Page 100 of Cain

“You need to ask him anything else?” Jase asked.

I had all the answers I needed.

“Nope. You need us to hang around?”

“Nah, my brothers should be here any second.”

Fred’s eyes widened, likely seeing his life flash before his eyes.

But the Mallicks, as a whole, weren’t in the killing business. Kneecap breaking, face smashing, hand crushing? Sure. But Fred was more likely to be driven out of town than killed.

Jase had the golf club behind his neck, his arms draped over it, as he turned to Fred.

I made my way out to find Spike and Croft speaking to two guys who had the same Mallick good looks—though neither was quite as bulky as their big brother.

“You get the answers you were looking for?” Spike asked.

“Yep.”

“We heading back to the clubhouse?”

“I have one more stop in mind,” I said. “But I don’t need company for this.”

It was a short drive down the road toward Quinton Baird & Associates, the local fixer firm.

“We haven’t had a biker in here in a while,” Quin said, stopping mid-stride across his fancy-ass waiting room. “Which one are you?”

“Cain.”

“Oh, right! Sorry, sorry!” A pretty young woman said, rushing forward to dump an armload of files onto the already messy front desk. “You called. We talked. I have a sticky note here somewhere. Where are you, you little… there! See?” she said, flashing it at her boss. “Cain, biker, Rosie.”

“You’re here to see Ethan?” Quin asked. “You in legal trouble?”

I understood his confusion.

Even if one of us did find ourselves in trouble with the law, we’d be much more likely to go with the same lawyer the Grassis worked with—Bishop Blake. The fixer crew tended to handle the million—and billion—aire class.

“No, this is more of a divorce question.”

Quin’s brows raised at that. “I’ve never known one of you guys to divorce. You guys shack up forever.”

“It’s not for me. Is Rosie free? It shouldn’t be more than half an hour.”

“Yeah, he’s got nothing pressing. Come on.”

With that, I followed him down the hallway until we reached nearly the end of the hall. Quin knocked but went in without waiting for a reply.

“Rosie. Got someone who wants to talk to you for a minute.”

Ethan Roseland had the classic good looks of a nineties model—tall, fit, with short golden blonde hair, light blue eyes, a square face, and a wide jaw.

“I think a little birdie might have mentioned a biker among a larger speech about car crash statistics,” Rosie said, glancing out toward the front desk. He stood and reached a hand out to me. “Ethan.”

“Cain.”

“What can I do for you, Cain?” Ethan asked, waving toward the seat and only sitting after I’d done so first.

“I have a question about a divorce.”