by Aiden Bates
"Seriously?" Pete chuckled and blushed. He could still feel everything from the night before, but it was a good kind of sore—the kind he would have gotten after a workout. It had been a while since he'd moved his body in quite that way, after all.
"Well yeah. You were a witness to a violent crime, man. That's even before one of the biggest crime bosses in Worcester came to chat with you about an investigation into a dead cop, that looks like it's going to involve dirty cops. Like I said, I want to keep you safe." He squeezed Pete's hand. "You're the most important person in my world, Pete. Never doubt that, even for a minute."
After he left, Pete sat down to get back to work. He didn't exactly doubt his alpha's words. He knew that he was important to Ozzy. He couldn't disbelieve the evidence of his own eyes, after all! But he couldn't bring himself to believe that this magnificent alpha would feel the same way once the baby was born.
Well, he would find out. There was nothing Pete could do either way to influence his lover's decision, so he would have to accept whatever Ozzy chose. In a way, it was kind of freeing. Pete would do what he always did, go about his life in the usual way, and if Ozzy chose to remain in it then he would be delighted.
He went through his checklist of preparations for the baby. Her room was almost ready. He just had a few more things to get, and they were probably things that he could live without. He had plenty of clothes, and cute little toys, waiting for her. All that remained was for her to get here.
And he needed a name. Osmundia was right out. He did wonder if there would be another way to honor Ozzy with the name. Would that be pathetic, naming his child after a guy? Would it only be pathetic if he named the baby after Ozzy if Ozzy bailed?
Marissa. It wasn't a name that had a lot of resonance within Pete's family, and no one would ever know that he'd chosen it because it sounded vaguely like Ozzy's last name. Maybe it was ridiculous to name his daughter after his new boyfriend—his Alpha—but the name itself wasn't obviously related to Ozzy at all.
"Marissa." He put his hand on his baby bump and smiled as the baby kicked back at him. Apparently she liked it. Marissa it was.
...
Ozzy spent Friday morning trying to come down from his high. There weren't words in the English language for the way Pete made him feel. The sex had been incredible, of course. He'd known that it would be, whenever they got around to actually doing it. What he hadn't understood was the way that being there, being buried deep inside Pete, would cement his feelings so thoroughly.
He'd known that he wanted to be with Pete. He'd known it for a while now. He'd suspected it since their first kiss, and he'd been pretty sure since he'd had that fight with his parents. Now Ozzy knew for sure. His life would never be complete without Pete's presence.
And if Pete was calling him Alpha, Ozzy could be fairly certain that he felt the same way.
He tried to hunker down at his desk in the hopes of dimming the joyful glow that he knew had to be coming from his person. They could have lit half of Framingham from his happiness, but he couldn't do anything about it right now. He couldn't claim his love now. He had to wait until the baby was born, and until Pete had recovered. And he had to get Sierzant off the streets.
Once he'd come down from his buzz, he forced himself to focus on the problem at hand. He had people researching the dirty cops, which was good. Ozzy wanted to focus on Sierzant's side of the equation. He wanted to know every place he'd been, and everything he'd done, during the whole of 1996.
He had a lot of digging to do. The first link between Sierzant and Harbaugh that Ozzy could find was tenuous at best. Harbaugh was the arresting officer when Sierzant was arrested on a procuring charge back in 1995, but that didn't mean anything. Ozzy had arrested dozens of pimps, and he knew plenty of other guys who had done the same. Sierzant had, moreover, been arrested several times, on the same charges no less, and not once had the cop in question wound up with a bullet in the back of his head.
One was dead, but that had been ruled to be a result of "lifestyle factors." His liver gave out back in 2002.
Still, the connection existed. It was the only link, and Ozzy was going to have to go with it for now.
He spent the weekend with Pete, of course. He didn't want to leave him alone and unprotected, and he didn't want to spend much time away from him either. He did take a little time to take his bike out on the Assabet River Rail Trail, because he couldn't make himself stay indoors the whole weekend. The ride wasn't exactly thrilling; the trail was asphalt and lacked any serious test of his mountain biking abilities. It still got him outside and let him move around a little.
Maybe after the baby was born he'd put a child seat on the back and take her out there.
The idea gave Ozzy something to think about as he sped down the former rail line. Would Pete let him play a paternal role? Would he actually be allowed to treat the little girl like his own? He didn't care that his own genes hadn't gone into making her. All he cared about was making sure that the baby and her father had the best possible life.
What would Pete want, though?
It would be best to iron out all of these things before the birth, and before the claiming. That way, the claim couldn't influence Pete's feelings, or interfere with his ability to give consent. The absolute last thing Ozzy wanted to do was interfere with Pete's ability to give consent.
He went back to work during the week with a new approach to take with regards to Sierzant. He couldn't go after Sierzant directly, of course. He had no real evidence, and he certainly didn’t want to send Sierzant after Pete again. What he could do, though, was talk to someone who almost certainly knew him.
He paid a visit to Ryan, who pretended to grumble but already had the pages printed out. Then he went and called up Jeff Balsalmo's lawyer. He explained himself quickly: he wasn't looking to implicate Balsalmo in the case he was investigating. He simply wanted to follow up on how the gun had gotten into his hands, none of which would affect the outcome of his trial.
