Tramps and Thieves

by Rhys Ford

  “Rich people bleed in their silence, and the poor bleed so much no one notices,” his uncle Manny once told him. “But no matter what, we all cry and die the same, mijo. That’s why you’re here. To wipe our tears and honor our dead.”

  In this case, they were outside of his district, and Rook’s call had been short, to the point, and troubling. Other than knowing there was a house with a dead body in it, Montoya and Camden were walking into another cop’s station blind, but knowing Rook, they were probably going to find themselves in the middle of a shit storm without an umbrella.

  “Camden, any word on who was on-scene?” He couldn’t see the tow truck driver, but the McLaren was getting a lot of attention from the station’s uniforms, small dribbles of blue-garbed cops wandering outside to take a look at the sports car. Hank shook his head, and Dante sighed. “Hate not knowing whose toes we’re going to be walking on before we go in.”

  “Sorry, but I’ve got nothing. Sherry down in Dispatch says things inside’s pretty chaotic. Since West Los Angeles caught it, we won’t have conflict of interest, so the captain’ll be happy about that.” Hank nodded at the black McLaren 570GT blocked in by a sea of uniformed police. “We’re definitely not in Kansas anymore. This district’s got some serious money. What’d Rook tell you over the phone?”

  “Remember I told you the dead guy’s his cousin and not one he likes,” Dante informed his partner. “One Harold Martin, formerly of Bel Air and now a temporary resident of the Los Angeles County Morgue. I didn’t get a lot out of Rook other than that and to meet him down here if I could. Swear to God, he’s going to make me go gray before I’m forty. The McLaren over there belongs to Alex, another cousin. That does not bode well. If he’s got Alex mixed up in something, then that’s going to make things really sticky. Bad enough Rook’s a menace. Archie’s not going to like him dragging the good seed down the rabbit hole with him.”

  “Okay, so?” Hank tapped an away code into their console, informing Dispatch they were going to be out of the car. “How many damned cousins does your boyfriend got? It’s like a clown car over on his genealogy chart.”

  “Don’t know. Stevens isn’t exactly the Sunday-go-to-dinner kind of guy, so I’ve never had a full head count. You met Alex. Slender blond guy with the glasses, cute. Your wife thought he was adorable. He was at the barbeque Manny threw at the house a couple of weeks back. He’s with Castillo from North Hollywood.”

  “So Grandpa Martin’s favorite grandsons have a type.” Hank rolled his eyes at Dante’s confusion. “Cops. They’re gay guys who hook up with cops. Sheesh, Montoya, connect the dots here. What about the dead guy? Did you know him?”

  “Harold? Might have met him once or twice, but honestly, the family’s not too happy about Rook showing up and landing in Archie’s lap, so he doesn’t see them much. The one who owns the McLaren’s cool. Got a comic book shop, so he and Rook really hit it off. Nice guy. Law-abiding, which is a damned nice thing to have where Rook’s concerned.” Dante shook his head at the thought of Rook having an accomplice in trouble lurking in his family tree. “Castillo and Alex are good people. So are his folks, but the rest of them are… they’re the kind of people who are nice to you only because they don’t know where you’re going to be useful later on, so they’re hedging their bets. One of them actually asked me to fix their driver’s parking tickets.”

  “So they’re assholes.”

  “Sounds about right. Look, I’ve got to find Stevens.” Dante opened the car door. “Why don’t you sniff around and see what you can find out. Go kick the McLaren’s tires and see if you can get anything out of that bunch. Maybe one of them was on-scene. Only thing Rook told me was he might be in a shit storm of trouble but wasn’t sure. And you know him, that could be anything from an elephant followed him home to he accidentally started a revolution.”

  “That’s what happens when you fall in love with an ex cat burglar, Montoya. Especially when he’s Rook Stevens,” Hank teased. “Might as well accept you’ve signed up for a lifetime of trouble.”

  “Don’t remind me,” he sighed. “But damn, he’s worth all the trouble he brings with him.”

  Hank snorted. “He better be because this is the second or third time you’re picking him up from a police station.”

  “Okay, let’s go see what my favorite asshole’s gotten himself into,” Dante muttered, steeling himself not to sign a cross over his chest as he strode past the front of the property. “With any luck, we’ll be in and out before anyone at the top knows Hank and I are here.”

