CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Jean and Ella dug through the financial records that the boys had found on Charlie Gates. He had hidden accounts everywhere, stashing money in offshore accounts all over the world. The men who were listed on the payroll of the PFPJ were between the ages of fifty-four and seventy-three. None were currently married, but most had been married once before, at a minimum. Some as many as four times.

"How are they avoiding getting caught?" asked Jean.

"Simple," said Ella. "They marry a woman in one community, get rid of her, and move on to another community. In a few years, they return, hoping their residents are turned over or dead. No one remembers them, or if they do, they just see someone who was a widower five years before. They don't know that they've been taking women for the last few years."

"How do you keep it all straight in your head? I mean, I love my wife and all, but if I had to keep another wife straight in my mind, I'm not sure I could."

"That's because you're a good man," she said, smiling at her brother-in-law. "You're all good men. I think what surprises me is that they haven't used females to get what they want. I mean, it's a well-known fact that men tend to remarry faster than women. A woman left alone too long simply discovers she doesn't need a man in her life. A man left alone too long learns exactly why he needs a woman in his life."

"I guess you're right," nodded Jean. "I'm trying to figure out the ultimate goal here. They've got millions in these accounts, but I can't prove that the business is doing anything wrong. No charges have been filed against them for any wrongdoing. So what are they doing? Do they want to buy an island somewhere? Do they want to just get rich and move out of the country? I don't know what the end game is, and that's making me nervous."

"Well, we know for sure Charlie wants power. Maybe he's hoping for the role of POTUS. If he had that, he'd have the support of every cop in the country."

"Maybe," frowned Jean. "I wonder what his stance is on guns and gun laws, policing, and even things like police brutality, policies, and procedures, all of it!"

Ella stared at him, then looked at the sheets in front her. It was a lot. More than a lot. If Charlie Gates had all this money behind him, he could become one of the most powerful men in the country, influencing change in law enforcement.

"Are we assuming that the people they've killed in Atlanta were killed because they overheard something they shouldn't have?" asked Ella.

"I think that's the general consensus. The guy that was killed at The Shield probably overheard something for sure. The others, I'm not sure, but it would stand to reason. The only other possibility would have been if someone had something that they needed. Property, money, something that would help their cause, and the only way to get it would be to kill them."

"You know, the really sad part of all of this is that the police are supposed to be the people we run to if we need help. We shouldn't be afraid of them. I know there are great cops out there and not great ones. But most work hard, risk their lives, and follow the rules."

"I feel the same way, Ella. It's not a job I would want. You never know who might be waiting for you in the darkness or who the bad guy could be. You don't know if the nineteen-year-old kid swinging the knife around is on drugs, crazy, or a lot of both. I'm like you. I don't think these guys represent the masses."

Ella looked at him frowning, then looked down at the papers again.

"No. No, I don't think they represent the masses either," said Ella. "But the general public would. They'd call for privatization."

"Yeah, they might. If you remember way back when Frank was in San Diego for that op and accidentally found Lane, something similar was happening. There were riots in San Diego at the time, and they were pushing to privatize the police."

"I do remember that," nodded Ella. "Poor Lane was nearly beaten to death and was definitely unrecognizable. It was quite a shock seeing her after that."

"What if Gates is trying to do the same thing? What if he's basically getting his retired police force together for privatization?" asked Jean.

"Present company excluded," she smirked, "I wouldn't exactly be jumping for joy that my newly privatized police force was all over the age of sixty."

"That's true," frowned Jean. "It's a good line of thinking, though, Ella. We'll have to follow up on that and see what the possibilities could be. For now, let's figure out all this financial bullshit. I feel as if something is hidden here, but I can't quite put my finger on it."

It was hours later before anyone knocked on the door to tell them they should take a break. With Miller back from his visit, they had a great deal to speak about.

The rain was threatening once again, but for the time being, they were enjoying a cool evening. The food was placed outside for everyone to enjoy on their little island.

