Page 85 of Who's Afraid of the Big, Bad World

“I bet he does.” Noah pulled out a chair opposite them. “Doesn’t his visit contravene the conditions of his bail?”

Johnson gave Harris a grateful smile as he took the offered mug of coffee. “It would, only, technically, he doesn’t know where the witness lives or anything about her. As far as he’s concerned, he has no information on her whereabouts and just stopped over the road for a coffee.”

“Yeah, and he has no idea why his gang members keep turning up here either,” Noah said, disgusted.

“He reckons he’s stepped back from the gang to concentrate on his defense for next week’s trial.”

McMillan waved off the offered coffee. “Thing is, we can’t prove either way that the gang was here with his blessing or that he knows for sure that Annabelle lives here. Although we can say he knows it now, because we just officially ordered him to stay away from the witness.”

Johnson sat back in his chair. “Don’t expect him to listen to us. The guy’s a complete psycho.”

“We figured,” Noah said. “How are the women?”

“As well as can be expected.” McMillan reached for the donut box in the middle of the table and opened it to check if there were any left. His eyes lit up when he found two to choose from. “They’re all awake now. We’ve put guards at the hospital in case the Demons come looking for them, but they aren’t talking yet.”

“Mostly, they’re crying,” Johnson said.

Katrina came up beside Noah, standing much closer than usual. “Do you have female officers talking to them? Counselors?”

“Yep.” McMillan frowned. “This isn’t the first time we’ve dealt with this kinda crap. Sick bastards.” He took a big bite of donut, making powdered sugar billow over the desk.

“They’re malnourished and dehydrated,” Johnson said. “Most of them were drugged at some point and are going through withdrawal. Don’t worry, Ms. Raast, we’re well aware these women are victims, and we aren’t pushing any of them.”

“Good.” She nodded stiffly before mumbling about having work to do and leaving the room.

“We were on our way over to talk to Mr. Otieno about shooting one of the Demons,” McMillan said around a mouthful of donut. “But Johnson here got a text from the DA saying we don’t have to bother.”

Johnson gave Abasi a wry look. “Apparently, it was self-defense. Still not sure how a guy who’s hog-tied and lying face down in the dirt could attack you, but whatever. We have our orders, and there won’t be any more inquiries into the shooting.”

“For future reference,” Violet said, “would it have still been self-defense if the wound was a little more life-threatening?”

“It’s self-defense because the DA’s in a hole and doesn’t want to be buried under the dirt your team’s generated,” McMillan said. “But to answer your question, you can’t call shooting an unarmed and restrained man self-defense under any circumstances. If the injury had been more ‘life-threatening,’ it would be considered murder. Something Mr. Otieno is very familiar with, isn’t that right?” He cocked an eyebrow at Abasi.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Abasi said.

“Yeah, right.” McMillan helped himself to another donut, seemingly unbothered by the sugar coating he’d given his cheap suit.

Johnson set his empty mug on the table and stood, making McMillan follow him—donut in hand. “You got lucky this time,” he said to the team. “Not just Otieno over there; all of you. If the DA wasn’t desperate to use what you found, you’d all be under investigation. And trust me when I tell you, the charges would stick. I suggest you change how you operate from here on in. Unless you want to end up in adjoining cells with Eddie and his gang.”

He nodded his goodbyes and strode from the room, followed by McMillan, who was too busy eating to acknowledge anyone.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Night fell like a heavy velvet curtain, ending an act of a play. But unlike a theater, the lights didn’t go up; instead, they remained low with nightfall as the audience waited for the final act.

Dinner was pizza, delivered by a teenager who’d been scared out of his mind when three heavily armed men opened the door to him. To make up for terrorizing the poor kid, Noah made sure his tip was on the hefty side.

It was a working meal while the team went over building security, ensuring the place was locked down tight. Once that was done, they moved on to helping Evan unravel the complicated systems the Demons used to hide their money. The reports were correct: Eddie Hanson was smart. Every contact they talked to, every clue they unearthed, led back to him. The man was a genius at hiding his money.

“It’s unbelievable.” Abasi slowly shook his head. “We would have killed to have a guy with these skills in the James Family.”

“Pity he’s a violent psychopath,” Noah pointed out. “Hard to control those.”

“Tell me about it.” Abasi wandered over to help Evan decipher some info he’d uncovered in the Caymans.

While Abasi, Rodrigo, Evan, and Rochelle followed the money trail, Noah strolled to the corner of the room, where Annabelle sat curled up in the old armchair that he’d slept in, her sketchpad open beside her. She smiled up at him as he approached.

“Whatcha drawing?” he asked, crouching down beside her.