by J. Saman
Can this guy get to the freaking point already?
“What can I do for you, Mr. Rovelo?” I ask again.
He sighs heavily into the phone. “Alfredo is currently under arrest at the ninth precinct for shooting a police officer.”
Jesus Christ, he’s got to be kidding me. “Did the officer survive?”
“Regretfully, no. He was an undercover narcotics officer. It would mean a lot to me if you would go down and meet with him. Am I correct in assuming he will not be granted bail?”
“You are correct. There is not a judge in New York that will grant bail after a cop is shot and killed.”
Another heavy sigh before he mutters something in Italian. “When do you think he’ll be sent to Rikers?”
“That depends on when he’s moved to central booking and arraigned. Probably either later today or tomorrow morning. They’ll wait for me to get there before questioning him if that’s what he decides.” I click around on my schedule, making sure I don’t have anything that can’t be moved. Looks like Alfredo Rovelo is one lucky murdering asshole, because I can go down there myself without having to send an associate.
“I would like you to meet him there as quickly as possible. Alfredo has already made his calls and not one of them was to a lawyer.” The way he says this sends a chill up my spine and suddenly, the last place on the planet I want to go is down to the ninth precinct.
“I’m on my way,” I tell him anyway, because it’s my goddamn job.
There are seventy-seven police precincts in New York City and I’ve probably been in at least a dozen of them. They all smell exactly the same. Coffee, bleach, and body odor. It’s quite possibly my least favorite scent on the planet. It’s the irrefutable scent of scumbag. Sure, some people are innocent. Some people are simply in the wrong place at the wrong time. Some are even victims themselves.
But not Alfredo Rovelo.
That motherfucker shot an undercover narcotics officer at point blank range right in the head.
I got the lowdown from Milo, a private investigator friend who I frequently work with. It seems Mr. Rovelo has quite the substance abuse problem, and thought because of his family connections, he was entitled to a kilo of cocaine for himself free of charge—considering he was purchasing ten. The narcotics officer didn’t agree and so Alfredo shot him.
That’s it.
That was the entire motive behind the death of one of New York City’s finest.
The other undercover officer that was there instantly subdued him and subsequently arrested him. This is what you call a slam-dunk case for the DA.
A dead cop.
A shit-ton of drugs and the person who witnessed the entire event is another cop with an impeccable service record.
Done. Life in prison. No chance for parole.
I doubt I’ll even be able to plea this one down because the dead cop is leaving behind a wife and three young kids.
And you know what? I’m not disappointed that they’re going to put the prick away for life. I’m not the least bit upset that I won’t get a win on this one. Sure, I’ll do my job. I’ll hype Alfredo up as a victim. I’ll do my best to make this drug addicted, sociopathic, mobster look like an angel. But I doubt I’ll find a sympathetic jury.
I flash my credentials to the officer in charge and I’m led into a small interrogation room. The second the door opens, Alfredo’s black eyes widen and he looks down. He’s not happy to see me and that instantly sets me on edge. Usually people under arrest are fucking ecstatic to see their lawyers.
Not this guy.
“Franco sent you?” he asks without even a hint of an Italian accent.
I nod at him. His olive complexion instantly pales as he runs a handcuffed hand through his hair. I introduce myself to the two detectives who have a notepad between them filled with what appears to be pages of information.
Alfredo is talking.
This is bad.
I realize suddenly that Franco suspected this would happen, which is why he called me when his brother didn’t, and asked me to get down here as quickly as possible. He was afraid Alfredo would turn state’s witness against him in order to save his own ass. And from the looks of it, he was absolutely correct.
I ask the detectives to leave us so I can confer with my client and after an hour, I’ve convinced him to shut the fuck up. If he’s so keen to talk, he better work himself a deal first and that’s where I come in.
But we can’t do that just yet because the DA assigned to the case assured me they weren’t coming down here today, which means Alfredo goes to jail. The detectives are pissed that the previously chatty Alfredo is now silent, but there is dick all they can do about it.
