“So Harold Monroe may be an idiot,” Marquez agreed, “but Hancock isn’t. You want to watch your back. He might target anyone close to you, but especially Joceline, since she helped you get evidence on him. His uncle Jay would know she helped. He has somebody in law enforcement feeding him information. We’ve never been able to identify who.”
Jon sighed. “Why is life so complicated?”
Marquez indicated the office they were sitting in. “This is a police precinct. If you want answers to philosophical questions, you should consult a psychologist.”
Jon glared at him. “Thanks a lot.”
Marquez grinned. “You’re welcome. More coffee?”
Knowing that Peppy, alias Bart Hancock, had possibly been involved in the murder of Mac’s daughter, Melly, was like carrying live dynamite to Jon. He didn’t know if he should tell his brother at all, at least not until he could do some more checking. If Marquez was right, and he usually was, that meant the murder of Mac’s wife and child hadn’t been completely solved at all. Mac had thought Jay Copper, having ordered the hit, had been brought to justice and would pay for the child’s death. But if Peppy had helped the late Dan Jones with the hit—that was another whole can of worms. And Peppy was married to Harold Monroe’s sister. What a mess. A threat Jon had laughed off suddenly became a real possibility, and not just a danger to himself.
He went back to his office and sat down heavily at his desk, staring at the wall opposite. Joceline called him on the intercom and he didn’t even hear it. He was sick at his stomach.
She poked her head in the door and frowned when she saw his expression. “Something wrong?”
He nodded. He glanced at her. His black eyes were glittery. “Come in and close the door. Do I have anything urgent pending?”
“No.” She closed the door and sat down on the uncomfortable straight chair in front of his desk. No comfortable seats for this boss; he didn’t like people overstaying their welcome. She was uncomfortable, too, and not just from the chair. Was he going to fire her? She was a bundle of nerves lately. She had a meeting pending with both Markie’s teacher and the owner of the preschool about his behavior. They were going to recommend drugs, she just knew it. She had no money, no option to change his school for a more expensive one. She was in the hot seat and she didn’t like it.
“Am I being fired due to budget cuts?” she asked bluntly.
He noted her worried expression. Joceline was a single parent with only the bare necessities and even though she had great prospects, it might take time for her to find a new job.
“Of course not,” he said at once.
She relaxed, just a bit. A jerky little smile passed her lips. “Sorry. I worry.”
“The talk about budget cuts involves travel, not personnel. At least for now. We all worry, but until they come up with robots who won’t mind working our hours, I think we’re probably safe as far as employment goes,” he said with an attempt at humor. “I need someone to talk to.”
“There’s your brother,” she said. She frowned. “I think we have a psychology consultant in an office somewhere …?”
“Not that kind of talk,” he said stiffly. “I don’t discuss personal issues except with family.”
“Of course you don’t, sir.” She smiled vacantly.
He hated that damned smile. He averted his eyes. “It’s about the murder of Mac’s wife and child.”
“Jay Copper ordered it and he’s been arraigned for it.”
“There’s a hiccup.”
“Sir?”
He leaned back in his chair with a grimace. “Copper has a nephew who he possibly sent along with Dan Jones on the hit.” He also recalled that Copper had admitted to helping Peppy kill Dan Jones for his defection, not that they could prove it without that missing tape.
“I’m not surprised,” she replied. “He has a lot of idiot relations. Most of them are doing hard time.”
He glanced at her. “Bart Hancock isn’t. And he’s Harold Monroe’s brother-in-law.”
She was very still. The man had threatened her boss, but she hadn’t connected him with the Kilraven case. “Bart Hancock.”
“He’s Jay Copper’s nephew. His nickname is Peppy.”
She let out a breath. “Oh, my God,” she said, with reverence. She knew the name and the connection immediately, and it put another meaning on Monroe’s warning that his family would get back at Jon Blackhawk. If Peppy had killed a child …
“I can’t talk to Mac about this, he’d go crazy,” he told her. “And Winnie’s very pregnant,” he added, alluding to his sister-in-law’s pregnancy.
“What are you going to do?” she asked.
“I don’t know. Unless we can play connect-the-dots and find somebody, anybody, tied to the case who’s willing to testify against him, I don’t know what we can do. Most of the witnesses were killed, including Dan Jones and even his girlfriend.”
“Her minister spoke to Dan Jones,” she recalled at once.
“Yes, but he didn’t actually speak to Dan Jones confidentially,” he reminded her. “So he doesn’t know anything. It’s probably the only reason he’s still alive.”
She felt uneasy. “Harold Monroe wants revenge for his arrest.”
He nodded. “He’s a notorious fumbler.”
“He’s managed to avoid jail for the most part, until the kidnapping charge.”
“Only because of Jay Copper, who’s a master of intimidation,” he replied. “But Copper’s still in jail, awaiting trial, and even he can’t do much intimidating from his present domicile. Not that he can’t hire it done,” he added heavily.
“Your brother has a friend in covert ops who watched out for Winnie Sinclair’s mother when she was in danger investigating the Kilraven murders,” she reminded him. “Perhaps he could tag along with you.”
He glared at her. “I’m a senior FBI agent,” he reminded her coldly. “I do not require a bodyguard!”
She held up both hands. “No offense, but you can’t watch your back all the time.”
“Yes, I can.”
She glowered at him. “There’s the matter of kryptonite turning up in unusual places, Superman,” she said with faint sarcasm.
“I didn’t invite you in here to insult me,” he pointed out.
“You wanted advice. I’m flattered that you value mine. Here it is. Don’t tell your brother anything until you can find a witness who knows what Bart Hancock did—if he really was involved in the murder of Kilraven’s family.”
He sat back in the chair. It was a leather chair, old and not really cushy, but very comfortable. It was odd, she thought, for such a rigid, Spartan sort of man to like a comfortable chair at his desk when he provided hard chairs for visitors. But then, he was something of an anachronism himself.
“I suppose you’re right,” he replied quietly. Privately he was thinking how hard a job that was going to be, finding anybody connected to the case who was willing to risk his life to testify against a child murderer. Even civilians knew what happened to men who went to prison for that particular crime. They didn’t last a long time incarcerated. The other inmates didn’t appreciate child killers.
“You might involve Rick Marquez and Gail Sinclair,” she advised, referring to two of the best homicide detectives on San Antonio’s police force. “They’re both familiar with the case, and