The Big Run-Off (Holden Burke #1)

Fifteen

It was a deathly Monday morning, and I was out of ideas.

The only thing I had left was to tie Mitchell Ramsey definitively to Samuel Pearson, and I was still at least almost entirely sure there was something more than just the post-mortem and the blackmail finances to do it with. They could both could be contested; Ramsey no doubt had on hold a legal team of elites with the ability to eviscerate an old sheriff's report and a couple of bank statements. But I couldn't get out of my head the idea that Pearson had something big enough to keep him frightened and to keep him paying, and he had to have had it close by.

I got in my car and drove around for a while and stopped somewhere to have a greasy breakfast. I didn't eat all that much—since leaving the League I'd lost some of my weight and most of my muscle because I couldn't be bothered keeping myself fed—but I wanted something to occupy my hands and my mouth with so that hopefully in-turn my brain would start to be occupied as well. I don't know if it was, but I started to think about Quinto, Mitchell Ramsey, and all the things I hadn't caught up on in the past day or two.

I put down one of my breakfast sausages and took out my phone. I looked out the window as it rang, to the dour streetlife of the hot morning, but they weren't too interesting to look at.

Ramsey answered, not with a greeting, but with a gruff noise. I guessed that he was across from the heavy mahogany desk where he usually conducted his business, his sleeves to his elbows and another crystal tumbler in his hand.

'Mr Ramsey? This is Holden Burke.'

There was a moment of silence. 'Hello, Holden,' he said flatly. 'I don't think I was expecting to hear from you again.'

'I was just curious,' I said. 'Curious if anything has been made on your son.'

I could hear his lips tighten. 'No, nothing has been made. My money hasn't been retrieved, and I haven't been mailed any fingers either. Thank you for your interest, Holden.'

'You haven't heard from the kidnappers at all?'

'No, I haven't. I don't think I intend to. They missed their chance, the idiots.'

'Are the police still there?'

'They're monitoring the situation, but I've managed to put them at a distance for now.' I could hear the screws in his desk chair squeak. 'I'm to call them if any more demands are made. I suppose they're investigating, but I don't think they've made any headway.'

'I'm sorry, Mr Ramsey,' I said.

'It's alright. Anthony was a...troubled boy. It's only too prescient that something like this could happen, but it would have, sooner or later. You might say he got his comeuppance.'

I was quiet a moment. 'What do you mean by that?'

He made another sound. 'Come on, Holden, you're a professional. You're in this racket, too. I thought you were the realistic type. You should know that very few of these kidnap cases come home alive. Or in one piece.'

'You don't expect to see your son alive again?'

He made a low laugh. I could imagine him shaking his head in bitterness. 'I'd rather a dead son than a betrayal of my values. That's the price of mercy, Holden. I brought Anthony into this world, I should be ready to leave him again when the time comes. The time seems to have come now. I suppose it's not every father's dream to outlive their child, but I don't think I've ever been the paternal-type, either, of course.'

There was a coldness to his voice, as if he had pure petrol running through his veins instead of blood. I didn't know what else to say, so I said nothing but a weak goodbye and hung up. I sat there for a few moments, chilled by the exchange.