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“I know Vallejo, because I worked his case five years ago when he died. I knowofher because she had the misfortune of getting in the way of a drunk driver in the town I was sorta on duty in.”
“Sorta?” He raises a brow. “Sorta like how you think you’re on duty in Copeland right now?”
Shrugging, I cross the living room of our opulent suite and take a seat on one of the two two-seater couches. My knees almost touch the coffee table, and my eyes study the cracked screen of Rory’s phone. The dying battery that flashes for attention. The drops of blood, that somehow get everywhere when a man is shot in the head. “It is what it is, Detective. I’m here. I have a vested interest in making sure Vallejo isnotalive. And I just so happen to know her, too. Since I don’t particularly trust you two to do the job, I’m appointing myself to make sure she lives.”
“You don’t trustus?” Fletcher circles the room and stands on the other side of the coffee table. His hands on his hips. His chest vibrating with rage. “Youdon’t trustus? We called you, asshole. This is our case. You’re the one bringing an arsenal across the country, executing men, and taking our witness to an unsecured, unapproved hotel like you think you’re smarter than the rest of us.”
“I am smarter than you.” Smug, I sit back in my chair and rest my arms on the cushions to study the cop up and down. I see Malone in my peripherals. His anger. His barely repressed temper. “I’ve studied Vallejo for a decade. I’ve been in his clubs. I’ve had connections to him for most of my damn life. And I was the one who killed him.”
“Obviously not!” The man argues, shoving a hand toward the door. “Bastard’s still out there sending guns to take down our girl.”
“If he’s alive, then I’m gonna deal with it. If he’s dead, I’m gonna deal with whoever the fuck is acting in his stead. And besides,” I turn to Archer and grin, “Malones are in the drug trade, right?”
His dark green eyes flash with recognition. Understanding.Suspicion. “What did you just say?”
“I worked DEA, Detective. Let’s not sit here and pretend I’m too stupid to make the connection.”
“Malone is a common name,” Fletcher snarls. He stalks across the room to be beside his friend. Support. Muscle, maybe, if I make a wrong move. “There are tens of thousands of them in the continental US alone. It’s as common as Smith. Or Jones.”
Scoffing, I bring my soda across and take a sip. “Let’s not offend each other here by accusing the other of a lack of intelligence. I know you know who his family is,” I nod toward Fletcher, “because of the way you defend him. And I know you,” I look to Archer, “are Timothy Malone’s kid.”
His lips curl into a feral sneer. “Timothy Malone is dead.”
“Which only bumps you up the supply chain.” I lean forward on the couch and pick up Rory’s beeping phone. Setting my soda down, I sit back again to study the simple flowery screen saver. The flashing battery that threatens death any moment now. It’s dark out. Past dinnertime. The woman sleeping off her most traumatic experience is bound to wake hungry and scared soon. “It’s been a hot minute since I was inside the Malone estate in New York,” I tell them, slyly glancing their way, “but we’ve already met. We’ve already shaken hands and conducted business.”
“I fucking knew I recognized you.” Enraged—because he’s been found out?—Archer brings a hand up and scrubs it over his jaw. “I knew it!”
“Right.” I flip Rory’s phone over, and over, in my hand. To keep my fingers busy. To keep my brain on track. “So now that we’ve got that covered, do we wanna discuss in more detail why I’m not trusting a dirty cop to take care of that girl?”
“I’m a Malone,” Archer acknowledges through tight teeth, breaking away from Fletcher and coming to stand on the other side of the table. “And I’m Timothy’s son.” He shakes his head. “But I’m not dirty.”
I scoff, the disrespectful sound coming out before my brain consciously has a chance to process it. “You’re mafia.”
“I’m related to the mafia,” he counters. “But I’m only as active in their dealings as you are.”
Piqued, I lift a brow in question. So he pushes on, anger in each word he spits out. “I was born and raised in that house, Banks. You were, evidently, placed in my home undercover for a short while when I was, what?” he ponders, “fourteen-years-old? Fifteen?”
“Fifteen,” I agree with a nod. “Sounds about right.”
“I was a child whose voice was taken from him. I won’t accept responsibility for the crimes my family has committed. And I sure as fuck won’t answer to you about them when they have absolutelynobearing on the case we’re running today. The case you hold no authority on,” he adds. “We called you for information.”
“Instead, you got a former agent who knows Vallejo better than you know your own father. You have your witness back in your control, thanks to me. She’s safe and sound, and you know those men I put down in her house were done in defense of someone else.”
“It was an execution,” Fletcher repeats. Considering he’s friendly with mafia Malone, I’d say his objection to a man’s death has everything to do with paperwork and nothing to do with concern for the guy who lost his life. “You could have apprehended them. Brought them in for questioning.”
“Sure. But your witness would be dead. And chances are your partner would be, at best, in surgery right now. At worst, in the morgue right beside Swanson.”
“I would like for you all to stop talking about me now.”
I jerk in my chair and spin when my brain catches up and my consciousness demands it. I shove up from the couch and turn at the same time, while the other cops remain still, their eyes pinned to Rory’s too-pale self. Her clothes are filthy. Her eyes and cheeks, hollowed out. She swallows nervously, so the bob and movement of her throat are visible, even to me all the way over here. And when I glance along her battered body, I feel a deep stab of guilt when I find my handprint bruised against her arm.
I manhandled her when I already knew she was sore.
I saw her fucking thigh bone poking through her skin a couple of months ago. I saw her injuries, up close and personal. But instead of treating her gently tonight, I probably harmed her more than those other assholes did.
I had to do it. I know I did. But hell if bile doesn’t make my tongue taste nasty, or guilt make my stomach turn.
She studies me too, slowly, curiously, like maybe she remembers me from that accident, too, but whether she does or not goes unsaid, as she brings her eyes to the other guys. “You’re Archer Malone.” She swallows again and takes a deep breath so her chest grows. “And Charlie Fletcher.”
