Making of Them (Beating the Biker 3)

“I aim to give my clients the best value I can,” Matt responded. “You’ve got a court case tomorrow, but since I'll have it continued you don’t have to show. I’ll be there.”

“Thanks.”

“Now, one more thing. What's this about in the news with the Hades’ Spawn guy being shot?”

“He’s a probie, Hawk, who Okie sent to help me on my first day out of the hospital.”

“Your cousin, Anglotti, contacted me, ostensibly as part of the investigation. From what I get, his bosses want to spin this shooting a retribution for a failed drug deal. They pointed to the prescription Hawk picked up as evidence of trying to deal pain killers.”

“What? That’s ridiculous.”

“Really? You are aware, aren’t you, that a single Percocet goes for five bucks a pill on the street? That a bottle of thirty can net you a profit of $125?”

“No. Why would I be aware of something like that?”

“Okay,” Matt said, nodding his head. “That’s good. In the future, don’t talk to any law enforcement without me being there. Just say, ‘under advice of counsel, I decline to answer until my lawyer is present.’”

“That’s why my cousin didn’t contact me directly, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” Matt replied. “He knows you have a lawyer, and is following protocol.”

“And protecting both our asses,” Saks grumbled. “I get it.” Which also meant no calling his cousin for info, either.

Matt saluted, and chuckled. “Then I’ve done my Boy Scout deed of the day. I’ll put it on your bill.”

“Thanks,” Saks said wryly.

“I’ll let myself out,” Matt offered.

“Aren’t you going to stay for a beer?” Luke asked. He stood at the doorway of the dining room, leaning against the doorjamb with his arms crossed.

“Sorry, man. Places to go. People to see.” Matt meant it, too, given his quick departure out the door.

“Later,” Luke shouted after him before his eyes fell square on Saks. “So

. More shit from your end.”

“Hey, that’s harsh,” Saks protested.

Luke shrugged. “Yeah. Truth’s a bitch.”

CHAPTER THREE

“Ms. Serafini.” The semi-sharp voice jolted Chrissy into the present. “Did we hear back from Kosikov?”

James walked into the living room of his London apartment, wrangling the buttons into the buttonholes of his top-of-line Brooks Brothers $250-dress shirt.

So, she thought sarcastically. We’re semi-casual today.

In the past month, Chrissy had been unfortunately privy to a good dose of her boss’ idiosyncrasies and clothing choices. Because part of her job was making sure that his wardrobe was in tip-top condition, she became intimately acquainted with each piece of clothing. She knew where it came from and how much it cost. She still remembered as if it was a scar across her soul. His Emma and Willis $500 evening shirt suffered a gravy stain, and he’d had a fit when the grease stain set. Had he given her the shirt, she would have used her mother’s cleaning magic to disappear the stain. But no. He didn’t see his personal assistant as a laundress.

She was just supposed to be everything else.

“No, Mr. Pearson.”

“Then call him back.”

“I will, Mr. Pearson, but every call so far has gone to voice mail.”