At around eleven, the Seattle chief of police sat at his desk, going through some paperwork. Powerhouse climbed in the window he’d left open since the AC was out.
Who did this guy think he was? Batman? “What do you want?”
“Who’s Frank Ross?”
The chief took a sip of coffee. “The biggest crime lord in Seattle. We’ve indicted him five times. Each time he’s gotten off.”
“And who’s Marcos?”
The chief put his cup down. “Marcos Silva?”
“Ross just said his name was Marcos.”
“Marcos is the head of the crime family that manages Ross’s organization. Ross is building a respectable business in the insurance industry and no longer associates with the underworld, but we’re sure he’s still the puppet master that pulls Silva’s strings.”
“What were Marcos and Ross doing with Frank Leonard and Captain Welch?”
The chief jumped up, fists clenched. “I’ve known Jake Welch twenty years. He’d never associate with that scum.”
“You mean Marcos and Ross?”
“Leonard, too. Can’t stand journalists.”
“I’m just telling what I saw.”
“I won’t believe it without evidence.”
Powerhouse put his hands up. “I was just asking.”
“If you get solid evidence, let me know.” The chief picked up his paperwork.
A bookshelf crashed. The chief glanced up. Police journals littered the floor at Powerhouse’s feet. Powerhouse blushed. “I’m sure it took Batman a lot of practice.”
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