Things hadn’t been pleasant between us in a while.
If they ever were.
“Straight to business,” he remarked, a grin tugging at his lips.
“You know how I feel about this place. I’d rather not stay longer than necessary.”
“Sorry to be the bearer of bad news, but that may not be possible.”
My expression dropped. “Why?”
Without a word, he opened a manila folder and slid a photograph across the desk. I picked it up and studied it.
A normal person would have had some sort of reaction. After all, this picture depicted a heavyset man in his late fifties who’d been tortured before being killed. At least that was my opinion, considering the man had been stripped of his clothes, strung up, and mutilated to the point that his body looked less like flesh and more like butchered meat. Bruises. Lacerations. Missing fingers. Something carved into his chest. A ball gag shoved into his mouth. And I couldn’t be sure, but it looked like his dick had been cut off.
Whoever did this hadn’t rushed. They’d taken their time. Wanted him conscious. Wanted him afraid. Wanted him to suffer.
Years ago, I might have thrown up at what I was currently looking at.
That was before I’d become desensitized to any sort of violence or gore.
“Who’s this?”
“Robert Stanton.”
I acted as if the name meant nothing to me, schooling my expression. “And that is…?”
“A good friend who didn’t deserve this.”
He slid another photo toward me, and I picked it up. Another man stripped of his clothes, strung up, his body mutilated.
“And that’s Graham Hastings,” Tucker stated evenly.
“Should I know him?” I asked flippantly, once again pretending not to know who he was when I knew damn well.
“He’s an investment banker. Manages portfolios that would total more than the GDP of many countries… Including mine.”
I tossed the photos back onto his desk. “What does this have to do with me?”
“Two close friends are dead. I want to make sure their families get the justice they deserve.”
I shrugged dismissively. “Then call the cops.”
He barked out a rueful laugh, the sound carrying through the room. “I didn’t realize you’d developed a sense of humor. We both know the legal system won’t deliver the kind of justice I’m interested in.”
I remained impassive, knowing too well exactly the kind of justice Tucker Callahan preferred. After all, I’d spent years cleaning up his version of justice.
“What do you want from me, Callahan?”
“To find the person responsible for this.” He pressed a stubby finger to the photograph of Robert Stanton.
“And?”
“And bring them to me.”
I stared at him for several long moments, my jaw ticking.
“No.”