  THERE WERE more uniformed cops and LAPD cars spread out over the street than he’d seen at some drive-by shootings. The front lobby was empty of everything but plants, squat leather-covered chairs, and an occasional table, and he’d had to flash his badge to get the attention of the rookie temporarily stationed at the front desk while the on-duty officer ogled Alex’s car through a window. The station itself felt and smelled odd, a mixture of a floral air freshener and a bite of something acrid. It took a moment for Dante to realize he was missing the scent of coffee and the rattle of cop voices rumbling in a low indistinct babble underneath the station’s daily grind.

  “Sir? Detective Montoya?” The kid at the desk looked like he was about twelve despite his starched uniform, and his voice cracked into a squeak when Dante turned toward him. “Um, Detective Vicks said to let you go on back. The bullpen’s down the hall and to the right. If you have any questions, just ask someone.”

  “Thanks, kid.” Dante winced when he heard himself, clipping the visiting officer’s badge the kid gave him to his jacket. He remembered first pulling on his uniform and strapping his gun to his side, an oddly sickening-giddy feeling he’d outgrown without realizing it. “Um, appreciate the help.”

  The young cop was right. The bull pen was easy to find. West Hollywood was a hell of a lot smaller than his own station and, considering the communities it covered, more than a little bit worn around the edges. The computers on the various desks were mostly new, but the carpet was a short plush blue he’d seen in the outer hills offices before it was torn up and replaced with more durable, pleasing colors. The overall tone of the people he passed was quiet, and no one stopped him when he walked by.

  A couple of quick turns and he found himself in a smallish room with windows set up high on the wall, the streetlamps outside pushing in a bit of orange glow to combat the sea of fluorescents washing the bull pen with a glaring brightness. The detective desks were definitely old-school, heavy khaki metal monsters softened by flotsam of family photos and the occasional struggling plant. A set of doors lined up on the southernmost wall led to interview rooms if Montoya guessed correctly.

  There seemed to be a gaggle of cops around one of the squad desks, forming a wall of blue uniforms and stern expressions, a firm indicator of serious discussion. As Dante crossed the room, a few of the cops wandered off, and Dante was left with a clear view of the man who’d brought him to his knees.

  Rook Stevens was a complicated mess of sensuality, charm, and contrariness, a tall, slender, muscular man with vulpine features, a full mouth, mismatched blue-green eyes, and a nose for trouble. Leaning against a desk, he stared out one of the interview room’s doors, his mind clearly on other things. The distracted air gave Rook a sense of vulnerability, a tenderness Dante normally only saw when they were in bed, exhausted from intense lovemaking. Cuddling Rook was something done only after breaking down his walls, a slightly prickly high fence of distracting behaviors and lacy half lies.

  His lover hadn’t gotten around to cutting his hair, but Dante found himself liking the heavy shag of caramel brown framing Rook’s face, the glaring overheads picking up glints of deep auburn and sienna running through Rook’s thick mane. A bit of worry tugged at Rook’s expression, and his gaze kept returning toward the wall’s bank of doors. He’d deny being concerned, having spent his life bricking his heart up behind a thick wall, but Dante knew better… now. For all of his aloofness and distance, Rook loved
as deeply as he loved cautiously, doling out bits of his soul in the little things he did and said.

  And judging by the bite of his teeth on his lower lip, Rook was working on an intense fret.

  There was a moment when Dante was sure Rook saw him. He could see it in the tensing of Rook’s long legs and trim hips. Most lovers would relax when seeing the man who’d brought them to a screaming peak that morning, but not Rook. There was always an instinctive battle of fight-or-flight for Rook, deeply ingrained almost-fears he’d trusted to keep him alive during the turmoil of his early years.

  The badge at Dante’s belt gave him a path in through the cops, but it was tough going. There was a challenge in their faces, hardening further when he approached Rook. He wasn’t from their house, and despite the gold shield the LAPD gave him, Dante knew he was on the outside looking in.

  Nodding at a barrel-chested older cop named Robertson, according to the tag on his uniform, Dante reached for Rook, tugging at his shirtsleeve, then held his hand out to the grizzled uniformed officer. “Hey, name’s Montoya.”

