Page 107 of You Know Why

“Roman Thomas has been a very bad boy. He has a record.”

“What kind of record? DUI at eighteen? Or something we can use?”

He smiles again, and her stomach flips. Yeah, the acting SAC was handsome, but Drake smiling makes her want to chuck it all and lock the door. But it’s his next words that make her heart start to pound.

“How’s incarcerated in federal prison for drug smuggling work for you?”

“What?”

“Roman Thomas did a stint in Coleman Low, a federal prison in Florida. Minimum security camp. Originally sentenced to forty-six months, he did a deal and gave up the rest of his network.” He laughs under his breath. “They got him for ‘conspiracy to possess with intent to distribute cocaine.’ They were moving blow from Mexico into Tennessee on car carriers. He was the money behind the operation.”

“When was this?”

“2007. He got out in 2012. Went back in again in a few years later, again for trafficking, and they tacked on a possession charge for good measure. He got out early in 2020. He’s still on parole.”

“So Brooklyn and Margot were teenagers when he was first put in prison?”

“Yep. They were, what, sixteen, seventeen? That’s just after their mother died of cancer.”

“No wonder Pat and Bob Gussin stepped in and took care of them. Their dad was in jail.”

Drake continues reading. “Interesting. There are a few other charges here, from other cases. Fraud and money laundering.”

“So their dad was a good old-fashioned white-collar criminal.”

“Yes, he was. I wonder why they didn’t mention it.”

“Would you?” she asks. “I’d hardly volunteer that information if it were me.”

Drake leans back in the chair, hooks his hands behind his head. “I understand the daughters holding it back. But why didn’t Bob Gussin mention this to us?”

“Is he mentioned at all in the cases?”

Drake types away. “Not that I can see. But that’s one hell of an omission, don’t you think?”

“It is.” Theresa stalks the small office, thinking aloud. “I really want to figure out what Aleksey Durov’s role is in all this. It’s too much to hope that he’s tied to Roman, right?”

Drake chews on his lip, thinking.

“We were going to look up the French prison Durov matriculated from.”

“Yeah. Hold, please.” He starts typing, and the machine whirs to life again. It takes a few minutes to get an answer.

“It was in Normandy. Val-de-Reuil.”

Theresa plugs the name into a map on her phone. “Hmm. I have no idea how the French treat their drug crimes. I don’t know if that helps us. We should go talk to Gussin again. There’s a reason he didn’t mention his brother’s record. Maybe the wife will be there. I’d like to take her measure. Woman to woman.”

“All right.” Drake logs out of the computer. “And when we’re done, we can swing by Brooklyn’s place and have a chat, too. I think your instincts are spot on. There’s something here.”

Do the Math

They call ahead and are told that both Pat and Bob Gussin are still in their headquarters office and are happy to talk to them.

Drake drives them south, cutting through downtown Nashville, winding along the river, passing skyscraper after skyscraper, hotel after hotel, until they hit the highway. Traffic is bad. The dismal gray morning has given way to a chilly evening. Flakes of snow skitter across the windshield. The highway is anonymous, the trees barren and slight. It’s not until they get off on Highway 96 and wind into the small town of Franklin, with its copious holiday decor on every corner and giant lit tree in the center of the square, that Theresa feels any sort of kinship.

She automatically likes the little town. It’s not unlike Malogen, with its shops and signs about holiday concerts and friendly faces wandering around. Granted, Franklin proper is ten times the size of Malogen, but this small, welcoming downtown, with its holiday cheer and luminous glow, is much like her own.

TGG’s headquarters are housed just off Main Street in a gracious two-story brick mansion that was clearly once a private home. There are four wide neoclassical columns reaching up to a second-floor pediment with a railing, and coffered moldings along the facade. There is a plaque to the right of the door designating it as a historical building—known as the Adams House, it dates back to before the Civil War. They are abutted by law offices on either side, also housed in former antebellum homes.