Within two hours, we’re stepping outside into the early afternoon sun, about to head to central booking. Even though Alfredo did eventually clam up, he’s already said a lot. A lot about his big brother. A lot about his family and their connections, who works for them and who’s on the payroll.
A lot that’s going to mean months and months of work for me.
Alfredo is standing with both wrists and ankles handcuffed. I’m on one side of him and a uniformed officer is on the other, with two more behind us. We’re walking over to the waiting police cruiser when I hear it. It sounds like firecrackers going off in rapid succession.
Pop, pop, pop, pop.
It takes my brain a second longer than it should to realize that the firecrackers are gun shots.
Alfredo’s body snaps back awkwardly before momentum has him falling forward to the ground, blood spurting from his chest and neck in all directions.
The officers behind me immediately pull out their weapons and the officer that was on the other side of Alfredo grabs my arm and yanks me to the ground. I fall hard, smashing my knee and arm onto the unforgiving concrete. The cop is trying to assess Alfredo’s injuries, but it’s clear as day that he’s dead.
His black eyes are open, fixed and unseeing, and his body is covered in blood.
“Are you hit?” the cop shouts to me, but all I can hear is the sound of blood rushing through my ears and more loud popping as the officers fire their weapons above me. My heart is sprinting in my chest. All around me, everything seems to be going in slow motion as utter chaos ensues. Screaming and yelling, and more guns being fired. I have no idea if the police are hitting their target or not. I have no idea if anyone else is injured or dead.
All I know is that this is my fault.
Franco had texted me a half an hour ago asking when they were going to move Alfredo and I replied, soon. I replied soon and they were waiting for him. To shoot him dead for willingly giving up details about his family and the massive ring of organized crime that they run in this city.
This is my fault.
Sure, I didn’t make Alfredo pull the trigger today, and of course, I didn’t know that Franco was planning a hit on his own brother, but it’s still my fault. I got Franco off on every single one of his charges.
Every. Single. One.
I made this world a more dangerous place simply by doing my job.
And now a cop is dead. And Alfredo is dead. And who knows how many other people are dead because I was after the fame, glory and payday associated with winning a high-profile case like Franco’s.
Cops are swarming all around like navy blue bees, securing the scene and making sure no one else is lurking, waiting to take the next shot. Sirens ring out as two ambulances pull up, but I haven’t moved from the asphalt beneath me, tucked safely behind the cruiser and next to Alfredo’s lifeless body.
“Are you hurt?” someone asks, and then I’m rolled over onto my back. Bright lights shine into my eyes, making me wince and squint.
“What’s your name?” The person tries again.
“Kyle Grant,” I answer reflexively.
“Are you hurt?” the man that I now recognize as a paramedic asks again.
“I don’t think so.” I really don’t know, if I’m being honest. I don’t think I was sho
t or anything, but my right knee and shoulder sting, and the side of my abdomen is on fire.
“It looks like a bullet grazed your right flank. It’s a superficial wound, but there’s a lot of bleeding. Is there anything we should know your medical history?”
Shit. Yes. There is.
“We’re going to take you to the hospital to get you checked out,” he says before I can say anything.
I want to argue with him. I want to tell him that I’m fine. I want to tell him that everything that just happened is my fault. But I remain silent as he helps me up and onto a gurney. I remain silent as they load me into the ambulance and I remain silent for the entire ride to the hospital, despite the never-ending onslaught of questions being thrown at me by the paramedics and the cop who decided to come along for the ride.
The paramedic pulls away a large piece of gauze saturated in my blood, and the only thing that’s going through my mind right now is, how did I get here?
Chapter 10
Claire
“I have some good news to share,” Ryan says as he leans back in his huge leather office chair, his feet kicked up on his dark wood desk.
“What’s up?” Luke says absentmindedly as he types something into his phone. His eyes have been on his phone for the last twenty-minutes since we got to Ryan’s house, and every time I try to peer over to see what has his attention so captivated, he pulls it away or pushes me back by the forehead. Bastard.
