Criminal Pleasures (10 page)

“Brendan? What is it?”

He met Cal’s eyes. “I sort of...got involved with this guy, Cal.”

Cal shook his head. “What do you mean? Please tell me you didn’t do anything illegal, Brendan.”

“No, nothing like that. I mean...romantically involved.”

Cal’s eyes widened. He removed his glasses and leaned forward. “I must have heard you wrong.”

Brendan shook his head. “You heard me right. Marcello...Marc, was more than just a friend.”

Cal stared at him a moment longer, then leaned back in his chair, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Hoo, boy.”

“Yeah. I know.”

“I didn’t realize you were...”

“I’m not,” Brendan said, then shrugged. “Well I wasn’t. Not really. Until I met him. Don’t tell my father.”

“I won’t say a word. But Brendan...this man, this Marcello, he was...you were
intimate
with him?”

Brendan winced. “Yes.”

Cal looked down at his desk, lips pursed tight.

“What? Say something,” Brendan said. “What are you thinking?”

Cal’s eyes lifted and he shook his head. “You don’t want to know.”

“Is it the gay thing?”

“Of course not, I don’t care about that, Brendan, you know me. I’m upset about this, but not at you.”

“For God sakes, Cal. You gotta give me something.”

Cal stared at him for a long time. Finally he sighed and reached for a notepad. He wrote something on it, then peeled the paper off. He held it up, looking over the desk at Brendan. “I’m going to give you something, because I think you have a right to try and find out who you were dealing with, even if the information doesn’t come from me. Just be smart about it, Brendan. And you have to swear to never tell
anyone
I gave you this.”

“You have my word.”

He slid the note to Brendan. It read ‘Detective Daggett’, and beneath that, a Massachusetts address.

“That’s a State Police station. If you must pursue this, then take a drive up to Mass and look for a detective called Daggett. Don’t try to call him, I doubt he’ll speak to you over the phone. You’ll have to go there and see if you can catch him on duty.”

“Okay, but—”

“That’s
all
I’m giving you, Brendan. Take it or leave it.”

Brendan glanced at the note, then up at Cal. “So this Daggett, he can help?”

Cal shrugged. “I don’t know about that. But he knows everything there is to know about Marcello DiPietro.”

Chapter Ten

Though it was agonizing to sit on his hands all weekend, Brendan waited until Monday afternoon to take the trip in to Massachusetts. If he had to catch this Daggett guy on duty, he figured it would be luckier to try on a work day. Though he supposed the guy might work on weekends, he had no idea, so he took a gamble.

He got caught in horrendous traffic. He scolded himself for his stupidity. This quest he was on, was it even worth it? And confessing to Cal what he’d done with Marc?
Ugh
. What was he thinking? Maybe it was all the drinking he’d been doing, it’d muddied his brain, made him an emotional wreck. He barely knew Marc, and had been conveniently avoiding the truth. That Marc had coldly and brutally dumped Brendan’s ass that last time he’d seen him.

Dumped? Be real, Brendan. He fucking threatened you.

Brendan suddenly felt like an ass, sitting in a traffic jam, off to seek out information about a lover who wasn’t his anymore, who never really was. A lover he’d never have again, no matter where he was.

“I will climb over this bar and put my fist down your throat.”

He winced at the memory. Marc didn’t care about him, no matter what he’d said at the loft that night. He was a game player, a conman. Christ, he wasn’t even a very nice person. He’d probably charmed that pretty Danielle the same way, using her to get what he needed. He clearly didn’t care much about her either, considering what he’d done with Brendan.

In fact,
fuck
Marc. If he got deported, served him right. Brendan had gotten himself so caught up in the shock of hearing about all the drama from Gina that he’d somehow blocked out the reality of the situation. That he really had no business caring about this guy.

But when he saw the sign for the State Police, he took the exit. Cal said he could find answers there, and the simple fact was, Brendan did want to know. Whatever it was, he wanted to know.

