some miracle it did, he would never serve any time for that. I want him to pay, Nixon. I know vengeance is probably a waste of time. I understand that I might never actually feel satisfied with an ending with this situation. But I have to do something."
"Wouldn't you say it would be more time-efficient to cut out the middle man?" I suggested.
"I'm not following."
"We live in Navesink Bank. You can hire people to just about any fucking thing for you here. You have the money."
"Money to pay someone to do what? Kill him?" she asked, brows lowering.
"No. Well, yeah, if that is what you want. But that's not what I meant."
"What did you mean then?"
"For example, you have Quin."
"Quinton Baird. The fixer, right?"
"Right. You have him and his team. You hire them, they dig shit up, they bring it to the light, they make sure everyone knows what he has done."
"But he might not have any proof of anything."
"Fair enough. It's a risk you run. But it's an option."
"And the other options?"
"I don't know. Contact Hailstorm. See if Lo would be willing to contract her people out."
"To do what? I honestly have no idea what goes on at Hailstorm still," she admitted.
I'd been giving her a crash course on our unique town, on all the players and how they interconnected. She'd sit there apt over dinner, mouth parting, focusing like some nighttime action series was unfolding before her eyes. And I guess it was, if you thought about it.
"They're a little harder to peg down than Quin's people or the Henchmen or whoever else is still hanging around town. Basically, they do whatever they are hired to do. Mercenary work, basic protection, extracting kids or spouses being held for ransom when the cops prove useless. Whatever you might want to pay them to do because you can't get it done legally, that is what they do. Among their philanthropic efforts where they just handle some people who shouldn't be free--or alive--anymore."
"Okay, so you're suggesting I hire them to do what?"
"I'm suggesting you hire them to put a woman in the fuckhead's path, make it easy, dangle the bait. He'll probably bite. And then have someone catch him almost in the act."
"That sounds risky."
"Trust me, if you knew Lo, you would know that nothing she ever does could be considered risky. They plan everything down to the minute detail. They have backups upon backups. Nothing could ever go so wrong that a woman would end up genuinely hurt. Her women are trained too. Really, the bastard wouldn't stand a chance."
"Hmm," she said, reaching for the control again, turning down the air.
"Think about it," I suggested. "You want to sit here night after night for the next couple decades, we can arrange that. Pick up some new hobbies we can do in here or some shit. Knitting. Origami..."
"Please, please can it be knitting? Your brothers would love to see that picture."
"I'm just saying, think this shit over. You have options that could cut down on how much of your life you are spending in the backseat of a car," I told her, watching as Michael exited his building, going right into his car.
And, knowing him, going right home.
That was what he did.
He went home.
Occasionally, he went to a social function. What happened there was anyone's guess.
He never went to bars or clubs.
I couldn't help but wonder if he hunted for prey inside his circle, only striking on those he already knew, maybe the ones he thought he wouldn't get any push-back from.
If that was the case, it would make things harder, but not impossible. So long as Reagan could pay, Lo could get someone inside, could make sure she played the part perfectly, got in his path over and over until he felt comfortable inviting her to dinner. Then maybe back to his place.
And then we could get him.
But the thing was, he never fucking prowled after work. So Reagan had been losing most nights of her life to a mission that was never going to pay off because she had the wrong methods.
Seeming to sense I was onto something, she didn't even squish up between the seats, climb into the driver's, put the car into drive, move to follow him home.