“Kyle has finally agreed to move to Seattle and join our company.”
“What?” both Luke and I say in unison. Luke’s eyes finally leave his phone in favor or Ryan.
“Why?” I add in complete bewilderment. Kyle has basically been telling Ryan to pound sand for the last however long it’s been since he graduated law school. So, this make zero sense.
Ryan shrugs, looking down and picking at a non-existent piece of lint on his jeans. He’s hiding something. “He’s just ready for a change.”
“Yeah, I’m calling bullshit on that one, el capitan.” I turn to Luke for confirmation, who nods in agreement.
“Definite bullshit.”
Ryan sighs, running a hand through his black hair, before pushing up the bridge of his equally dark glasses. It’s his tell. “He has his reasons and his reasons are his own.”
“Wow,” I deadpan. “That was probably the least informative thing anyone has ever said to me. Seriously, boss, I think you’ve actually just perfected the art of evasive poetry.”
Ryan rolls his eyes at me. “If you’re so goddamn curious, you can ask him for yourself when he starts next week.”
“Next week?” Luke and I shriek in synchrony once again. “How is that even possible and why are we just learning of this now?” Luke finishes.
“He’s starting on Monday, but he has to take the bar exam here in Washington. He’s only been practicing a few years and Washington doesn’t offer bar exam reciprocity for the exam he originally took—whatever the hell that is. He’s going to be sitting in his brand-new office, studying for the bar exam until he can take it. I think he’s scheduled to do that in a few weeks.”
“You’re freaking serious?” I ask, incredulous because Kyle hasn’t said anything to me about this. Nothing. “You’re telling me that Kyle, your brother who lives in New York City, is moving to Seattle and is voluntarily retaking the bar exam here?”
“That’s what I’m telling you, Claire.”
I lean back on the couch, sinking into the plush cushion, folding my legs under me Indian-style. “Holy French fries and bacon. I cannot believe this.”
And I can’t.
Something is rotten in the state of Denmark and all that crap, because this makes no sense.
I haven’t spoken to Kyle in a few days and the last time I did, he was . . . weird. Our conversation was super short and I got the impression he didn’t want to talk to me. But I couldn’t exactly blame him on that because I’ve sort of been avoiding him for the last couple of months. I mean, we still talk on the phone occasionally, but our friendship has morphed into a mostly sporadic texting friendship. Which is entirely my doing. I’ve pushed him off.
But you’d think he would have mentioned something to me about the fact that he’s not only moving to my city, but working at the same goddamn company. Even a simple text that says something along the lines of ‘Hey, how are you? I’m awesome. Oh BTW, I’m moving to Seattle and will be working with you’. Is that so hard? No. It’s not.
It’s really freaking simple, actually.
In truth, I’m not exactly sure how I feel about him moving here.
And working with him? I just don’t know.
I enjoyed the idea of Kyle being three thousand miles away. That was how I was safe. Distance. When we’re together, it’s a different thing. It’s flawless chemistry.
So, Kyle in New York was perfect.
Like your favorite desert that you only have once a year, if that, because if it was around all the time, you’d eat it, making you grotesquely fat. And you’d get sick of it, right? Too much of a good thing?
I feel like Kyle has the potential to be just that. Too much of a good thing. He brings out things inside of me that I need to keep dormant. Things I have to avoid at all costs.
The way diabetics avoid sugar. The way virgins avoid penis. The way the Amish avoid technology. You get where I’m going with this.
And it’s not like I think he’s after me or wants a relationship. It’s just that I don’t want him to even entertain the idea.
Friends. That’s it.
The fact that I want to rip his clothes off his body and climb him like a tree is a problem.
Which is why I’m relieved that the next time I’ll see him will be in a professional setting. Work is like the champagne room, and we all know that there is no sex in the champagne room. And now I just compared my office to a strip club so I know I’m losing my mind.
