“You can wait in the car,” I tell him. “Won’t hold it against you.”
“I’m fine,” he says. “Just letting it be known so when things go haywire you can’t blame me.”
“Oh, I can still blame you. Probably will, too.”
He shakes his head, stepping by me, naturally taking the lead on this since he’s all too familiar with the procedures in these places. He approaches a woman in uniform sitting behind a desk, clearing his throat before saying firmly, “We’re here to speak with Detective Gabriel Jones.”
Ohhh, his cop voice—no bullshit, no humor. I guess if we’re playing the good cop/bad cop routine, that makes me the good one. The irony...
The officer regards him warily, like she might have an idea of who he is. “Name?”
“Bruno Pratt,” he says.
Recognition flashes in her eyes.
“I’ll let him know you’re here,” she says, motioning toward the lobby. “Have a seat, someone will—”
“Don’t worry about that,” he cuts in. “I can find his office myself, no problem.”
Seven pushes away from the desk, immediately heading for a nearby elevator. The officer at the desk shoots me a look next, that all-too-familiar expression of dread washing over her as she averts her eyes.
My reputation must precede me here, too.
“Officer,” I say, nodding in greeting as I walk past the front desk, trailing Seven.
The elevator opens and we step inside. He presses the number three button.
“Third floor, huh?” I ask.
“Just a guess,” he says.
A damn lucky guess, it turns out, because we find the detective’s office in the back against the wall, blinds drawn, his name prominently displayed on the door.
“Doesn’t look like anyone’s home,” I say.
“Oh, no, he’s here,” Seven says. “Should probably look away unless you wanna get an eyeful.”
“No shit?”
Seven shoots me a look that says just that: no shit.
I don’t avert my gaze, because well, I’m nosey. Besides, I’ve seen it all before. Nothing’s going to shock me. Seven grabs the door, shoving it open, a high-pitched yelp ringing out from inside as we interrupt whatever’s happening. Uh-oh.
“Whoa buddy!” I say, letting out a laugh as the detective scrambles to pull himself together. His pants are down around his ankles, damn near tripping him, his awkwardly hairy ass on display. “Might wanna shave that shit, Sasquatch.”
He’s cursing under his breath as he yanks his pants on, the woman on her knees shoving him away to stand up. Blonde, sickly skinny, which I’m guessing is courtesy of coke judging by the high-as-fuck look on her face. She flees the office, and I grimace as she rushes past me, getting a whiff of something rank.
“Christ,” I grumble, walking into the office, not awaiting an invitation since I’m probably not getting one. “I don’t even know what to say right now, detective.”
“Nothing was happening,” he says as he fumbles with his belt. “It wasn’t what it looked like.”
I drop down into a chair in front of his desk, stretching my legs out, making myself comfortable. “I sure hope not, because I thought you had better taste than that. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’ve fucked my fair share of questionable women, but that’s like sticking your dick in a trash compactor.”
He glares at me. “I don’t have time for visitors today. I’m busy.”
“I saw,” I say. “You working on something for that girl? A little head, a little pussy, and what? You’ll give her case a little extra attention?”
“Sounds like him,” Seven says, still lurking in the doorway.
The detective seems to just notice Seven’s presence, a look of contempt passing across the man’s face. “Pratt.”
“Jones.”
“I see your choice of friendships hasn’t gotten any better.”
“And I see you still get your rocks off fucking with people.”
“That was always you, Pratt. Quick to sell out everyone for a dollar.”
“Me?” Seven comes further into the office, leaving the door wide open, his quick advance making the detective step back. “You want to talk about selling people out?”
I glance between them as they shoot daggers at each other. “Are you two... flirting? Because it’s kind of turning me on.”
Okay, now those daggers are being shot at me.
“Sit down, Seven,” I say, shoving the chair beside me toward him before I point at the detective. “You, too, Detective Fuckface. Plant your ass in a chair. Let’s chit-chat.”
Neither man listens to me right away, but Seven’s common sense kicks in after a moment. He sits down, not saying another word.
The detective follows his lead, taking a seat behind his desk, his eyes fixed on me. “Lorenzo Gambini, I presume? Or would you prefer to be called—”
“Sir,” I cut in before he can say Scar. “You can call me sir, if it gives you the tingles. Otherwise, let’s just stick with Gambini.”
He sits quietly for a moment, stewing, before he asks, “What do you want? Huh? You think you can show up here and threaten me?”
“Threaten you?” I look to Seven. “Did I threaten him and already forget about it?”
“I didn’t hear a threat,” Seven says.
I glance back at the detective. “Didn’t think so. I’m just here to check up on a case.”
“Make an appointment,” he says.
“I’d rather not,” I say, “so I’ll just sit here and wait.”
I think he thinks I’ll give up and go away, or that I’ll do something to justify him having me thrown out of the building, but I’m smarter than that, and I’m stubborn as shit. I’ll sit here for a fucking week in silence if it means I win.
It doesn’t take a week, though. Hell, it only takes a few minutes. A few minutes of him trying to ignore my presence before he gives in. Weak.
“Fine!” He throws his hands up. “Tell me what you want from me and then get the hell out.”
“Kassian Aristov.”
He blanks.
Full on, no fucking poker face blanks.
There’s this thing people do when death is imminent, this look that comes over them. Sometimes it only lasts a second. All color drains away. Eyes widen. Jaw goes slack. They almost look dead already, life non-existent, when the realization hits them that they’re completely fucked and there’s no way to stop it from happening.
That’s the look he gets on his face right now.
Dead man walking...
“I can’t talk to you about a case that doesn’t involve you,” he says, choosing his words carefully.
“Oh, do you have a case that does involve me? Because I’d love to hear about that one.”
He glares at me, still as white as a ghost.
“Well then, in that case, we can stick to Aristov,” I say. “I’m actually here on behalf of someone else, so don’t you worry your pretty little mind... you can tell me all about it.”
“You’re here on whose behalf?”
“Morgan Myers.”
There he goes blanking again. Panicked.
“Well?” I snap my finger at him. “The sooner you get with it, the sooner I’ll go.”
He clears his throat and looks away, absently shifting things around on his desk. “Miss Myers can’t speak for herself anymore? She has to send you to rough me up?”
“Jesus fuck.” I look at Seven. “Did I miss myself roughing him up now? What’s happening here?”
“Beats me,” Seven says, arms crossed over his chest. “I’m surprised he hasn’t told you everything. He’s always been good at ratting people out.”
Something strikes me then, something in Seven’s clipped tone, and I laugh as I turn back to the detective. Motherfucker. Turns out I might be dealing with backstabbing Lando. “No way, you? Tell me you didn’t snitch on a fellow officer.”
“He shouldn’t have been working for the Italians,” the detective says. “He betrayed the badge.”