An hour later, we were in the meeting room.
Judge arrived in a charcoal suit, silver-rimmed glasses on his nose, a strip of faded crow tattoo showing beneath his collar.
Martin Reed.
Former Iron Raven. Hung up his cut and went to law school. Now the club’s attorney.
He set down his briefcase and looked at me for ten seconds.
“You’ve got your dad’s nose,” he said. “And the same talent for finding trouble.”
Preacher began speaking, every word sounding like it had been carved out of his chest.
“Ten years ago, on the night of April sixteenth, your dad called me. Said there was a two-hundred-thousand-dollar hole in the books. Said the outside accountant had cooked the records. He said he had proof, and that first thing in the morning he was calling church—a full club meeting—to lay it al
