It's how Peter's stayed in business so long. He doesn't directly touch anything. Instead, he makes introductions, facilitates communication between interested parties, and collects his middleman's percentage regardless. He's the ultimate in one-stop criminal shopping. You want it, he knows a guy.
He's completely crooked, but there's no hard evidence. His business dealings are done face to face with cash on the table most of the time, and the IRS thinks he gets his money through renting residential properties in the Lower Ninth Ward. Hell, in their estimation the man's a saint, owning so many Section 8 properties. He's not looking out for anyone but himself, though—he filters his money through those houses.
Say you have a house that you're renting for a thousand dollars a month. Sometimes housing assistance provides full credit for rentals, and sometimes they only provide partial credit. Peter DeLaCoeur only rents to those with partial credit. The government gives him between three hundred and five hundred a month... and the rest of the thousand comes out of his illegal business. He makes friends with the IRS and HUD, who think his fifty houses are all rented out to families in need. Meanwhile, the families think he's renting to them cheap on the down low.
He's just using those same poor families as a cover, since the funds he's filtering are in fact coming from the same drugs and guns that are killing the neighborhoods he owns. He makes even more profit from the Section 8 money. I have to admit, it's a smooth scam, but it's just one of half a dozen that he runs.
If I could just prove it... maybe Andrea can help with that. It'd damage him more than just exposing an embarrassing affair. I don't know. In the meantime, I keep doing my pushups, even though my chest and shoulders are screaming at me at this point.
Someone knocks on my door and I pull my right leg up, bounding to my feet. I approach the door slowly, since it's one of only two entrances to my loft. The other entrance is the old freight elevator that connects to the boxing gym downstairs. Unlike the door, I can control the elevator entrance fully.
Next to the door is one of my home defense weapons. After all the years of martial arts training, you'd think that I'd have something exotic like sai or a wakizashi sword. Maybe a hundred years ago, but what I have instead is a Glock 18. They're highly illegal since they're fully automatic, but since I don't officially exist as far as the law's concerned, I'm not worried about illegally owning this gun. If I need to, I can fire all fifteen rounds through the door in less than a second, and whoever's unlucky enough to be on the other side is going to get turned into Swiss cheese.
I pick up the Glock and flick the fire selector switch from safe to semi-auto, and look through my peephole. I really should invest in a higher tech security system, but it hasn't been a priority.
Whoever it is knocks again as I open the cover on my peephole, and my fingers go numb when I see who it is. I'm only dimly aware that I drop the cover on the peephole. Jackson?
“Open the door please, Kat. I'm alone, and we need to talk.”
“What are you doing here, Jackson?” I yell through the door. “Don't try and knock the thing down either, it's steel core.”
Actually, my door isn't steel core, it's just a plain hollow metal door, but that's beside the point. If Jackson is alone, then just what the hell is he doing here?
“Please Kat, open the door,” Jackson repeats. “It's just me... I want to talk, that's all. Come on Kat, it's been ten years. If our friendship meant anything to you... I just want to talk.”
Against my better judgment, I lower my Glock for a moment and unlock the door, stepping back before raising my gun again. “It's open.”
Chapter 8
Jackson
The first thing I see when I open the door to Kat's loft is the pistol pointed at my chest. Her hands are completely steady, and she keeps the gun solidly trained on me as I approach her. I don't know what type of pistol it is, except that it's not the same as Nathan's 1911, and that the whole damn thing is black.
Next, I see Kat, sweat glistening on her skin as she stares at me with killer's eyes. She's wearing a dark gray sports bra and what looks like martial arts pants, plus a pair of black Nike Frees, and that's it. Her eyes flicker over my body for a moment before she jerks her head to the side, and I get the message. I go deeper inside her loft while she checks to make sure that I was telling the truth about being alone. She reaches out and jerks her door shut, throwing the bar lock that's at the top as soon as the door's closed.
“How'd you find me?” she asks, spinning around. She's still got the gun pointed at my chest, and to be honest, it's pissing me off.
“Think you can lower the fucking hand cannon first?” I ask, keeping my hands out. “Seriously, I know you're pissed at my family, but I'm unarmed and alone. And the longer you keep that thing pointed at me, the more you're pissing me off.”
Kat considers it for a moment, then lowers her gun slowly, flicking a switch on the side and tucking it into the back of her pants. She smirks, and for a moment I see my old friend in her eyes. “Fine. Would you like a drink of water, Jackson?”
“Uhhh... sure,” I mutter, caught off guard again. Seriously, she was just pointing a gun at me five seconds ago, and now she's asking if I want a drink. “Actually, beer if you've got it.”
“I never touch alcohol except to treat wounds,” Kat says tersely as she passes by me. I reach out to grab her shoulders to get her to stop, but before I can even touch her she's grabbed my wrist and flipped me over her hip like I weigh nothing, sending me crashing to the floor. She twists my hand and my left arm is in immense pain, and twisted in ways I didn't think arms were supposed to go. Her gun's suddenly in her hand again, and the momentary friendliness in her eyes has completely vanished, replaced by the look of a stone-cold killer. “And I have a thing about personal space. As in... don't try and breach mine.”
“Goddammit Kat, I'm not your enemy!” I hiss. She steps back and puts her pistol down on a small table. I glance at it, then see her eyes. The message is clear. I reach for it, and regardless of what I might say, I'm leaving this room in a body bag.
Instead, I roll away and get to my feet, shaking my wrist. “Where the fuck did you learn that?”
“Tamura-sensei,” Kat says simply. “I learned from him after my foster mother got done teaching me what she knew. He taught me aikijujutsu.”
I look around and really look at the loft that Kat's living in. To be honest, calling it Spartan would be an insult to the Spartans. Her bed looks like it's some kind of reject from a military surplus store with only a thin mattress on top of the cheap metal frame. My eyes drift over to a cheap Formica dresser that looks like it doubles as one of her tables, then to a couple of wooden folding chairs. Her kitchen... well, I've seen office break rooms better equipped. A hotplate, a mini fridge, a cheap sink with a single cupboard above it... I don't even see a shower, although most of the loft is dimly lit, so I guess it could be on the far side of this huge space. “Love the decoration style. What do you call it? Goodwill Chic? Haute Homeless?”