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“Here.” He didn’t even hesitate.
I ran my hand down my face. “I appreciate the offer, Raj—”
“You’re going to ‘but’ me, aren’t you, you asshole?”
“Yeah. I fucking am. I want to sleep inmybed. Usemyshower. And I don’t want to fucking run from some bigoted, small-dicked fuckheads who think they can intimidate me because I’m prettier than their moms ever dreamed of being.”
Raj let out a snort at that. “You’re a complete dick, you know that, Hart?”
“Yeah, well.”
“Anything, and I meananythingstrikes you as off, you fucking call me, you hear?”
“I hear you, Tony.”
He let out a heavy sigh. “I mean it, Keebler.”
“I know.” I took a deep breath. “And I will.”
“You fucking better, elf.”
“Tony?”
“What, Keebler?”
“Thanks.”
17
I gotmy car back after three days with new glass, new taillights, the dents beaten out, and the spray paint scrubbed off. It still feltwrong, and I was pissy for a while about the fact that my car no longer felt like my car.
I was also, of course, on edge because of the fuckers in Four, although the more evidence came out, the more obvious it was to everyone that Shelby was not only a dirty cop, but also a complete waste of space as well as an actual detriment to society and the human species in general. There were even starting to be grumbles around Precinct One that he deserved whatever IAD threw at him.
That made me feel very slightly better.
At least to the point where my shoulder blades stopped itching while I sat at my desk in the bullpen. I figured I’d probably at least be physically safe while in the office.
Of course, if shit hit the fan and I had to go out to another demonstration or a crime scene in another precinct’s district, all fucking bets were off.
I had the distinct impression that Villanova agreed, although he hadn’t said anything—but he hadn’t sent me out on a case or asked me to stand at a protest line, either. And while the protests had died down a bit in the last week and a half, they were definitely still happening.
Not that I didn’t have plenty to do. Raj—who was still actively trying to convince me to quit my job—had me working every possible angle on the MFM murders, pulling cold cases, tapping Ward to reinterview dead victims, and so on.
I had managed to find a pattern among the MFM’s massive list of victims—most of them had no immediate family, and most of them had a record. Even if it was as small as a speeding ticket or a burnt-out taillight.
The taillight was Taavi.
He’d been pulled over for the burnt-out light and ended up with an ICE file because he’d been driving a borrowed car that wasn’t registered in his name. According to the statement from the actual owner of the car—another construction worker in Yuma—he’d lent Taavi his car to run errands because they’d been sharing an apartment. When he hadn’t come back for a full twenty-four, the guy’d called it in and the local cops had made the connection.
Taavi’d had to pay the ticket for the taillight, but since he was a legal citizen of the US, ICE hadn’t been able to hold him. At least not once the local police had tracked down the car at the ICE facility. I felt a chill reading the file. If his coworker hadn’t gone in and pitched a fit, who the fuck knows how long it would have taken them to process him out of their holding cells—despite the fact that he was not only a legal citizen, but one who had been born in Arizona.
Fucking hell, this country was messed up.
The shifter in question, oblivious to the fact that it was his story that was upsetting me, looked up and chuffed at me from his doggy bed.
“The world sucks, bud,” I told him.
He chuffed again in agreement, then laid down again, one brown eye and one white watching my face.
