His network entrée had been through Jodie Spaeth, the general manager who’d mistaken him for Scott King. Unfortunately, her personal e-mail had been the target of a data breach two years ago, when a department store’s network had been hacked. Fortunately for Diesel, those usernames and passwords were publicly available. Miss Spaeth had made his work very easy indeed by using the same password on her work e-mail.

Which, according to her social media, was the name of the dog she’d lost to cancer the summer before. Her username and password had provided him access to nearly everything on the riverboat’s network. Including the database of all employees along with their encrypted passwords—a nonsensical hash of letters and numbers at the moment. Diesel could see Scott King’s name, but the hashed password that followed wouldn’t be useful until it was decrypted, and that was Ritz’s job.

Once Ritz had cracked the encryption, Diesel would have access to all of King’s personnel data—including his address, phone number, and the phone number of his emergency contact, which would be a good place to start searching if he’d gone into hiding.

And then? What will you do?

Give the information to Deacon and Adam if they hadn’t already found it, of course, he told himself. He didn’t need to see King go down with his own eyes. In Diesel’s mind, the man had done a public service, ridding the world of John Brewer. The cops would ensure that King was punished for the other murders—and that the bastard was never able to hurt Michael.

He turned back to the monitor on his left. He’d been running background checks on all of the casino’s staff—those he’d been able to find in places other than the server.

The general manager, Jodie Spaeth, seemed to be doing well. She lived in a very nice home in Mount Adams and drove a new Audi. He’d have to dig into her financials to determine if she was in debt. She’d seemed genuinely surprised that the security man she knew was wanted for murder, but people in debt could often be persuaded to look the other way by lawbreakers.

The riverboat was owned by Richard Fischer, forty-six. His photo showed a hometown-looking man with a warm smile. His image exuded warmth and vitality.

Diesel didn’t trust him as far as he could throw him.

Fischer’s net worth was staggering, if the news reports could be believed. He’d certainly need to be filthy rich to sustain his lifestyle. The man owned a gated home in Indian Hill, not too far from Jeremy’s mansion. That whole neighborhood was filled with mansions. According to DMV records, Fischer owned a Ferrari, a Bentley, and a classic Corvette.