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Again I pulled back. I wanted to cross my arms. Pout. Make them feel guilty.
Then I thought it over, and realized my own ingratitude.
“I’m sorry,” I said softly. “I know you only want to help. I know you’re doing all this for Evan.”
“True enough,” Cody replied. “But mostly, we’re doing it foryou.”
I felt suddenly ashamed at my words and actions. Gliding back to where they stood, I placed a delicate hand on each of their arms.
“Do what you need to do,” I said finally. “Just… be careful. Please.”
One by one they leaned in again, this time to plant a firm kiss on either cheek.
“Careful,” chuckled Cody as they slipped through the door. “Where’s the fun in that?”
Thirty-Nine
SANTIAGO
The chair was hard and uncomfortable and way too small, exactly as it was meant to be. The legs were metal. They scraped against the ceramic-tiled floor with a grating sound that would’ve set my teeth on edge, if they weren’t already on edge.
They don’t know anything.
That was the general rule when it came to police interrogations. The longer they kept you waiting in a room like this, the less they had against you.
Still, that did nothing to ease my abject boredom.
“Can I get a coffee?” I sneered, turning in the direction of the one-way camera. “Anactualcoffee though. Not this six-hour old mud.”
I pushed the Styrofoam cup across the table in disgust and leaned back in my chair. No, I was pretty sure they didn’t have anything on me. It wouldn’t stop them from digging though.
I waited another ten minutes before the door finally opened. When it did, three cops entered holding three separate folders. None of them looked over the age of thirty-five.
“Romero.”
The cop with the crew-cut barked my last name more than actually said it. As he did, he spun one of the folders so that it landed in front of me.
Hell, it even faced the right way. Neat trick.
“Wanna open that up?”
I didn’t of course, but I probably wasn’t getting out of here until I did. I waited a few seconds though, first. I wasn’t going to make it easy for him.
Inside the folder was a copy of what appeared to be a hand-written note. It wasn’t written in English, though. Not even a little bit.
“Can you read that?” the cop asked. “Know what that says?”
I squinted down at it for a second or two longer.
“Two for one at your mom’s house?”
One of the other two cops — the skinny one in the back — let out an uncontrolled laugh. It was cut off only by his partner’s look of contempt.
“It’s in Italian,” crew-cut said. “Neapolitan, to be exact.”
I sighed longingly at the shitty cup of coffee. Maybe if I tried hard enough, I could will it into something drinkable.
“Instead of being an insufferable wise-ass, maybe you’d consider helping us?” crew-cut suggested. “With the kind of trouble you’re in, at the very least you could help yourself.”