“Wait.” I hold up my hand as something occurs to me. “Is he already here?”
“Yes, of course he is.” Ryan looks at me like I’m daft for even questioning that. “Did you think he was to going move here the day of and fly to work on his Nimbus 2000 or apparate or something? I mean, he starts Monday.”
Right. Today’s Saturday.
“No,” I snort. “But how cool would it be if he could.” Ryan and I are just a touch obsessed with Harry Potter.
“You guys are freaking dorks,” Luke says with his ever-present scowl etched on his face.
Since he saw Ivy again last night and believes she’s now dating Craig Stanton, he’s been a moody bitch. No scratch that, he’s been a moody bitch since she left a year ago. Ivy can’t lie to save her life and the poor lamb actually loves Luke back, so there really is only so long this charade can last. That, and he follows after her like a besotted puppy.
“Said the pot to the kettle.”
“Whatever,” he grumbles.
“Anyway, back to Kyle,” Ryan says kicking his feet off his desk and spinning around to face us, dropping his elbows to his parted thighs. “He’s here. Moved the other day and is still getting himself settled. Katie and I helped him pick out an apartment in one of those dope ass high-rises. He’s waiting to buy, I think.”
This hurts me in a way I feel like it shouldn’t. Aren’t I supposed to be his friend? Why the hells bells am I hearing all this shit from Ryan? Why didn’t Kyle ask for my help?
“So, what? He’s like lead council or something and just gave up on being a defense attorney?”
“Something like that, yeah.”
“Well, I guess that’s awesome. Kyle is a fucking great attorney, right?” Luke asks, his eyes fixed on his damn phone again as he props his ankle on the opposite knee. “We have three new contracts coming in, not to mention that software you and I have been working on, so we’ll need good representation and all that.”
“True. But do you have to sound so bored?” Ryan asks with a lopsided grin. “I mean, I know we sold out. Became the man and all t
hat crap, but we got into this so it could be fun. Not all work.”
“Dude?” I laugh, pulling my hair out of my bun and scratching my aching scalp before putting it back up. “When was the last time we had fun? We should totally open up a bar in the office. Or better yet, a pot bar.”
Ryan and Luke both look at me like I’m crazy, but I have no idea why. I hear those things are all the rage with the hipsters in Colorado.
“Because as unbelievable as this sounds, I don’t actually smoke weed. But that aside, we’re trying to be a regular company.” Ryan apparently isn’t impressed with me.
“I’m not bored,” Luke says through a yawn, going back two minutes in the conversation. He sinks into the leather sofa, leaning his head back against the top, looking tired as hell. “Besides, you and I have a date tonight with our computers and Tommy’s new app if the Duchess lets you out of the house. That’s always a good time.”
Tommy is a total douchebag who Ryan went to MIT with. He’s one of those guys who gives you the creeps within five seconds of meeting him. He’s also absurdly rich and completely dependent on Ryan and Luke when it comes to his technology.
“Katie’s working tonight,” Ryan says through a scowl. Now that she’s pregnant with the twins, he hates it when she works. Total caveman bullshit if you ask me, but since no one did, I don’t comment.
“Then we’re on. Good. You can bring the food,” Luke says, rolling his eyes up to the ceiling. “I’m in no mood to cook.”
“You’re never in the mood for anything other than hacking shit,” I say dryly. “It’s time to move on, dude. Find another lady love who can tolerate your moody ass.”
“Fuck off, Claire,” Luke says with absolutely no emotion in his voice.
He really does miss Ivy something fierce. I might feel a little bad about it if Ivy’s heart wasn’t broken. I don’t think seeing her last night with Craig did him any favors.
“Anyway, I gotta run. Ivy’s dad invited me over to watch some weird ass Australian football game on satellite.”
Ryan and I exchange looks.
“Is Ivy going to be there?” Ryan asks.
A smirk pulls up the corner of Luke’s mouth, his chocolate brown eyes glowing with mischief. “I do believe that is the plan.”