  “Yeah, I know you. You’re Camden’s partner, out of Central, right? I knew Giada. Good cop. Pity he went sour.” He grunted, taking Dante’s hand for a quick, firm shake. “Mark Vicks pulled this one. Surprised to see you here.”

  “Stevens and I are….” There was nothing loving in Rook’s expression, and for the first time since Dante’d fallen in with the ex-thief, he stood on shaky ground. They’d never talked about what they were to each other, and despite the couple of months they’d been circling each other’s lives, Rook’d proved to be slippery and impossible to nail down on the one thing Dante needed answers to the most: what the hell they were to each other. Choosing his words carefully, Dante continued, “We’re involved. Shot me a phone call and asked me to come down.”

  “Really? ’Cause he didn’t have one on him. A phone, I mean.” Robertson frowned. “Patted him down myself.”

  A glance at Rook only got Dante an eye roll from the thief, and he suppressed another sigh. “Look, Robertson, is there someplace he and I can talk?”

  “Vicks said to keep him here, but no reason why you two can’t use one of the empty interview rooms. They’re still questioning the other guy on the scene with Stevens, so it’ll be a while. But leave the door open so if shit goes south, we can get in.” The cop frowned at Dante, a florid blush of red flagging his cheeks. “Don’t get any ideas about slipping off, Stevens. I know about all of your shit.”

  “Does it look like I’m waltzing off?” Rook snapped back, and Dante finally let loose his sigh, practically hearing the clink of handcuffs locking down on his lover’s wrists.

  “We’ll be right here,” he promised Robertson. “I just want to see how he’s doing.”

  Shoving Rook was never an idea, but the urge to fist his hand into the back of Rook’s shirt and drag him into the room was tempting. The stubborn in Rook’s personality hardened his gaze, and Dante was left with no illusion he meant business. Normally charming and engaging, there wasn’t any sign of the carefree, amiable mask Rook wore on a daily basis. No, the man pacing off the interview room in long strides was the Rook Dante only saw when Rook was feeling cornered, and alarm nibbled at Dante’s stomach, worry something’d pushed Rook a few inches too far and his lover was contemplating taking a run.

  There was a bit of swelling on Rook’s lip, and he moved gingerly, touching his side when he turned. Dante eyed Robinson through the door’s window, measuring up the other cop. The hiccup in Rook’s grace was noticeable, and he was torn between jumping down the entire bull pen’s throats or asking Rook if he was faking an injury for sympathy. The conflict between anger and suspicion must have shown on his face, because Rook’s pacing stopped and his eyes narrowed.

  “Stop looking at me like that,” Rook snarled under his breath, his eyes pinned to the door. Robertson stood framed by the opening, his attention clearly on what was going on in the interview room. “You’re acting like I’m going to pack up and leave.”

  “Are you?” He hated asking that question, hated it down to his guts, but Rook lived his life in rolls of confidence and fear, a brash, cocky trickster who’d spent too many years with one foot out the door and one step ahead of the law. “I’m going to say no, but I don’t know. You’re not talking to me, and that’s not going to help with what’s going on. What’s going on in that busy head of yours, cuervo? First thing that pops into your head, you tell me.”

  It was eerie sometimes watching Rook’s eyes. He’d once spent a few moments covering half of Rook’s face to see what he’d look like with either blue or green eyes, but Dante hadn’t gotten further than a second or two before they both dissolved into laughter. Now with Rook’s hair falling across his face, Dante caught the rich cunning in Rook’s hazel-gold eye, his dark lashes tossing long shadows over his sharp cheek. The blue was softer, Dante realized, a disarming blush of sky and optimism in an otherwise saturnine face.

  “Talk to me, Rook,” Dante whispered, sitting on the heavy table in the middle of the room.

  There were three chairs pushed up against the wall, metal and plastic origami constructs he knew from experience were too hard to sit on for very long, and from Rook’s tightly wound body, he had little hope of coaxing Rook to settle down. Leaning forward on Rook’s next pass, Dante hooked his finger into Rook’s waistband and pulled, hoping his lover would let himself be led in.

