Victor shot to his feet, knocking his chair over.
“This is Mason family business. Has nothing to do with me. Whitman, deal’s off. We’re leaving—”
“Sit down, Mr. Brandt.” Judge took off his glasses. “Let’s talk about the club’s two hundred thousand first.”
He spread out a stack of photocopies, the red markings glaring up from the pages.
“The books you cooked ten years ago. Copies of the originals, mailed to me by Jack himself the day before he died. Three weeks later, Brandt Building Supply was registered. Starting capital: two hundred thousand dollars. Cash.”
Behind Preacher, more than a dozen men took one step forward at the same time.
“And this.” Judge pulled out a manila envelope. “A private investigator Jack hired before he died. Motel receipts going back eight years before the i
