Page 74 of Tito

Goose gave the dead man a lingering look. “Of all the people she could have beat to death, it had to be some celebrity.”

“What’s that got to do with anything?” I asked. “If he was holding a knife to her throat, he deserved what he got.”

“Not disputing that, Brother. Just saying if this guy was some doper, nobody would come looking for him. But. Rick McNown? I’m guessing people will be looking for this guy. There’ll be a formal investigation. Surveillance footage searched. It could be traced back to her pretty damned easily if they’ve got any footage.” He looked at me. “How well is this chick going to hold up in an interview for a murder charge?”

I began to feel uneasy about everything, especially disposing of the body. If Rick McNown was as big of a deal as Goose portrayed him to be, he was right. People would be looking for him. People who knew what to look for.

It wouldn’t be a simple, damn this guy got murdered exclamation from the detectives in charge. A no-holds-barred investigation would be demanded by the victim’s family, the television station, and the producers of the news show he hosted.

“I’m not sure she’d hold up well under pressure,” I admitted. “But I don’t know her too well.”

“Perfect,” Goose said in a sarcastic tone. He glanced around the kitchen. “Where the fuck do we start?”

I took a step away from the body and glanced around the kitchen. It looked like a mass murder had taken place. There was no way Goose and I could correct the mess in a manner that would prevent police from later finding forensic clues as to what had happened.

I faced Goose. “You opposed to me calling someone outside the club?”

His eyes narrowed. “Why the fuck would you do that?”

“You’ve met Braxton,” I said. “Rumor has it that he might be better suited to take care of situations like this than we are.”

He coughed out a laugh. “You’re shittin’ me. That fine-dressed motherfucker cleans up messes like this?”

“I don’t have any concrete information to support my thoughts,” I said. “But there’s speculation on that subject. I just. I haven’t asked specifics.”

He stared blankly. “What makes you think—”

“I’ve got a hunch,” I said.

“You’re prepared to call him and ask?”

I scanned the kitchen cabinets. I had no idea how we’d clean the mess even if we had a year to do so. “I think so.”

“If you trust him, I trust him,” he said. “Call him.”

Using my burner phone, I called Braxton’s number. After four rings, he anwered.

“Braxton Rourke. How can I help you?”

“Remember that TV show we were talking about on Sunday?” I asked, not bothering to identify myself or the television show by name.

He cleared his throat. “I do.”

Cautious not to say too much over an unsecure phone line, I proceeded with caution. “I need to talk to someone like the star of the show.”

“Keep talking,” he said. “He’s listening.”

* * *

The white shirtBraxton wore beneath his tailored sport coat was crisp, as if it had just been pressed. His jeans were dark enough that I mistook them for navy-colored slacks. I couldn’t see his shoes because they were covered in Tyvek booties, but I suspected they were fine Italian dress shoes. They always were.

Shaking his head while he surveyed the mess, he stepped into the kitchen. He studied the deceased newscaster while rubbing the salt-and-pepper stubble of his neatly trimmed beard

“Whose handiwork is this?” he asked without looking up.

“Friend of Reggie’s.” I nodded at the corpse. “He tried to rape her.”

“Have you searched the body?”