Chapter 61 - Disgruntled Percy

Chapter 61: Chapter 61 - Disgruntled Percy

Jesse kept his face perfectly still.

"I don’t know what you’re talking about, Agent Bonham."

"Don’t." Percy jabbed a thick finger at him, the coffee sloshing in its cup. "Don’t play dumb with me. You know exactly what I’m talking about. You’ve fooled everybody else, Byrne," His lip curled. "But you haven’t fooled me."

Jesse searched Percy’s face for any sign that had gone to the massage parlor or something. There was no mention of Angela, and nothing in his eyes suggested a man who’d caught his wife.

Jesse let out a slow breath.

This wasn’t about Angie. It was about him. It was always about him, and about his father.

"Okay," Jesse said. "What have I fooled everyone about this time?"

"This car." Percy swung his arm toward the Porsche. "That suit. The way you walk around here now like you own the street. All of it." He stepped closer. "Your father’s sending you money, Jesse. Other people’s money. Pension funds, retirees, people who lost their houses, and you’re out here living large on it."

He stopped a foot away and looked at Jesse closely, the way he’d looked at him at the start of this conversation, frowning at his eyes and at the straight line of his nose.

"Even your face has changed," Percy said slowly. "I don’t know what you did to it or who paid for it. But I can still see right through it. I know you. You’re exactly like your greedy, rotten father."

Jesse studied him.

Percy’s jaw was tight, and the skin under his eyes was dark, like a man who hadn’t slept. His words were loud, but there was nothing behind them. He’d brought no warrant and no partner, and there was no folder of evidence tucked under his arm.

Jesse could guess what had happened. Percy had gone digging. He’d pulled the title on the Porsche, the bank records and whatever else he could get his hands on. And everywhere he looked, he’d found Dean Monroe’s paper trail: a godfather’s trust fund set up years ago and released after a mother’s death, with every document dated, every deposit declared and everything clean and boring.

He’d hit a wall, and he hated it.

Jesse smirked.

He watched it land on Percy’s face like a slap.

"Those are just words, Agent Bonham," Jesse said. "If you’ve got something on me, come back with a warrant and arrest me. Until then, it’s just a bald man yelling on a sidewalk."

Percy’s face went red.

"And while we’re at it," Jesse went on, "it says a lot about you that a man has been on the run for thirteen years and you still haven’t found him. Thirteen years, with the whole FBI behind you." He shook his head slowly. "It’s pathetic."

The veins in Percy’s forehead stood out and pulsed.

He surged forward. Jesse took one step back and felt the cool metal of the Porsche against his spine. Percy kept coming until he was inches away, close enough that Jesse could smell the coffee on his breath and the sour sweat under his windbreaker.

"I will find your father," Percy said, low and shaking. "And when I do, I’m going to put you both in prison. Side by side. You’ll be cellmates, I swear to God."

He locked eyes with Jesse and held it, waiting for him to flinch.

Jesse laughed in his face.

If this idiot knew what he had just done with his wife he is going to go berserk, Jesse thought.

"Get off me, Agent." He wrinkled his nose. "You reek of desperation. Ew."

For a second Jesse thought Percy might actually swing at him. Percy’s free hand had curled into a fist at his side, and Jesse could see his shoulder starting to load up. Sharp Reflex picked it up a split second before it happened.

Then Percy caught himself. He stepped back, breathing hard through his nose.

"You’ve been warned," he said.

Jesse straightened his jacket and kept the smirk in place.

"Was that official?" he asked. "Or personal?"

Percy frowned. "What does it matter?"

"It matters a lot." Jesse leaned back against the car and folded his arms. "For thirteen years, you’ve shown up whenever you felt like it. Outside this building. At my job. In the grocery store. You insulted my mother in front of the neighbors, and there wasn’t a thing I could do about it, because I didn’t have the money for a lawyer or the time to fight you." He tilted his head. "I do now."

Percy’s eyes narrowed.

"So here’s how it’s going to go from now on," Jesse said. "If you need to talk to me, it’d better be official FBI business, with a badge, a reason and a record of it. If you come at me like this again, on your own time, outside my mother’s house, I’ll file a harassment complaint with your supervisors. Then I’ll go in front of a judge who won’t waste a second slapping you with a restraining order." He smiled pleasantly. "My lawyer is Ben Pruitt. You might have heard of him."

Percy said nothing.

He stood there on the sidewalk with his chest heaving. His grip tightened on the paper cup until the sides buckled and hot coffee spilled over his knuckles and dripped onto the concrete.

He didn’t seem to feel it.

He turned and walked away down the block without another word. His heavy shoulders were hunched, and he dropped the crushed cup in the trash can on the corner as he went.

Jesse watched him go.

He’d spent years being afraid of that man. He’d crossed the street when he saw him coming and lain awake at night wondering when Percy would finally find some reason to drag him in.

Now he just felt tired. Underneath the tiredness was something that felt a lot like satisfaction.

He took his keys out of his pocket and turned toward the stoop.

He had one foot on the bottom step when a silver Mercedes pulled up to the curb behind the Porsche.

The driver’s door opened, and Aunt Marie stepped out.

She wore dark slacks, a camel coat and sunglasses pushed up into her brunette hair. A leather handbag hung from the crook of her arm. She shut the car door, looked up at Jesse on the stoop and folded her arms.

"Well," she said. "I guess you’re not the type to call."

Jesse blinked. "Aunt Marie—"

"I’ve texted you twice since Thursday. I called you yesterday afternoon. Nothing." She came up the walk toward him, heels clicking on the cracked concrete. "So I thought I’d come and see for myself that you were still alive."

She stopped at the bottom of the stoop and looked up at him. For a second, her expression flickered. She was looking at his eyes and at his nose, and she seemed to be trying to work out what had changed. Then she shook her head, as if she’d decide it was a question for later.

"Well, here I am," she said. "And you should know your uncles are livid."