Private #1 Suspect (Private 2)

“Good. Go get him. Bring the dirty dog down.”

I bumped fists with the little guy and hugged him again. Then I left the house with its elaborate coved ceilings, formal furniture, and fireplaces in every room, walked past the Olympic-sized heated pool and out to the six-bay car barn.

Tommy had a classic American car collection, a passion he’d shared with Dad. I found him under a 1948 Buick Roadmaster, a pewter-gray automobile that looked as if it had been blown from a bubble machine. It was a beautiful thing.

I grabbed Tommy’s ankles and pulled him out on the dolly he’d rolled in on.

He stared at me, his expression changing as his initial fear turned to mocking anger.

“What’s your problem, Jack?”

“I know who set me up, Junior. I know who killed Colleen.”

CHAPTER 116

“TAKE A LOOK at this,” I said to Tommy.

I cued my iPhone to Mo-bot’s video and handed the gadget to my brother. He pushed the “play” button, and I heard the tinny sound of reporters shouting to get my attention outside my office on a day I would never forget.

“This is you being taken to the hoosegow,” my brother said. “That’s a rough crowd.”

“Keep looking. You see someone we know?”

“Huh. Clay Harris. What’s he doing there?”

“He works for you, Tom.”

“Part-time. He’s a charity case, believe me.”

“So you had nothing to do with him being there?”

“Hell, no. What are you saying? That I knew you were going to jail? And that I called Clay? Why would I do that?”

“Let’s go talk to him,” I said.

“Now?”

“No better time than now.”

“If you say so. I’ll tell Annie I’m going out for a while. I’ll meet you at the car.”

A few minutes later, Tommy met me in the driveway. He was wearing a jacket, different shoes. He walked around to the back of my car.

He ran his hand over the Lambo’s left rear haunch and along the crease to the door. His jacket fell open, and I saw the gun stuck in his waistband.

“Christ,” he said. “What the hell happened to your car?”

“I went to the supermarket. When I came out…”

“I’ve got a great body shop guy. I’ll give you his number. But as good as Wayne is, this is never going to look the same again,” Tommy said. “It’s a damned shame.”

“Get in, will you?”

“Are you allowed to drive?”

“Get in. Try not to shoot yourself in the dick.”

Tommy got into the car. I pulled out onto West Sixth, toward the 5 going north. I figured it would be forty-five minutes to Santa Clarita at this time of night.