Tramps and Thieves

by Rhys Ford

  “You think you’re cute, Stevens?” A flush rolled up from Vicks’s chest, creeping over his neck, then pinking his ears. “You’ve got a big mouth on you. Someone should help you close it sometime.”

  “Not going to be you, dude.” The rational part of Rook’s brain appeared to be having a brief seizure, unable to stop the flare of rebellion Vicks seemed to bring out in him, and the words were out before he could clamp down on his unruly tongue. “Everything I’ve got to say is in the incident report. Maybe get someone to read it to you.”

  “Let’s see how big you are without Montoya here to back you up,” Vicks growled. “Don’t want to talk here? Let’s head down to the station, and then we’ll see how cocky you are. You walked out before I was done with you. Be happy to take another crack.”

  “I’d say fuck you,” Rook shot back, “but I’d sooner lick a dirty astray a hobo pissed in than put my mouth anywhere near that shriveled tiny mouse fetus you have for a dick.”

  He came at Rook hard and fast, a blur of rough grit and authority, but Rook was ready for him.

  The man’s hands were nearly on him before Rook slid away, a simple feint and duck of his shoulders. He wasn’t going to overpower the detective. He lacked the strength for that, but he could balance the man’s brute force with evasion and a limber body, keeping himself out of Vicks’s reach. Vicks’s nails snagged on his hair, yanking a few strands out at the roots, but Rook refused to be cornered. Instincts kicked in. Carnie sharp and paranoid, he bent nearly in half to edge under Vicks’s outstretched arm. A quick two-tap jab to Vicks’s ribs was enough to drive the air out of the man’s lungs, forcing the cop to pull his elbows in, giving Rook a clear shot at the stairs, but the shop’s contrary nature undid him.

  The hit had been a good one, a stab of fingers into soft flesh followed by a quick punch to the same spot. It threw Rook’s footing off, having to twist in mid pop, but the floor’s gritty surface smoothed out his slide. His sneaker caught on something, one of the toys or an odd joint in the floor, and Rook flailed, recovering, but not before Vicks sidestepped and closed in, blocking Rook once again.

  “Fucking son of a bitch!” Vicks lashed out, slapping at the back of Rook’s head, but he dodged out of the cop’s reach, getting away with a light graze of Vicks’s fingers along his ear. “I can have you up on assault—”

  “Don’t play that game with me, Vicks. No DA in the world is going to think I jumped you. You came after me, remember? People downstairs are going to tell anyone who’d listen that I was here first.” Rook paced off some distance from the cop, pushing himself farther away from the stairs. Vicks’s arms were long, too long for Rook’s liking, and the wickedness in his expression was enough to make a dead man wary. Balancing on the balls of his feet, Rook kept his stance light, shifting around the pile of toys he’d been sifting through. “What do you want from me? And don’t give me any crap about the break-in at my store. You could give a rat’s ass about that.”

  “Think those asswipes downstairs are going to protect you? You just struck an investigating officer. I could take you in, and the idiot by the door wouldn’t even blink,” Vicks said through gritted teeth, rubbing at his side while he paced closer to Rook. Anger sparked a war with reason, the battle clearly being waged on his face while he debated violence. Reason must have won out, because Vicks slowed his advance, shifting his walk to circle around instead of treading over the heap. “Don’t forget, you’re still a suspect in the case until I say you’re not, Stevens. Everything about you interests me. Like how someone hits your store right after you’re dragged in for questioning about your cousin’s death—a cousin you had issues with and the same cousin whose house you broke into.”

  There was a certain look in someone’s expression, an impenetrable flatness Rook knew there would be no getting around, and the detective definitely had it shellacked all over his face. Vicks had no interest in listening to him or even looking any further than Sadonna for the murder. It would be a bonus if he could somehow tie Rook into it, and the hunger for Rook’s arrest rolled off of Vicks, a lust-driven powerful want the cop couldn’t hide. He was getting off on the idea of locking Rook down and tossing the key. It made no sense. It was too personal. Too intimate, and for the life of him, Rook couldn’t figure it out.

  So he did what he always did when he was cornered, verbally jabbing wildly in the hopes of scoring a good enough hit and making it around the cop, then down the stairs.

