I smiled as he walked toward the knot of older darts competitors gathered at the rear of the pub, thinking that I had never been that fearless at his age.
Sampson handed me a beer, offered me his stool.
I took it and kissed Billie on the cheek. “You guys didn’t have to come.”
“What else were we going to do on a cold day off?”
Nana Mama sat up on a bar stool beside Jannie watching a college football game, eating buffalo wings, and drinking a Sprite.
“I know we’re technically on leave pending investigation,” Sampson said to Bree. “But is Lourdes Rodriguez still spilling her guts?”
Bree hesitated.
Rawlins said, “I’ve talked to her. The woman won’t shut up.”
“It’s true,” Bree said with a sigh.
Between the two of them, we got a thumbnail sketch of Rodriguez’s involvement with Nash Edgars. They’d met at a coding conference she’d attended because she’d heard coders made better money tha
n satellite-dish installers.
Edgars seemed to have anything he wanted whenever he wanted it. Better, he could get her anything she wanted whenever she wanted it. Rodriguez wasn’t going to inherit a dime from any uncle ever, and here was this genius computer guy offering her the world.
“Through the dark web,” Rawlins said. “She claimed he was worth forty to fifty million in Bitcoin alone.”
“But it wasn’t until he started acting on his hatred of blond women that the real money started coming in,” Bree said, disgusted.
“Hundreds of thousands of subscribers,” Rawlins said, shaking his Mohawk, which was a startling violet that day. “All of them paying to see those women terrified and abused.”
Rodriguez told Bree that Edgars’s hatred of blondes stemmed from years of dealing with a drunken blond mother and more years of fair-haired girls harassing him when he was grossly obese and growing up in Southern California. Because he was an avowed computer nerd, the abuse continued even after he’d dropped the weight.
“So, what, he decided to get his revenge and help others live out their anti-blonde fantasies?” Sampson said.
“It was more twisted and diabolical than that,” Bree said. “She said he planned on putting the clips together into a horror documentary film called All Blondes Must Die.”
“That’s something we’ll never be seeing, thank God,” Sampson said. “What about that kid Timmy Walker?”
“Lourdes said if anyone killed that poor kid, it was Pratt,” Bree said. “She said there wasn’t a good bone in his body, that Alex did the world a service.”
Billie said, “How’s Ned?”
“Better,” I said, brightening. “I saw him this morning. Like you said the day he was shot, the liver’s a remarkable thing. It’s already starting to regenerate. The docs are saying he’ll make a full—”
Nana Mama appeared, said, “Enough of that. C’mon, your son’s about to throw or toss or whatever they do with darts.”
CHAPTER
113
I WISH I could say that Ali slayed it, threw darts with consistent, dazzling accuracy, but that didn’t happen. He did toss three bull’s-eyes and an almost, but he was wild otherwise and lost in the first round to a nice guy from Texas named Mel Davis who owned a barbecue joint downtown.
Ali was crushed until Davis offered him and his friends free barbecue brisket the next time he was in. My youngest was back to his old self walking home, gabbing nonstop with Jannie and Nana Mama about his plans to make a comeback in the tournament next year. We lagged behind.
After a few moments, Bree said, “What did Ned think about your big idea?”
“He likes it. A lot.”
“Michaels?”