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The door swings open and a man staggers into the office, blindfolded and gagged with thick duct tape, Ringo helping him along with a solid boot up his ass. Goldie steps forward and rips off the tape. “Fuck,” he curses, reaching for his face and feeling where his brows once were. “You don’t know who the hell you’re deal—” His mouth snaps shut when he clocks me, Danny, and James around the desk.
“Dealing with?” I say, smiling, feeling an edge of psycho take over. “Oh, you poor, delusional fuckwit.” I get up and seize his shoulder, pushing him into a chair as Ringo and Goldie leave.
“What are you doing? I’m a cop! You’ll get the lethal injection!”
I get down in his face. “They need to determine a crime was committed, and to determine a crime was committed, they need a body.” I smile. “I don’t plan on leaving any evidence.”
Bean leans back, panicked eyes jumping between the three of us, and Danny smiles. “The American one is in a far worse mood than we were when we called for coffee the other morning,” he says.
“Awful,” James adds. “How’s your leg?”
I look down at Bean’s thighs—I know Danny Black—then rest my palms on both, squeezing. He screams. “Still sore, I’d say.” I muse, making Danny chuckle. “Now back to business.” I clap my hands but still when I hear the distinct sound of water hissing. I frown and glance underneath the chair that Bean’s slumped on, seeing piss trickling down the legs.
“Anyone else hear that?” Danny says quietly. “Leaking all over my new fucking rug.” He picks up a paperweight and throws it with force at Bean’s knee, and he yelps in pain.
I slide a hook off the desk. “Would you mind?” I say, and James gets straight up and circles Bean, taking his arms and holding them back.
“What are you doing?” he yells, horrified eyes on the rusty hook as I lean in. “No, stop!” His head thrashes, hindering me.
I stand tall and sigh. “More hands.”
“Oh, I’m good with my hands.” Danny’s soon holding Bean’s head, allowing me to shove the hook through his tongue.
“Arhhhhh!”
“Perfect,” I muse, looping a fishing line through and trailing it back to the desk. I take a seat, giving the hook a little tug, jerking Bean’s head. It’s an effort to stop mental images of Pearl in this situation from sending me over the edge. Bean does not want me to tip the edge. Not yet, anyway. “Now we’re all comfortable.” I take my Scotch in my spare hand. “Let’s get on with the show.” I look at the boys. “Get some of these fucking questions answered.”
“Wh-what do you want?” Bean stutters, struggling to talk. “I’m sorry about blackmailing your son.”
I give the line a warning tug, making him yell, more in fear than in pain. “Are you, Bean?” I ask. “Are you really?”
“Yes, yes I am!”
I snarl and yank the line, pulling just enough to rip his flesh a little. A bead of blood trickles down his chin. “You know the thing that pisses me off most about bent cops?”
“What?” James asks.
“They’re greedy?” Danny volunteers.
“Exactly.” I swig my drink and slam the glass down, making Bean jump, making the line pull again. “Now that was your fault,” I say, getting up and walking toward the Picasso. I come to a stop when the line pulls taut and look over my shoulder, seeing Bean’s head jutting forward, James still holding him in the seat. I smile and take a step back. “How do you know Bernard King, Bean?”
“I don’t.”
Liar.
I sag where I stand, dropping my head. “I’m disappointed.” I take one more step toward the fireplace, feeling the pull on the line as I look up and admire the painting. “Mind explaining how he would know the Black family emblem? Because he’d only get that from us or the cops.” I face him. Stupid fucker will fall flat on his face if James lets go. “And he definitely didn’t get it from us.” I feel Danny’s interested attention on me. “It was you, wasn’t it, Bean?” I ask, smiling, sounding excited. “Did you show him some photos from the archives?”
He shakes his head, if only mildly to avoid the pull. So I fix that, moving closer to the painting. He’s breathing so heavily through his nose, snot is flying out.
“Any of this jogging your memory?”
“Anything at all?” Danny asks. “I mean, I’m enjoying the show, but I’m really fucking hungry, and my mum’s made her signature stew.” Danny rubs his belly, and James rolls his eyes. “We have a lot of mouths to feed in this family. I’d be most fucked off if it was all gobbled up before I make it to the kitchen.”
“No one likes a hangry Brit,” I say quietly.
Tug, tug.
“Fuck, fine, yes, it was me.” Bean practically whimpers. “I showed him.”