  “Wife invited me. You can’t seem to keep that in your head,” Rook pointed out softly, glancing toward the stairs. They were loud, their voices carrying through the packed floors, and while Rook didn’t think anyone would hear them, it didn’t hurt to pray. “Sadonna gave me the security codes so we could prank her husband. Judge thought that was enough to get her bail. Just a matter of time before the lawyers kick her free of the charges.”

  “See, here’s my problem with that, Stevens. That was the second story you told me.” Vicks sneered at him. “I’m thinking the third might get even more intriguing. Maybe include details about where you hid the knife you used to kill Harold and what you’re getting out of the widow for killing him. There’s something about you and the wife, something that doesn’t add up, but then not a lot of you adds up.”

  “It’s simple. Sadonna’s my cousin’s wife. Someone killed him.”

  “Then why the lie? Why not cough her up to begin with?” The cop scraped some of the toys aside with his foot where Rook’s stumble had scattered the pile’s edges. “I’m going to be your shadow, Stevens, and I’m going to keep hammering at you until you slip up. This time Montoya isn’t going to be here to run interference for you. This time you’re playing in my sandbox.”

  “That why you came here to find me instead of at the apartment? Because of Montoya?” Dante was the only weapon Rook had, and he played on Vicks’s ego and anger to fuel a fire Rook already suspected burned in the detective’s belly. “Dante’s got you running scared? So scared you can’t just call to ask me what floated up to the top of your brain? Instead you’ve got a couple of plain-clothes following me when they could be out actually doing something useful.”

  Another few steps, sliding past the cereal-box toy Vicks smashed, brought Rook a little closer to the stairwell. There were a few pieces he’d wanted from the bucket he’d poured out onto the middle of the floor, but they weren’t worth his neck.

  “Scared of Montoya? The thing with his partner beat him down, not like he was anything to write home about to begin with. No, he’s a paper pusher, and all I can figure out is he blew someone a few times to get that gold badge he’s wearing. But now you’ve got Montoya by the dick, and everyone on the force knows that. Probably why you got off the first time. He sell out for you back then too? That why his partner got the shaft?” Vicks spat at Rook’s feet, the wet floating on the floor’s dust. “Won’t be long before his captain yanks that badge of his. He’s just covering for the jobs you’ve been pulling, but this time you’ve fucked up. This time you got caught with blood on your hands, and it’s not going to just wash off.”

  “I’m the one who called the cops, remember?” Rook argued, his mind racing, wondering if he could get down the first flight of stairs before Vicks pushed him. “I found Harold after someone stabbed him. You think I took Alex back there so I could pretend to find Harold? If I’d killed him, why the hell would I take Alex there? Why the hell would I tell anyone? And again, there was someone there in the house.”

  “There was no other guy. No, I’m guessing you needed someone who’d vouch for you or the wife. Maybe the two of you did it together? Harold’s mother said the vic and you went at it during the last dinner party, and imagine my surprise when I found out Sadonna wanted a divorce but everyone I talked to said Harold wasn’t keen on letting her go. So yeah, you took Alex back to the scene of the crime specifically to find the body. You made up the story about someone being there and then bet that pretty cousin of yours would hold the line for you, but he cou
ldn’t, could he?” Vicks closed the distance again, coming within grappling distance. “Instead, Alex practically gift wrapped you for me, and then you had to scramble. What did you promise the wife so she wouldn’t turn on you after you tossed her under the bus? What do you have on her? What did you take out of the house that you don’t want me to know about?”

  “You’re swinging at nothing, Vicks. First, you’re saying I’m pulling jobs—which I’m not—and then you’re talking about me killing Harold for Sadonna. None of that’s real. He doesn’t have any money. It’s all Archie’s. Hell, if what you’re saying is true about her wanting a divorce, then she’d probably end up having to pay him alimony ….” Rook trailed off, a niggle of doubt working its way into his mind. “So what? You think she decided killing him was easier, less messy, and that she somehow convinced me to do it. There was someone else there, Vicks. That’s who you should go after. Not me. And sure as hell not Sadonna.”