The lawyer, MacDonald, admitted that he was uncomfortable with it but agreed to the meeting anyway. "I get that there isn't a lot of likelihood that Jeff's getting out of this unscathed. I just want to minimize the damage."
Ozzy called over to the Middlesex County Jail, where Balsalmo was being held until his trial, and made the half hour drive up to Billerica. Once there, he went through all of the arduous procedures in place to keep the inmates, staff, and visitors safe, and then followed a guard into the interview room to wait for Balsalmo and MacDonald.
Balsalmo had been locked up for close to a month now, and it hadn't done good things for him. His hair had gotten downright greasy, and his skin had gone from pale to waxen. He sneered at both Ozzy and at MacDonald before submitting to the shackles that kept him in his seat. "To what do I owe the pleasure, boys?"
Ozzy raised an eyebrow. "You're not even old enough to shave yet."
"Doesn't matter." Balsalmo leaned back in his seat and smirked. "Way I see it, we wouldn't be having this conversation if I didn't have something you needed. You're my boys, until I say so. Maybe I should put it in words you can better understand." He cackled, low and dirty. "You’re my bitches. Now dance, monkeys. Dance for me."
Ozzy exchanged glances with MacDonald, who shrugged. Ozzy guessed he could see why the lawyer wasn't making much progress with his client. It was a crying shame, though. "Mr. Balsalmo, I came here to talk to you about the gun that you used in the robbery."
"There's no proof that I used a gun." Balsalmo folded his hands together.
"Dude, I was there. I saw you. A bank full of people saw you. The video camera saw you." Ozzy blinked his eyes in disbelief. Had he stepped into the Twilight Zone or something?
No, he was here in the real world. MacDonald bowed his head and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Jeff, we've talked about this. Pretending that those witnesses weren't there, or that the evidence doesn't exist, isn't going to make it go away. Your best bet—"
"Is to fire you
r ass and find me a lawyer who's going to get me out of this dump." Balsalmo slouched in his seat and crossed his arms over his chest.
"Is to be honest, emphasize your youth, and admit that you've never knocked over a bank before," MacDonald continued, as though his client hadn't spoken. "Everyone saw you with the gun. Everyone saw you. Your prints are on the gun. The bank robbery by itself is a federal crime, genius. The murder during the commission of a federal crime? My goal here is to keep you away from the needle." He glowered at his client. "Talking to the cop about the gun will actually help your cause."
Balsalmo pouted. "But I hate cops!"
"It's okay." Ozzy managed to grin. "I hate teenage bank robbers, but I think we can all put our differences aside and come up with a win-win that works for everyone. That's why we have lawyers, right?" He forced a jovial laugh, when inside he was screaming. This guy was still only nineteen years old, and he was already looking at serious federal time. He didn't seem to recognize it, either. Maybe he just didn't care.
"What do you know about the gun?"
Balsalmo squirmed. "Look, that's one of those things that I feel like I probably shouldn't answer. On account of the Third Amendment."
MacDonald closed his eyes and palmed his face. "Fifth Amendment."
"Fifth? Are you sure?"
"The Third means that you aren't required to put soldiers up in your home without your consent during peacetime. You're homeless, Jeff. It doesn't apply to you anyway. Trust me, it's the Fifth. I'm your lawyer. I know things." MacDonald had a little twitch, right under his left eye.
"Oh. Okay. Then I'm not answering that because of the Fifth Amendment."
"Fine." Ozzy huffed in frustration. "You do get that I'm not on that case, right?"
"You're not?" Balsalmo tried to scratch his head and failed, thanks to the shackles restraining him to the table.
"No. That's the FBI, man. I'm working a case that went cold before you were born. The gun you used killed a cop." Ozzy showed him a picture of Harbaugh.
Balsalmo looked at the picture. "I mean, it's one less cop on the streets, so awesome, but it's nothing to me. It's a gun that gets passed around sometimes, okay? I use it, other people use it, and it's all good." He mustered a cocky grin. "I don't suppose I'm getting it back? It's something of a family heirloom."
A hunch made itself known to Ozzy then. He opened up Balsalmo's file. "Family heirloom, huh? That's interesting. I noticed that you were removed from your family at a young age, Mr. Balsalmo."
Balsalmo twitched. "We stayed in touch."
"That's good. It's good for families to stay as close as they can in this day and age. Of course, that didn't exactly keep you out of trouble, did it? I wonder if anything would have. I think we have that in common, at least. Of course, I let it out by fighting and a bad attention span. You… well, you did your fair share of fighting, it looks like. And you had a few run-ins for prostitution, too."
Balsalmo stiffened. "So?"
MacDonald turned to Ozzy. "I don't see where it's relevant. That was a long time ago."
Ozzy held up his hands. "Hey, no judging. I mean, yeah, it's illegal, but a person does what they have to. No, what interests me about the whole… thing…" He circled his hand, since the kid was obviously bothered by the old record. He might loathe this guy, but he still needed him, and he had plenty of real sins to shame him for. "What interests me about that particular period of your life is that you were working for someone."
