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“Billy, we’re looking into a hit-and-run in New Orleans that killed an elderly woman. Somehow, we believe it ties to two ex-cops here in Atlanta.”
“Ex-cops?” frowned the young man.
“Yes. Al Corvin and Mike Riser.” The young man’s face paled somewhat, and he looked around the room.
“Maybe we should go get some coffee,” he said with a smile.
“We’re good here,” said Nine. “Cameras and ears are off.” He nodded at them, then took a seat.
“What you’re asking could have me losing my job, or worse, getting shot in the head,” said the young man. Neither man said anything, just waited as the women looked at the boy who could be a grandson to them.
“Just tell us what you can,” said Erin.
“They both left Atlanta a little over two years ago when one too many dead bodies popped up right next to them. There was an IA investigation, one I didn’t have anything to do with, but no one wants to talk about it.”
“What was the investigation for?” asked Gaspar.
“Anything and everything. The bodies. The solved cases solved too easily. The cars. The houses. All of it. I think the final straw was a young woman came in to file a complaint about Mike scamming her grandmother out of millions of dollars. She had one of those huge mansions out in the suburbs. Lived all by herself.
“The woman said he was going out to see the old woman three, maybe four times a week. She was smitten, as they say. Records showed that she’d withdraw money once a week, and suddenly, that money was in his bank account.”
“Thousands?” questioned Nine.
“Millions. We’re talking millions of dollars,” said Billy. “They start the investigation, ask a lot of questions, cops get nervous, fights and arguments start, and suddenly no one wants to talk about anything. It’s done. They retire, records are sealed, and they walk away.”
“What the fuck?” muttered Gaspar.
“Are the records electronic?” asked Alexandra.
“Yes, ma’am. But our system is impenetrable. We’re very proud of it.”
“I’m sure you are,” she smiled. She was tapping so quickly on the keys he wondered if she was even doing anything or just pretending.
“Tell me about Booker,” said Nine.
“It was before my time, but I’ve read his files. That man was innocent. I mean, there were seventeen witnesses putting him in Wexwood. Do you have any idea how far that is from Buckhead? In our traffic, he couldn’t have gotten there in that amount of time on any day. But no one seemed to care.”
“Was it because he was a black man?” asked Nine.
“I think that was part of it. Most of the dead bodies that popped up around Corvin and Riser were people of color. Hispanics, blacks, Asians. Not very many white folks, I can tell you that.”
“The woman, the elderly woman, was she white?” asked Erin.
“No. She was from the Philippines. Her husband had made his money in shipping, and she inherited everything. The thing is, she gave him whatever he was asking for and then some. When her body was found, it wasn’t as if her accounts were drained. There were still millions to be had.”
“She found out what he was doing,” frowned Gaspar.
“Maybe,” he said, shrugging. The door flew open, and three cops stood, staring at the group. Billy swallowed and stood from the chair.
“Can we help you?” asked one of the cops.
“Nope,” said Nine, standing to his full height. “Billy here was just reminiscing with us about someone from back home.”
“So you guys know one another?” asked another officer.
“Sorry, who are you?” asked Gaspar, standing next to Nine. If they wanted intimidation they’d walked into the right conference room. He and Nine were masters at intimidation with a helluva lot more experience at it. “Is it a crime to visit an old friend?”
“No. Not at all. We just noticed that none of the equipment in here was working. We always have cameras, as you can imagine.”