  The sound of a shotgun’s action being slid into position broke the tense silence left behind Rook’s words. A face peeked out from behind Vicks’s chest, the wizened and angry owner leveling his weapon at the floor. Clearing his throat loudly, he stomped up to the top step, then braced himself against the rail.

  “I’m Detective Mark Vicks. I’m a cop over at West LA,” Vicks rumbled. “I’m going to reach for my badge—”

  “Should have IDed yourself when you came through the door. You know how us idiots need to have everything spelled out to us before anything bad happens. Reaching for it now isn’t going to help. I’m thinking I should have one of the boys call the cops and let them straighten this all out.” Sunlight picked out the thin strands of hair scraped over the man’s forehead, gilding them to bronze. “You got a warrant?”

  The cop’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t need a warrant to question—”

  “Is he being detained?” The short man cut Vicks off. “Is he under arrest? Because from where I’m standing, it’s not just my stuff you’re stomping all over. If he’s not, then you should be going. Unless you want to talk to him, Stevens.”

  “Not really,” Rook offered up. “And just so you know, he is a cop.”

  “Doesn’t give him the right to harass you. Not on my property.” The man hobbled to the side, shotgun still pointed down. His legs were bowed, knees jutting out in front of him, but his spine was ramrod straight, keeping his shoulders squared. “When you write up your report—because I’m assuming you’re going to do that—my name’s Harsgard Thorkenberry. My husband’s out of Central. He’s one of the leads in Internal Affairs. You might run into him once in a while. So unless you’ve got something else to add, I’d suggest you find the front door, and don’t let it hit you on the way out.”

  For a moment, Rook feared Vicks would challenge the man, but shaking his head, he gave Thorkenberry a sly smile, then glanced back at Rook. “We’re not done.”

  “Anything you’ve got to say, you can say it to my lawyers,” he replied slowly. “Same ones as Sadonna’s. You should have their number.”

  “I’ll tell you whose number I got—hers.” The cop stabbed at the air, pointing a hard finger at Rook. “You want to know why I think you and the wife have something going? Because she’s done it in the past… to her own damned husband. He wouldn’t give her a divorce because she’s his beard. Without her in the picture to cover who he fucks on the side, Harold would lose that cushy do-nothing job he’s got over at Grandpa’s. Pretty conservative over there. The kind of people who draw the blinds when there’s a rainbow outside, or didn’t you know that’s how dear old Granddad likes to run his businesses. Straight, white, and under his thumb.”

  “Bullshit, Archie’s an asshole, but he doesn’t give a shit what color someone is or who they fuck. He’s more interested if they can do the job,” Rook countered. “And Harold wasn’t gay. He had nothing to hide.”

  “See, that’s where you’re wrong, because apparently, there’s proof,” Vicks bit back. “A few pictures and a video tape was all it took, and suddenly divorce wasn’t off the table over at the Martin household. Then Harold apparently grew some balls and told her to go fuck herself, probably because he saw how Grandpa didn’t give two shits when his prodigal spawn turned up a faggot. It just didn’t matter anymore, and poor Sadonna was left holding the bag, still married to the albatross around her neck. So no, Stevens, not too far of a stretch at all. Now you’ve got to ask yourself, who was being played here? Alex for being dragged into this shithole you dug or you for falling for yet another dumb blonde’s sob story?”

  Eight

  “YOU SURE about this, Camden?” Dante wanted to give Hank one last out before they crossed a line neither one of them could back down from. “Book said things might get a little bit sticky with Vicks in the picture. I don’t want to drag you down with me if this all goes sideways.”

  “Are you fucking kidding me, Montoya? Are you asking to be punched in the face? Because I can so punch you in that pretty face of yours without even blinking an eye.” No one could give a withering look like a freckled cop raised by a hardscrabble mother with too many mouths to feed, and once again, Hank delivered a cutting glance from the passenger’s seat of Rook’s SUV. “I told you already, we’re doing this. I’m just glad you scored the boyfriend’s ride so we’re not stuck in your truck or my Cheerio-mobile. How’d you manage that?”