"Most of us were." Balsalmo's words were clipped and harsh. His eyes were as hard as stone.
"According to the records, you were working for a guy by the name of Sierzant." Ozzy leaned forward. "As it happens, Sierzant and that gun are the only two parts of my cold case that link back to the modern era."
A bead of sweat ran down Balsalmo's face. He froze for a moment, and then he curled his lip. "What, you think that out of all of his stable he confided in me?" His words were brave, but his tone was quiet.
"Did Sierzant give you the gun, Jeff?" MacDonald watched his client through hooded eyes. "You're a smart guy. I don't have to tell you that it would be in your best interests to say so."
Balsalmo slammed his hands down on the table. "Dude, this goes way beyond some kind of Fifth Amendment crap, all right? We're talking about how you could put me in solitary, for the rest of my life, in a bulletproof vest, and I still wouldn't be safe. I go giving up Sierzant and there's no cell, no safe house, no hiding spot in the world that can keep me safe. You think he'll cut me a break, give me an easier time of it just because I'm his kid? Nah. He might make it faster. Then again, he might draw it out, just because he expected better."
Neither Ozzy nor MacDonald said anything. They didn't have to. Balsalmo's harsh, angry breaths said enough. The buzz of the fluorescent lamp made a perfect counterpoint—irritating, and inexorable. Then Ozzy spoke. "He sent you into that bank."
Balsalmo huffed out a little laugh. "So what? I said yes. I planned it. I cased it out, I picked the backup. It was my job."
"Your old man is going to let you rot. He put you out on the streets, and he sent you in to rob a bank, and now he's going to let you rot. For him. Tell me, Balsalmo, has he ever done anything for you, anything good, to make you so goddamn loyal that you would take a needle for him?" Ozzy met Balsalmo's eyes and held them. "I mean, did he take you to a game at Fenway, or down to Foxboro at least? Help you with your homework? Save you from drowning? What?"
"You don't understand!" Balsalmo shook his head. "You don't understand what happens to snitches."
"We can keep you safe, Balsalmo." Ozzy leaned back.
Balsalmo closed his eyes. His whole face was covered in a sheen of sweat, glistening in the bad lighting like glitter. "He gave me the gun," he said, after several minutes. "He gave me the gun, and he told me that it was a lucky gun. That's what he called it. Lucky." He snorted and shook his head, rattling his chains. "Have you ever heard of a gun being lucky? I mean, that's got to be one of the dumbest things I've ever heard in my life."
Ozzy privately agreed. "I'll tell you what—that gun was hugely lucky for you."
"How?" Balsalmo held his hands up. "I'm in a jumpsuit, in jail, waiting for a trial that even Crackerjack here thinks I can't win."
Ozzy stood up. "Well, for starters, you could be looking at a needle. We'll get you an affidavit, you'll sign it, you'll testify in court, and you'll be looking at a safe life with health care and three squares a day instead of hoping that the docs didn't go for off-brand drugs. The rest, I guess, is kind of up to you."
MacDonald followed him out of the room. "Do you really think that he'll escape the death penalty for this?"
Ozzy sighed. "I'm not a prosecutor. I'll talk to the feds; I'll talk to the prosecutor if I can. I think it should certainly count for something, right?"
MacDonald blew out a breath. "Yeah. Normally. Not when the guy he shot was a defenseless old man."
"He gave us evidence against a cop killer. I have to hope that it counts for something."
"Me too." MacDonald returned to the interview room to talk to his client.
Ozzy commandeered a workstation to type up an affidavit, and Balsalmo signed it that day. It would be best if he testified in open court, of course, but things had a way of happening in organized crime cases. This way, if Balsalmo were suddenly no longer available to testify, they would still have his words to present in court.
Ozzy felt pretty good as he headed into the rest of his week. Soon, Pete would be safe.
Chapter Eight
Pete liked Sunday mornings. He loved to linger over breakfast. In the two weeks since he and Ozzy had finally made love for the first time, lingering over breakfast had become even more pleasant. They could sit and stare at one another over pancakes, or they could discuss newspaper articles over eggs and toast. The important thing was being together and alone, and in peace.
When he heard a car pull into his driveway, he was less than enthusiastic about visitors. He didn't thin
k that reaching for a gun was necessarily the appropriate reaction, though. "Oh would you put that away?" he asked, shaking his head. "It's probably my mother or my brother."
Ozzy scowled in the direction of the driveway. "You're joking, right? They'd have called before they dropped in on a Sunday morning." He lowered the gun, but didn't put it away. "What if you weren't wearing any pants?"
Pete chortled. "Then it would serve them right for showing up unannounced, now, wouldn't it?" He heaved himself out of his chair and waddled over to Ozzy's seat, brushing a kiss across his cheek. "Especially now. I'm the size of a house."
"Hey. You're growing a whole new human being. She needs space to develop. Pretty soon you'll get your body back, and it's all going to be good." Ozzy pulled him down for a loving kiss that Pete would have loved to deepen, if it weren't interrupted by the doorbell.
"I'll get this." Ozzy set his features into a grim sort of scowl as he jumped up and headed toward the door.