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“Ah, right,” I say, remembering that rather uncomfortable exchange. “She wants us to find out more about Halle’s history, which I don’t think is an issue, but I agree with Eric’s conclusion from that night. It’s Halle’s business, and she’ll tell us when she’s ready.”
“Yeah, but what irked me was Mom’s persistence. It was almost as if she knows something about Halle that Halle isn’t telling us,” Chase mutters.
I think about it for a moment. “I reckon it’s still Halle’s business. If Mom knows something, then she needs to tell us. If Halle won’t, why push it? Then again, our mother has always been the overprotective parent.”
“Halle is healing from some pretty serious trauma. That much we can tell based solely on her behavior. Mom confirmed it, too. Halle has some obvious triggers. Moments when she simply freezes. She’s still in survival mode,” I say. “We need to give her the safety and space that she needs in order to switch that off. Anything we do until then might add more pressure and make everything worse.”
“I’m with you there, brother,” Chase says, then moves his attention to Charlie Drucker, who sees us coming and gets up from his seat to shake our hands. “Mornin’, Charlie. How’s it going?”
Charlie gives us both a satisfied grin. He’s been up all night, judging by the dark rings around his eyes and the coffee stains on his once-white shirt. His sleeves are rolled up, and his black hair is a mess.
“It’s going better than I expected, despite the time it took to get here,” Charlie says, then gives me a polite nod as he receives his coffee and sugar-glazed pastry we picked up for him on the way in. “You’re a lifesaver, Wyatt, as always.”
“Figured you could use the pick-me-up, since you’re working this case as hard as I know you’re working it,” I say.
“Go on, brother, talk to us,” Chase says. “What’s new?”
Charlie resumes his seat and motions for us to look at his computer screen. As soon as we’re set, he opens a folder with several CCTV clips, clicking on the second file. “I found the perp’s car,” he says. “He parked it just around the corner. I wasn’t sure I’d be able to track his movements through the neighbors’ cameras but I did. Caught him just outside the laundromat. Look here.”
Sure enough, we spot him turning the corner and stopping next to a dark green car.
“That’s a pricey looking ride for a run-of-the-mill arsonist,” I note.
“It’s a Jaguar,” Charlie says, then waits for the guy to get in the Jag and drive off before showing us a couple more traffic cam clips that were able to catch his plates, too.
“Holy smokes, you got his plates,” Chase says.
“I sure did.”
He pulls up DMV records next and a photo of our culprit appears on the screen. There’s a hint of familiarity about him that I can’t quite pinpoint and it bugs me to the bone.
“Colby Nash,” I read his name out loud. “From San Antonio.”
“Not just any Colby Nash,” Charlie replies before giving us a view of various online newspapers with saucy headlines and different photos of the same man, either by himself or in the company of an elegantly dressed but sour-looking older woman. “Colby Nash, only son of Harriet and Lucius Nash.”
“Hold on. Lucius Nash? The mobster they dubbed The Devil?” I ask, having heard that name more than once over the years.
Charlie nods. “That’s him. Colby doesn’t have any felony priors, though. He was arrested a couple of times on minor bullshit but they could never make anything stick. His mother’s been investigated by the SEC more than once after Lucius bit the dust, but again, nothing stuck.”
“Lucius ‘The Devil’ Nash came up in the late 70s, didn’t he?” Chase mutters. “Had his fingers dipped in different pies, most of it illegal, hiding under umbrella corps and whatnot. Racketeering, all kinds of trafficking, guns, gambling, the whole shebang, but he posed as some kind of big oil tycoon, didn’t he?”
“His widow is out there doing the same thing, running his empire to this day,” Charlie says. “Those oil fields they keep bragging about went dry a long time ago, though there wasn’t much in them to begin with. Old man Lucius took most of the money from that and put it into seemingly legitimate businesses. It’s how he built his empire. At one point in the 80s, Lucius was one of the most powerful men in the whole state of Texas.”
“And now?” I ask.
“Harriet is still running their operations, but last I heard the Feds were putting together a couple of RICO stings,” Charlie replies. “Harriet is nowhere near as smart and as convincing as Lucius was. She’s got her grieving widow charm, but that doesn’t keep certain folks as loyal as she’d like them to be. Plus, from what I gathered after reading some CI statements, that son of hers is a real piece of work.”
“Colby Nash,” I say his name again.
Charlie nods and zooms in on a couple of news articles. “Here. See what I mean?”
“Lucifer’s Son: Wife Beater,” says one headline. “He beat his wife?”
“Yeah. Ruthless bastard. I found some emergency room notes attached to several incident reports that were never filed with Dallas PD,” Charlie says. “I think the mother swooped in and paid people off to keep things quiet. The wife never filed charges.”
“Show me the wife,” Chase says. His voice is low and cold. His expression grows dark. Seething. As soon as I look at the screen again, I realize why his demeanor shifted so suddenly. “Fuck.”
Her hair is shorter and dyed platinum blonde. She wore tight, brightly colored dresses with plunging necklines that accentuated her curves. Heavy gold jewelry on her wrists.