  Dante didn’t know what surprised him more, Rook letting himself be dragged into the V of Dante’s legs or Rook resting his forehead against Dante’s temple and draping his long arms over Dante’s shoulders.

  “I’m not sure if I should kiss you or kill you.” Rook’s breath was hot, spiced with cinnamon and a hint of tea. “I hate you’re a cop, but right fucking now, I’m damned glad you’re wearing that badge.”

  Their kiss was as hot and slow as a Los Angeles summer night, a scalding, slightly damp erotic whisper loaded with promises only Rook could keep. There was a nibble, teeth sharp on Dante’s lower lip, then Rook ground his hips into the growing heft in Dante’s crotch, heating up the already warm air between them. Rook’s hands wandered up Dante’s thighs, squeezing at the muscles he’d worked on that morning in the gym, and his skin tightened under his pants, remembering the feel of Rook’s ass against his hip bone when they’d woken up, limbs tangled together and sticky from the night before.

  “I’m not going to run, Montoya,” Rook promised, his words edged and dark. “Told you that before.”

  “Sometimes I need the reassurance, querido, especially when you look at me like you’re wondering if you have enough cash to hide in the shadows for a few years,” Dante replied, sliding his hand under Rook’s shirt, his thumb along the ridge of Rook’s belly button. “Now tell me what happened. Are you hurt?”

  “I’ll tell you what happened, Montoya,” a voice boomed from the open door. There was no mistaking the cop standing there. Authority and thinly controlled ego spat fire from the broad-shouldered man’s voice, and his lip curled into a sneer as his hard eyes raked over Rook and Dante. “What’s happened is your little boyfriend here broke in and murdered his cousin, Harold Martin, and I’m going to be the cop who finally took Rook Stevens down.”

  Three

  “GUESS VICKS is done with Alex.” Rook eyed the man in the doorway. “Lucky me. He’s come back for seconds.”

  Detective Mark Vicks was a bear of a man, thick necked and worn hard around the edges. His eyes were granite narrow slits in a rough-hewn, craggy face, his heavy nose battered with bumps, and a thin white scar ran down his left cheek, one end puckered tight into a tiny star. His shoulder holster creaked when he crossed his massive arms over his chest, the seams and rolled-up sleeves of his button-up dress shirt straining at the muscles bulging beneath cheap, wrinkled ivory fabric. Standing in the doorway of the interview room, his shadow, cast by the bull pen’s bright lights, swept over them, and Rook felt Dante’s fingers dig into his hip, drawing him closer.


  “Cute,” Rook muttered, tugging at Dante’s wrist. “Let me go. You don’t need to protect me from the big bad. I’ve been chewing through cops since before you were one.”

  “You ever think I’m holding you back so you don’t chew through him?” Dante chuckled but loosened his hold. “He probably wants to ask you some questions before letting you go.”

  The station was a loud mess of noise and stunk of fear. Even in the detectives’ area, there was a shred of something desperate in the air, the lingering feel of biting into a piece of foil and rubbing it between aching teeth. The smell of burnt coffee and sweat hung in the corners of the room, its pale gray walls streaked with gouges and sneaker sole marks along the bottoms near the floor. The room gave Rook the shivers, feeling the walls pressing in on him with every breath he took, and he couldn’t keep his eyes off of the inset one-way mirror, their shadowy movements fooling him into seeing someone through the reflective glass.

  “You’re Montoya? Out of Central, right?” Vicks’s hooded gaze was hard, flicking between them. “I’d heard you’d hooked up with the guy who pretty much killed your partner.”

  The fluorescents picked up the silver in Vicks’s close-cropped brown hair, and his voice rolled into the room before him. His arms stayed at his side, a tacit refusal to offer a hand to Rook’s lover. The discourtesy didn’t sit well with Rook, especially since Vicks’d already tried to shove him in a corner about finding Harold.

  “Yes, I am out of Central, Detective.” Montoya’s voice went flat, and the heat in his tone deepened his accent. “What killed Vince was cancer. Stevens had nothing to do with it.”

  Vicks snorted. “Adorable you call your boyfriend by his last name.”

  “Not to be rude and interrupt the pissing contest, but I’d like to get home soon,” Rook cut in between them. “I stay here much longer, I’m going to have to register to vote in this damned district.”