Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 75317 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 377(@200wpm)___ 301(@250wpm)___ 251(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75317 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 377(@200wpm)___ 301(@250wpm)___ 251(@300wpm)
The carefree, jovial Mario of the night before is gone, and in his place is a much sterner, much angrier guy who is very clearly a mobster. His tone brooks no argument, and the square set of his jaw tells me he means business.
Telling him my boss was the asshole who hit on me and wouldn’t take no for an answer would be the quickest way of outing my identity I could think of. So, no… that isn’t the way to play this. Another lie is also not a smart idea.
If I’m going to have an in with the Rossis, I need to thread pieces of truth to them, enough to keep them guessing. This isn’t a game I’m good at. I don’t play games like this. I don’t lie. One of the reasons I do my job so well is because I’m so determined to get to the bottom of things. I ferret out truth like a wolfhound.
Lying is very rarely part of the equation, though the occasional stretching of truth comes into play.
Yes, ma’am, there’s still hope that your son’s alive.
Of course that doesn’t incriminate him.
There are many ways this could go down, and not all end with your daughter in jail.
“I don’t know exactly,” I say, slowly, so that he knows I’m thinking over telling him the truth. “But I… can tell you he was a police officer. I’ve met him before.”
Mario curses, but only shakes his head as if he’s stubbed his toe, not nearly beat a police officer half to death.
“You know his name?”
I shake my head. “No.”
“What business did he have with you?”
I shrug. It had all come as a surprise to me. I’d come out of the club, and there Grady was, obviously high and not in his right mind. He’d seen the way I was dressed and started asking questions. Asshole must’ve been tracking me.
“I’m not comfortable with this,” I’d told him when he got so close I could smell the whiskey on his breath. Drinking was one thing. Drugs was another. The combination in a man like him was deadly. “You’re too close to me, and I’m off the clock.”
He’d reached for me. “I could get you a promotion so easily I’d barely have to lift a finger,” he’d said, his words slurred and barely comprehensible.
“I don’t want a dirty promotion. I don’t want anything but my own hard work to get me where I’m going.”
He’d shaken his head and snarled at me, stepping straight into my personal space.
“Tell me why you were here tonight. I know there’s an illegal club nearby, and I further know you were leaving there, not the damn crystal shop.”
I’d stonewalled him. Told him to go home. But it wasn’t until I’d called him out for being drunk and acting inappropriately that he’d really crossed a line.
Enter Mario, guns blazing, in all his male chauvinistic glory, trying to redeem himself or endear himself to me or whatever the fuck it was he was trying to do by swooping in to save my ass. And my ass did not need saving.
I’d had it all under control. A classic case of overstepping and sexual harassment that would’ve gotten Grady’s ass fired and mine promoted.
But no. Mario came in to save the day, and ended up doing a royally good job at fucking everything up.
Will Grady think I had anything to do with his getting beaten up when he comes to? Damn.
“You have a burner phone?” I mutter.
Mario’s eyes narrow. “Why?”
“I want to call an ambulance for him. If he dies, you’re fucked. I’m fucked. We’re all fucked.”
Mario grumbles under his breath, likely thinking things over. “Fine,” he finally says. “But no funny business. Believe me, I will know.” I watch as he opens a compartment hidden well below the window, and slides out a slim black phone that looks like it’s never been used before.
I quickly block the caller I.D. and dial 911.
“911, what’s your emergency?”
I speak quickly and succinctly. “There’s a man at the alley on Bright Street who’s been badly beaten. He’s in need of prompt care.”
“Yes, ma’am, thank you. What does he look like?
I give her the basic description. “He’s under an awning, passed out, but still breathing.”
“And your name?” she says tightly. That’s my cue to hang up.
No one’s going to question me. No one’s going to suspect a damn thing if I can help it.
“How far are we from The Castle?” I ask quietly.
He scowls, staring out at the black sky beyond our window. “Far enough,” he mutters, then, on second thought, he says, “about thirty minutes to go.”
“Why are we going there specifically?”
“Oh, I dunno,” he shrugs. “Thought we could take a romantic walk on the beach. Maybe go fishing. Get a bite to eat.” His jaw twitches.
I purse my lips and look out the window. I should not be surprised he’s not telling me anything either.