  “He bought one of the new Rovers to use when he’s on store business, then tossed me the keys.” That’d been another argument Dante quickly lost. “Said it’s easier to separate mileage and business expenses if he’s got one personal vehicle and another for the store.”

  “You think it’s a lie?” Hank scoffed.

  “You and I both know that’s a lie.” Dante pulled around the fountain in the middle of Archie’s driveway, easing the SUV behind an unfamiliar red sports car. “The truck’s iffy at times, Manny’s car is off the table now that he’s working at Rook’s, and well, that minivan of yours—”

  “Not my fault the dog and the kid both puked in the far back seat and no one found it until it was cooked in,” his partner protested. “I wasn’t the one who fed him expired yogurt.”

  Dante slanted a look over at his partner. “The kid or the dog?”

  “The dog,” Hank confessed under his breath. “I might have accidentally given the kid the yogurt, but no one told her to share it with the dog.”

  “Nice.” The driveway was damp at the perimeter, and Dante carefully avoided the misting sprinklers popping up from the flower beds running along the castle’s front face. They were nearly to the front door when his phone burbled at him. Hank paused, probably recognizing Rook’s ringtone, but Dante waved him on. “Rosa’s going to want to feed us or something. Let me see what Rook needs and I’ll be right in. Try to convince her not to cook us a turkey dinner.”

  “Speak for yourself.” His partner grinned back, patting his belly. “Wife’s been into cleansing smoothies in the morning for breakfast. I’ll take anything Rosa tosses in my general direction.”

  Shaking his head, Dante answered his phone. “Hey, babe. We just got to your grandfather’s place. What’s up?”

  “Vicks is up.” Rook sounded strained. “He followed me. To Bergan’s, and after what happened, I think he wants to kick my ass. Well, not so much think as know. He’s planning on chewing my head off like a female praying mantis, and I’ve come to knock on his back door holding a bunch of roses and a bottle of ketchup to make it all go down easier.”

  Dante’s blood went cold in his veins, and he leaned against the car, holding tightly to the ends of his temper. Vicks worried him. The man reminded him too much of his old partner, Vince. Too eager to cut corners and too quick to hammer a nail into someone’s coffin, whether they were dead or not.

  “Okay,” he finally said. “What happened?”

  It wasn’t hard to follow what Rook told him. If anything, his lover was skilled at leaving behind the charm he normally used to frost up a story. Sharp-minded and exactin
g, Rook’d have made a good detective, something he’d be horrified to hear, but he could strip down events to the bare facts, a skill most cops struggled to master. In the terse flow of Rook’s recount, Dante heard Rook minimize Vicks’s threatening demeanor, but the tautness in Rook’s words couldn’t be ignored. An angry spark erupted in Dante’s chest, spreading outward until he was forced to tamp it back down, reminding himself he carried a badge and gun for justice, not revenge.

  Their relationship was new, too new sometimes for Dante to deal with, because as right as they were together, some things were still being felt out.

  Rook fit into him in strange ways, completing his life in a direction he’d never thought he’d take, and the fierce protectiveness he had for Manny oddly stretched over to Rook, but in a way that confused him. The odd-eyed man he’d fallen in love with would never stand coddling, but at that moment, listening to Rook relay how Vicks pushed at him, trying to dominate him, enraged a part of Dante’s brain he didn’t even know he had. Hot words from his childhood slid from his tongue before he could stop them, a filthy line of Cuban he’d probably learned from his father, but their malevolent promise to unman Vicks made him feel good.

  “Okay, I don’t know what that means,” Rook murmured through the phone line, his smooth, silken voice lightened with amusement. “I’m going to need that in English, SoCal, Mexican, or Vietnamese if you want an answer, but I don’t think that was a question.”

  “Sorry, cuervo. The less you understand, the less you have to admit to knowing. Vicks is an asshole, and if ever I have the chance, I’d like to twist the balls off of him.” Dante turned to find Rosa staring at him from the open front door, a confused look on her face. Smiling, he waved at her, then mouthed Rook’s name, getting a nod and a wave from the Hispanic housekeeper. She mimed drinking something, and he smiled back, holding up his hand to ask for a few minutes to finish the phone call, waiting for her to close the door behind her before continuing. “Tell me how you left it.”