The thought of whims made him frown. “Do you think she’s right?”
“About the saboteur and the Alcatraz article? Probably.”
“Fuck.” Jackson punctuated that articulate sentiment by tossing back a long swallow of eighteen-year-old Macallan. “We need to know who’s screwing with us. And,” he added, keeping his eyes off his brother as he set his glass back on the bar, “I need to know who really killed Reed.”
He turned to find Damien’s eyes on him. “Honestly, I thought you did.”
Jackson hesitated, then covered the silence with another sip of his scotch. “There’s a lot of that going around. I need to know who else wanted that fucker dead, and why. It plays to my defense. And, frankly, I’d like to shake that man’s hand.”
Damien studied him, and Jackson was certain his brother was weighing the truth in Jackson’s words. Was this for real? Or was Jackson manufacturing new pieces of the puzzle, so that if the police asked, Damien could honestly say that Jackson asked for help finding the real killer, so surely that killer wasn’t him.
He was silent for so long, that Jackson began to fear his brother was going to tell him to fuck off. “Arnold Pratt,” Damien finally said. “He’s a private investigator I keep on retainer. He works primarily for the company—Ryan sends him all our background checks to handle—but he’s done some work personally for me. A few matters that required both digging and finesse. If he has the time, he’ll take the job. And if he doesn’t have the time, my guess is that for the right fee, he’ll make time. Syl has his number. Why didn’t she just suggest him?”
“She probably would have. I told her I wanted to talk to you.”
“A little brotherly advice?” Damien asked, with a hint of irony.
“Brotherly? I don’t know. But you trade in information. And when I need help, I search out the best.”
Damien lifted his glass as if in a toast. “Touché.”
“Speaking of brotherly, have you asked Pratt to look into who leaked our relationship?”
“I haven’t.”
“Any reason why not?” As far as Jackson was concerned, that question and the identity of the saboteur were second only to the question of who killed Reed.
Damien tossed back the last of his scotch, then lifted his glass to signal Phil. “Because I don’t need Pratt to find the answer. I already know it. And so, I think, do you.”
“I’ve considered that it might be Jeremiah,” Jackson admitted. “But it doesn’t make a lot of sense.”
“On the contrary. It’s the only answer that does make sense. I know I didn’t leak it. You say that you didn’t, and I’m inclined to believe you.”
“Thanks so much.”
Damien’s mouth twitched, but he continued. “We both know that neither Sylvia nor Nikki said anything.”
“There are others,” Jackson added. “Cassidy knows, and so do Jamie and Ryan. But I can’t imagine any of them telling.”
“The only other person who knows is your mother,” Damien said. “And Penny’s not in a position to talk to anyone at the moment.”
“You know about my mom?” Penelope Steele had developed early onset Alzheimer’s ten years ago. She lived now in a facility in Queens, a relatively easy jaunt from Jackson’s office in New York. He visited frequently. Most of the time, she had no idea who he was.
“As you said, I like information. You grew up knowing all about my family. I thought it was only fair I learn something about yours.”
“You could have just asked.” The idea that Damien had been poking around in Jackson’s life pissed him off. Not that this was a new sensation. He’d experienced the same sense of violation when Damien had found his petition to establish parental rights, along with the evidentiary DNA test results confirming that Ronnie was his daughter.
“Now I would. Back when I looked, I didn’t trust you. And, frankly, you didn’t trust me. I could have asked, but you wouldn’t have told.”
Jackson didn’t answer; Damien was right. Instead, he finished his own drink, lifted his finger to signal to Phil that he should pour a fresh glass for him as well. As soon as the drink was in front of him, he took a long swallow, savoring it before speaking again. “He chewed me up one side and down the other for coming to work for you. And then he got in my face about telling you the truth. Doesn’t that cut against our assumption?”
“Do you think it does?”
