He points to the spot on the wall behind his leather desk chair.
“Open it,” I tell him. “Slowly.”
King punches in a four-digit code into the keypad and then opens the safe. “There,” he says. “Take your money and get the fuck out of my house.”
“Patience, counselor.” Austin clamps a hand on King’s shoulder, towing him back around the desk and into one of the chairs.
I motion for Mike to look inside the safe. “See what you can find.”
King’s face grows redder by the second, as Mike begins pulling out and piling the contents of his private business all over his desk.
“Here’s your first five grand,” Mikey says, holding up a stack of wrapped bills. In addition to the money, he pulls out financial documents, an antique German Luger, and more than a few photos of underaged girls without their clothes on.
Mike tests the sides and bottom of the safe for hidden compartments.
“This looks promising,” he says, pulling a black external hard drive from a side pocket.
“That’s nothing,” King says. “Some old tax documents. Just take the fucking money and go.” Judging by the fury and pants-shitting fear written all over his face, we’ve stumbled upon something that might be useful.
“We’re not interested in your money, counselor,” I say.
“Then what the hell do you want?”
“A little information,” I tell him. “But first, I’m curious to know why you’ve got hidden cameras rigged up all over the interior of your house.”
His mouth flattens into a thin line. “Clearly, I’m a man in need of extra security.”
I chuckle, then turn to Mike. “Was there a computer in the basement?”
“Don’t think so.” Mike grabs the laptop off the desk. “This’ll do.”
“Hey,” King snaps. “Be careful with that.”
“Shut up,” Austin says, yanking him to his feet. “Let’s go.”
“Go where?”
“To your man cave, counselor,” I say.
“Can I at least put on some pants?”
I shake my head. “Something tells me you’ll be more cooperative in this getup.”
Austin keeps a hand on King’s shoulder and his gun pressed against his back, as we direct the lawyer down into the bowels of his house.
In the basement, under the dead-eyed stare of taxidermied wildlife, we sit King down on the chair I’d pulled out and secure his hands behind him.
Mike parks himself on the leather sofa with King’s laptop.
“Password,” Mike says.
“Fuck you,” King spits.
I press my gun to his temple. “That wasn’t polite, counselor.”
“Doesn’t matter,” Mike says. “Just thought I’d try and save us a few minutes.”
King’s throat shifts as he swallows. I return my nine to its holster.
“What shall we do in the meantime, counselor?” I ask. “I know. I’ve been meaning to ask you about an event you hosted here a couple of nights back.”
“I like to throw parties,” he says. “I’m a social guy. So what?”
“So, I’d sure like to see the guestlist.”
“You’d have to ask my assistant.” He steals a glance at his laptop. “I don’t keep track of tedious shit. I’m a busy man with many friends.”
“With so many friends in high places, it’s no wonder you can afford such an extravagant house.” I narrow my gaze. “And such fresh, young company.”
He smirks. “My friends and I enjoy the company of beautiful women. That’s not a crime—”
“Holy shit.” Mike whistles. “You’re gonna want to see this.”
King’s face blanches. I join Mike on the couch. He angles the laptop so I can see the screen. Folders. Hundreds of them. Some dating all the way back ten years.
“What’s in ‘em?” I ask.
“Video files,” Mike says. “Hundreds of video files.”
Mike clicks one and a video starts to play. A white-haired man with pimples on his ass is giving it to a girl in what looks like one of King’s guestrooms. A chorus of crackled cries and grunts filters through the laptop’s low-quality speakers.
“Play another one,” I say.
Mike opens another video. Same shit, different room. He closes that one out and tries a newer folder. Another old man, another young girl. Only, this old man looks mighty familiar.
“Well I’ll be damned,” I say. “Howdy, Treasurer Wilkins.”
“Don’t look at that.” King tries to stand up. Jonah and Austin muscle him back into the chair. “You fucking fucks!”
“Hey, Russell,” I say. “Do your party guests know you’ve been filming them partaking in the unlawful solicitation of minors?”
“Shit,” he hisses to himself, rocking back and forth.
Mike opens another folder, starts a new video. The hairs on my arms and the back of my neck stand at attention.
I know that build, that head of gray, that sweaty, twisted expression.
Reverend Clyde Davis.
I turn my gaze back toward King, who appears to be silently praying to whatever devil he worships to get him the hell out of this mess.
“Just how many folks are you blackmailing, counselor?” I ask.
“None. No one,” he says quickly. “I’m just a sicko. A voyeur. I like to watch. Those videos are for me.”