"You guys are late," frowned Miller, staring at Ian, Ghost, Gaspar, and Nine.

"Just keeping up to date with what's happening with VG. Sebastian and the others are headed out to find Emelia."

"Find her?" frowned Ella.

"We think she's been kidnapped, but the boys have it taken care of. Chief's going with them, along with a few others. Whoever has her better pray to their gods tonight."

"Shit," muttered Jean. "Well, we didn't uncover anything we didn't already know. What about you, Pierre?"

"If I were inclined to leave my wife, which I am not," he said, kissing her.

"Damn right, you're not. I'd take you to the cleaners," she smirked. The tables laughed, shaking their heads.

"Anyway, if I were inclined to leave my wife, I'm betting I'd be remarried at that place by the end of the week. The women are like vultures. They sense new male meat in the room and then descend. It was the scariest shit I've ever seen."

"So, you made friends with our guy Mike?" asked Ian.

"I wouldn't call us friends, but he said he had a business proposition for me. I told him I was married to Addie, and he seemed cool with the idea that she's a former cop as well. I'm meeting him and a few other men tomorrow in the city. He found out I was a cop and said he'd be willing to work a deal with me if I were interested.

"Maison Soleil isn't any different than the other places, I'm sure. The women aren't afraid to walk around with their diamonds and pearls, wearing their Chanel ballet flats, and carrying their Gucci handbags."

"I'm impressed that you knew all those brands," smirked Baptiste.

"Bite me," growled his older brother. "It's like a fashion parade and don't even get me started on the poolside attire. They weren't all in bikinis, but they might as well have been. These are women who had a lot of disposable income and fixed what was aging. Fast."

"Any evidence of any wrongdoing?" asked Nine.

"I can't say wrong, but it ain't right. Mike took me into this storage room that had dozens of Rolex and Cartier watches, designer luggage, clothing, and shoes. He said the women give them the stuff all the time. When I asked what they did with it all, he said they have a friend that collects it about once a month, and they return it."

"Most of those places don't return for cash, only credit," said Lauren.

"True. But if you flash a badge, apparently that makes the rules change automatically. They're returning these items for cash. The watches alone would be worth half a million dollars. I asked how much they paid him to work there, and he said he gets the condo, a car, all the perks his body can handle, and about five grand a month in spending money."

"Did he get to what they're doing with the women?" asked Gaspar.

"I think that's what my meeting is for in a few days. I told him I would be there with Addie, but we had to find a place to stay soon, or we'd be in trouble."

"Good job," nodded Gaspar. "Do you think they'd be suspicious if you wanted to bring others in?"

"I think it's too soon for that. Let me figure out what they want from me first. Actually, I know what they want from me, but I'll need to figure out an excuse to not do it."

"Venereal disease," said Wilson, shrugging his shoulders.

"Excuse me?" growled Miller.

"Don't lose your shit, brother," laughed Wilson. "I'm just trying to save you. Tell them you've got herpes or gonorrhea or something. Or you could tell them your dick doesn't work anymore. War wound or something."

"I don't know," he frowned. "That feels – wrong."

"It feels wrong because no man wants it to happen to him. It's going to feel more wrong if they're pushing you to have sex with those women. Do you know that STDs among seniors in luxury communities are the fastest growing of any age demographic? It's true."

"I know, but still, an STD?"

"Or your dick doesn't work," smirked Rafe.

"Shut the fuck up. My dick works just fine," growled Miller.

"Babe, we all know your dick works great," smiled Kari. "I think Wilson is onto something. Just tell them you had an injury. It would bring the women in even more. You could play all cool and shy because of it. It might help you."

Miller took a few deep breaths, staring at the group of friends and family. Men were particular about telling stories about their dicks. Size – exaggerate. Ability – exaggerate. But never in his life had he heard a man speak disparagingly about his own manhood. However, he did understand.

"I'll think about it."