CHAPTER SEVEN

Hartsfield Airport in Atlanta was hell on earth. One of the busiest airports in the world, the place had a hundred and ninety-two gates, with forty of them being international. It was like being inside a beehive, and all the bees were pissed off trying to move out of the hive, or into the hive all at the same time.

The bombardment of different languages, dress, and international passengers made Nine and Gaspar nervous as shit. They just wanted to be out of there. Some memories die harder than others.

"Fuck, I hate this place," mumbled Nine. He gripped Erin's hand tighter, pulling her along beside him.

"Nine, you're hurting my hand," she winced.

"I'm sorry, baby," he said, loosening his grip. "I'm scared I'll lose you."

Gaspar was beside them with Alexandra tucked beneath his arm. They'd carried their bags onto the commercial airline, the weapons wrapped in the stealth netting. Thinking they might take the private jet, they changed their mind, worried it could draw attention to them they didn't want.

"Let's get to the hotel and check in. After that, we can grab some lunch and then maybe go see someone in records. I asked the boys to reach out to anyone they might know that they served with and now is with the force. We'll see what they come up with," said Nine.

If Hartsfield was hell, the St. Regis Hotel was heaven. With luxury suites, butler service, a five-star rated spa, and amazing dining experiences, it was the place to be. Taking the two-bedroom suite on the top floor, they were greeted by their butler.

"I can put your things away, sir," said the man.

"No need. We'll take care of that," said Nine. He handed the guy two one-hundred-dollar bills and opened the door for him to leave. "You just make sure no one comes into our room."

"Yes, sir," smiled the man. "Let me know if there's anything at all you need."

Not wanting to be separated from the women, the four of them took a taxi to the Atlanta PD headquarters. Code had called ahead for them to speak with someone in internal affairs. Asking the team back home about former teammates with a military history was the smart thing to do. He hit the jackpot.

"Hi. We're here to see Sgt. Wegman," said Nine.

"Yes, sir. Please come this way," said the young officer.

They were seated in a large conference room overlooking the city. The enormous conference table had two video phones sitting in the center and there were two video screens on the wall. The floor to ceiling windows gave them a great view of the Atlanta skyline.

Taking their seats, they waited patiently, or at least as close to patience as they could manage. Both men took note of the cameras, and Alexandra gave them the signal that the cameras and the unseen listening devices had been disrupted.

"Mr. Robicheaux, Mr. Dougall, I'm honored to meet you, sirs," said the young man, shaking their hands. "I knew Rett, East, and Eazee. When they called, I was happy to help out with whatever you need. I hope nothing awful has happened on your visit."

"No, nothing awful," smiled Nine. "Thank you for seeing us. The triplets are doing well. Happily married."

"That's what East said. Sort of hard to believe," laughed the man. "Sorry. My name is Billy Wegman."

"We got that from East," grinned Gaspar.

"How can I help you, sirs? Ma'ams?"

"Billy, we're looking into a hit-and-run in New Orleans that killed an elderly woman. Somehow, we believe it ties to two ex-cops here in Atlanta."

"Ex-cops?" frowned the young man.

"Yes. Al Corvin and Mike Riser." The young man's face paled somewhat, and he looked around the room.

"Maybe we should go get some coffee," he said with a smile.

"We're good here," said Nine. "Cameras and ears are off." He nodded at them, then took a seat.

"What you're asking could have me losing my job, or worse, getting shot in the head," said the young man. Neither man said anything, just waited as the women looked at the boy who could be a grandson to them.

"Just tell us what you can," said Erin.

"They both left Atlanta a little over two years ago when one too many dead bodies popped up right next to them. There was an IA investigation, one I didn't have anything to do with, but no one wants to talk about it."

"What was the investigation for?" asked Gaspar.

"Anything and everything. The bodies. The solved cases solved too easily. The cars. The houses. All of it. I think the final straw was a young woman came in to file a complaint about Mike scamming her grandmother out of millions of dollars. She had one of those huge mansions out in the suburbs. Lived all by herself.

"The woman said he was going out to see the old woman three, maybe four times a week. She was smitten, as they say. Records showed that she'd withdraw money once a week, and suddenly, that money was in his bank account."

"Thousands?" questioned Nine.

"Millions. We're talking millions of dollars," said Billy. "They start the investigation, ask a lot of questions, cops get nervous, fights and arguments start, and suddenly no one wants to talk about anything. It's done. They retire, records are sealed, and they walk away."

