Private Vegas (Private 9)

Scotty had taken a direct approach, riskier than befriending the kids and teasing it out of them, but it was a safe bet that they’d never been confronted by law enforcement before. Justine thought Scotty’s method might work.

Justine said, “I’d listen to Investigator Scott, Charles. If you play this the wrong way, your life—all of this—will be over. Understand?”

“No,” Boyd said.

Scotty said, “No?”

Scotty pulled his cell phone out of his back hip pocket, started tapping in numbers. Boyd rolled onto his back. He said, “I plan on going to Northwestern next year.”

“That depends on what you do in the next five minutes,” said Scotty.

Chapter 76

WHILE SCOTTY WORKED on Charles Boyd Jr., Justine stepped over to the dresser and took a good look at a metal cash box made of burnished steel, about ten by twelve and about six inches deep.

There was a combination lock showing 000. Justine raised the lid and saw a neat row of snack-size baggies filled with white powder, an opened box of Pleasure Plus condoms, and a small metal gizmo, like a mousetrap, that looked to be a remote-controlled detonator.

“Uh-oh, Charles,” she said. “I don’t think this looks good for you.” She opened her phone, took a few shots of the makings of a car bomb, took a few more that showed the placement of the box on the dresser, kids on the bed in the background.

“I’m just holding that stuff,” Boyd shouted. “I’m not in charge.”

Jessica pulled the blanket up to her chin. “We’re the good guys,” she said angrily. “Who cares about those cars? It’s a crime that they even exist. I mean, two-hundred-thousand-dollar cars that get eight miles to the gallon? You’ve gotta be kidding.” The girl fluffed her pillow.

Justine had treated enough teens to know that their brains weren’t fully formed. They lacked foresight. They didn’t understand consequences. They thought things were cool that were felonious, dangerous, deadly.

In many ways, teens were still children, which was why the police couldn’t interrogate underage kids without permission from their parents.

Private wasn’t the police.

Scotty said, “Charles. You’re losing the advantage of getting ahead of this thing. Right now, we have time to get to whoever is in charge. Otherwise, well, I know what my partner is thinking. The smoking gun is right here, in your possession, with your fingerprints. So what are we going to do, buddy?”

Boyd bolted off the bed, angry, blustering, chest out, hands curled into fists. Justine read his posturing as meaning that he was the victim here, and he wasn’t going to accept this.

“Mr. Tong sent you, right?” Boyd spat. “He’s a fucking douche. Zero Sum worked out the mechanics and we executed the plan, okay? We killed Mr. Tong’s car. Are you gone yet?”

Justine said, kindly, “Did you kill all of them? The Bentley, the Lambo, etcetera. The Aston Martin?”

“Zero Sum did the last one solo. I was driving. But we didn’t know anyone was inside that car. It was an accident.”

“That’s what you should say,” Justine said approvingly. “Say that it was an accident.”

Charles Boyd ignored her, but he was afraid of Scotty.

He said, “Look, don’t tell my parents. I’ll tell you who Zero Sum is and where he lives. He’ll straighten you out. He’ll tell you who the bad guys really are.”

Chapter 77

AS THEY LEFT the Boyd house, Justine said to Scotty, “Want to bet Charles is giving Zero Sum a heads-up right now?”

“It’s okay. We’re only five or six minutes away.”

Justine dialed chief of police Mickey Fescoe’s cell phone. A woman’s voice was on the recording, Mickey’s assistant saying he was away for the weekend and to leave a message.

“Mickey, it’s Justine Smith. We found two of the kids involved in the serial car bombings and they have information about the Wilkinsons’ car.” Justine gave the name and address, then said, “You’re going to need a warrant to search the house for explosives.”

She forwarded the photos of Charles Boyd’s bomb kit to Fescoe’s mailbox.

“I hope he gets the message,” she said. “Soon.”