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“He might not press charges, but this man is tied back to his company. He’s listed in the employee directory, so this isn’t some easy gangland cover-up.”
“Pity.” I shrug. “He didn’t mention it.”
“Probably because he was too busy staring at your gun in his face.”
I shake my head. “No. He barely had time to process that. I don’t like to play with my food before I eat it.”
Rooney wrinkles his nose. “I don’t know how you do it.”
“Which part?”
“Kill people,” he says. “And then just walk around like, like… like it’s nothing. Like everything is fine.”
If he’s looking for an introspective answer, he won’t find one here. I don’t know if it’s been bred into me or if it was coded into my cells from the start. All I know is that I kill as needed.
And when nighttime comes, I sleep like a fucking baby.
“Probably the same way you look your brothers in blue in the eyes after you doctor up a crime scene to make me look innocent.”
Rooney’s face flushes, but I don’t let off the gas just yet.
“Or the way you go home after a long day’s work and kiss your wife on the cheek,” I continue. “The extra money I funnel into your bank account does a great job of quieting that little voice in the back of your head that tells you you’re a terrible person.”
“I’m not a bad person,” Rooney snaps.
“Of course not,” I condescend. “You’re a man who took a month-long tropical vacation last year on the salaries of a kindergarten teacher and a police officer.”
“I don’t even know why I agreed to help you in the first place,” he mutters. “You’re an asshole.”
“We’re in a symbiotic relationship here, Detective. If one of us stops pulling their weight, the whole thing crumbles.”
Rooney looks up at me. “So… what do I do?”
“Get this story shut down and keep the police off my ass. The same as always.”
He nods. “Okay. For a price.”
I let out a growling exhale and flex my fists at my sides. The crack of my knuckles is the only response needed to remind Rooney who dictates the rules here.
“I didn’t mean to—you’re dependable. A man of your word. That’s all I’m saying.” Rooney looks away nervously, and I see the moment his eyes catch on something over my shoulder.
He frowns, his brows knitting together. Then his eyes go wide. “What the f—who is that?”
Before I spin around, I already know.
Only one person under my roof would be stupid enough to eavesdrop on this conversation.
18
PIPER
FIFTEEN MINUTES EARLIER
Timofey’s office isn’t quite so intimidating without him sitting behind the desk.
The desk chair is warm, worn leather and massive like an emperor’s throne. I can see the imprint of his broad shoulders on the back and similar wear and tear in the seat that I do my best not to think about. It’s a challenge, though.
The man is a dick.