"What the fuck?" muttered Gaspar.

"Are the records electronic?" asked Alexandra.

"Yes, ma'am. But our system is impenetrable. We're very proud of it."

"I'm sure you are," she smiled. She was tapping so quickly on the keys he wondered if she was even doing anything or just pretending.

"Tell me about Booker," said Nine.

"It was before my time, but I've read his files. That man was innocent. I mean, there were seventeen witnesses putting him in Wexwood. Do you have any idea how far that is from Buckhead? In our traffic, he couldn't have gotten there in that amount of time on any day. But no one seemed to care."

"Was it because he was a black man?" asked Nine.

"I think that was part of it. Most of the dead bodies that popped up around Corvin and Riser were people of color. Hispanics, blacks, Asians. Not very many white folks, I can tell you that."

"The woman, the elderly woman, was she white?" asked Erin.

"No. She was from the Philippines. Her husband had made his money in shipping, and she inherited everything. The thing is, she gave him whatever he was asking for and then some. When her body was found, it wasn't as if her accounts were drained. There were still millions to be had."

"She found out what he was doing," frowned Gaspar.

"Maybe," he said, shrugging. The door flew open, and three cops stood, staring at the group. Billy swallowed and stood from the chair.

"Can we help you?" asked one of the cops.

"Nope," said Nine, standing to his full height. "Billy here was just reminiscing with us about someone from back home."

"So you guys know one another?" asked another officer.

"Sorry, who are you?" asked Gaspar, standing next to Nine. If they wanted intimidation they'd walked into the right conference room. He and Nine were masters at intimidation with a helluva lot more experience at it. "Is it a crime to visit an old friend?"

"No. Not at all. We just noticed that none of the equipment in here was working. We always have cameras, as you can imagine."

"I can imagine," smirked Nine. "Shame about the cameras but maybe you should have someone come out and check on that later."

"And you are?" asked another officer, staring at him.

"As I said, an old friend."

"No offense, mister, but you're twice his age. Easy. You're not old friends." Nine took two steps toward the man, and he actually took a step back, the heel of his hand resting on the butt of his weapon. Nine only smiled.

"I know for a fact it's not a crime to speak to someone. So, if you've got a problem with us being here, I'd suggest you take it up with your superiors. Or better yet. Bring them in here so we can speak to them. Now!" growled Nine.

The three men stared at one another, then back at Billy. He was enjoying this little display of power and just stared at the men.

"All I asked for was a name, mister."

"Okay. I'll give you a name. My name is Joe ‘Nine' Dougall, and this is Gaspar Robicheaux. Look it up." One of the men gripped his friend's sleeve and pulled them back out of the room. He whispered to them, then stared back at Billy.

"Sorry, sir, we didn't know. See ya later, Billy." When they disappeared, Billy looked at the men, raising their brows.

"Who were the two older men? They were the ones that recognized our names."

"Gunter Rheinhan and the other is Carey Evers. They've been in the department more than thirty years now. The younger guy was Grant Rheinhan, Gunter's son."

"How sweet. Nepotism," frowned Gaspar. "Did we create any issues for you, Billy?"

"No, sir. They'll ask me a few questions, but it will be okay. My uncle is in the D.A.'s office and hates these guys. They know it, too."

"Okay. If anything starts to get too difficult, call us, and we'll get you out of here."

"I'm alright, sir," said Billy, smiling at them. "Are you planning to have lunch around here? There are some great restaurants."

"We were thinking of having lunch at The Shield," smirked Nine. Billy laughed, shaking his head.

"Yep. You're connected to the triplets. You guys are just itching to kick up dust and bullshit."

"Can you tell us about it?" asked Gaspar.

"Just a simple pub with pub food. Burgers, wings, that sort of thing. Simple, except that ninety-nine percent of the crowd are cops or friends of cops. And I use that term loosely. They'll know that you don't belong. You might have scared away those three, but these guys are active and retired both. They like to keep their secrets.

"A few years ago, the whole place was investigated because it was accused of refusing service to a bunch of people. Some college kids, a few teachers, a group of nurses who were just trying to do their damn jobs, that kind of thing. Of course, a member of The Shield handled the investigation."

"A member? Is it a club?"

"Unofficially. Like I said, secrets kept."

"Is that so," smiled Nine. "Well, let's go meet these secret keepers."