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Pete’s smile is so big I can see it even though I’m still looking at Connor. “Excellent,” he says. “Would you like a box? I have more than a few I’ll happily throw in for free, and—”
Connor turns to Pete and adds, “And the laptop Derrick sold you yesterday.”
Pete’s face changes in an instant, flipping through surprise, confusion, concern, and finally landing on uncertainty. “Uh, laptop?”
Connor’s voice goes dead serious, cold and eerie like it was yesterday. This isn’t ‘my’ Connor. This is work Connor . . . he’s just working for me right now. “Laptop. The one Derrick, the line cook from the restaurant down the street, sold you. He stole it from a friend of mine.”
“I don’t know any Derrick. But I do have laptops. Right this way.” Pete looks nervous, rightfully so, considering Connor has gone from blissed out groom to murderous sounding asshole in a blink.
Connor walks to the case Pete gestures at. “Any of these yours?”
I look into the case, not seeing my baby. Hell, most of these are garbage. Tears spring to my eyes, and I shake my head. I thought this was going to be it! We’d come in here, get my laptop, and I could finish my manuscript. I never considered any other option.
“What am I going to do?” I ask Connor.
Connor turns his attention back to Pete. “Where’s the one Derrick sold you?”
“I told you, I don’t know any Derrick.”
Connor reaches in his back pocket, and I freeze. He gave me shit for going all destructo mode, but he’s going to pull a gun? Or a knife? Or whatever the hell he’s doing.
Pete freezes too, likely seeing his life flash before his eyes. He’s just a poor guy running a pawn shop and trying to deal with everything associated with that. He’s probably seen some shit in his time, but he never expected to have the end come at the hands of a guy who he thought he’d talked into buying a ruby ring.
But while what Connor pulls out is big and black, it’s not a gun. It’s his wallet. He sets it on the counter. Thick with cash, he lays his hand over it securely.
“Here’s what I know . . . Derrick, the line cook from down the street, stole a laptop from a friend of a friend. A real good kid. After very little coaxing, Derrick said he pawned the laptop to you. And here I am. And here you are.” Connor looks around the store. “Now, I’m not going to make any accusations. But I wonder how much of your merchandise is stolen property. Is that ring stolen too?”
Pete shakes his head, his eyes twitching and desperate. “No. I got it as part of an estate sale lot. I swear it.”
“And the laptop?” Connor asks again.
“I didn’t know.”
Connor grins, but there’s no warmth in that smile. It’s icy, the smile of a man with no qualms about causing untold amounts of violence if need be. “I can understand that. I’m not upset with you. A man’s gotta do business. I do a little business myself.” He pats his wallet. “But this laptop, it’s different. I need it back.”
“I . . . I don’t have it anymore,” Pete stutters, eyes flicking from Connor to the wallet. He wants the money, I can see that plain as day, but he’s pretty damn close to pissing himself too.
“Where is it?” I bark, getting in on the plan.
Pete looks at me like I’m crazy. Or maybe like I’m a fluffy-haired poodle playing with the pit bulls. But I can be a Pit bull too! I growl and clack my teeth together, snapping them in a biting motion.
Connor looks at me like I’m crazy too, or at least, he looks at me. But while his face is straight, I can see the laughter in his eyes.
“You heard her. Where is it?” Connor repeats. For some reason, Pete takes the question much more seriously from him.
Men, I think with an internal eye roll.
“I sold it.”
“Name. And let’s not pretend you don’t know or I’ll sic her on you. You ever heard the expression ‘it’s always the pretty ones’? That’s her, batshit crazy. She wanted to destroy your whole shop, figured busting windows and cases would get you to give up the computer.”
I take my cue like a well-seasoned Broadway actor and grab a golf club from a nearby display. I spin it, trying to channel Harley Quinn, but it’s a messy twirl because I’ve never even twirled a baton. “What is it you call before you hit a golf ball? Three? Five?” I lay on the ditzy blonde act, even if I’m a redhead. “Oh, yeah, FORE!”
I raise the golf club high over my head, ready to smash it down into the case. Right as I reverse and start to swing it down, Pete yells, “Diana Nichols!”