Great, maybe I was making out with a terrorist
.

And to think, his father had been upset about him being friends with a busboy.

****

The police station was huge, and bustling with activity. Brendan had to wait in a line of odd looking and not altogether pleasant smelling people. When he finally reached the front of the line, the man behind the counter was writing on a pad. Brendan waited politely, until finally he looked up. “Help you?”

“I’m here to see Detective Daggett.”

The man raised his eyebrows, then went back to writing on his pad. “I believe he just left. Was he expecting you?”

“Um, well I—”

“Hang on.”

Brendan stood waiting, hands clasped in front of him. Finally the man behind the counter set aside his pad, and looked around. He did a double take, then turned back to Brendan. “That’s him over there. Looks like he’s on his way out, you can go see if you can catch him.”

The man pointed to his left, and Brendan followed with his eyes. He spotted the back of a guy in a brown suit with short dark hair, leaning over a desk, speaking to a woman.

“You mean the guy in brown right there?” Brendan asked.

“That’s him.”

“Thanks.”

Brendan approached cautiously, waiting a few feet behind for the detective to finish his conversation. He spoke in low tones to the woman, but Brendan caught a thick Boston accent, a smooth, deep voice.

“Okay, I’ll check back on that tomorrow,” the detective told the woman, then straightened up and turned around.

He started toward the door, spotted Brendan and stopped.

The world tilted, and Brendan felt like everything was moving in slow motion. The brown hair was cut short now, but still flecked with gold highlights. The suit and tie were disorienting, but Brendan was looking at Marc.

Marc’s olive skin paled as the color drained from his face. “Brendan!” 

Marc started toward him, and Brendan whirled around and ran out of the station, pushing people out of his way to get through the double doors.

His vision seemed to blur as he made for his car. 

Does not compute. Must flee
.

His head pounded and he couldn’t form a single thought, yet a thousand thoughts made chaos inside his brain until he feared he’d scream.

A cop. Marc is a fucking cop
.

He couldn’t begin to process it, and all that it meant.

Away. Must get away
.

“Brendan, wait!”

He looked back and saw Marc sprinting toward him through the parking lot. Brendan stumbled up to his car, hit the lock, then got in and started the engine. As he was pulling out of the parking space, Marc ran up, rapping on the driver’s side window. “Brendan, stop!” he shouted through the glass.

Brendan glanced at him, then drove off. In his rear view mirror, he saw Marc standing in the parking lot, his hands on his head.

Brendan pulled out onto the road, hit the gas, and fled. 

He’d gone about a mile and a half when he nearly hit a guardrail, and realized he wasn’t paying attention to the road. Struggling to calm himself, he took big, deep breaths. He rolled down the window, letting the cool air cleanse his head. The shock had thrown him, and he was having trouble calming himself enough to focus. Up ahead was a restaurant, a brick red structure shaped like a barn with a sign that read simply ‘The Pub’. He pulled in and found a parking spot, then turned off the car and rested his head on the steering wheel.

The engine made ticking sounds as it cooled
.

What the fuck.

Marc’s face, with that short haircut. Marc’s body in that suit.

What the fuck.

Moments later a car pulled up alongside him, and he lifted his head and saw a beige sedan. Marc was behind the wheel.

Brendan dropped his head on the steering wheel again. He remained that way until Marc knocked on the window.

“Brendan, please get out of the car.”

He considered fleeing again, but he didn’t quite trust himself to drive yet. Taking a deep breath, he took the keys from the ignition, and stepped out of the car.

Marc faced him, hands on his hips under his suit jacket, a look on his face that Brendan didn’t recognize. Was it panic? Anguish? Rage? He had no idea. He did not know this man.

The shorter hair looked annoyingly fabulous on him, accentuating his handsome features, but it made him look older, more mature. Gone was the moody, swarthy Mediterranean busboy. The man standing before him was intimidating, despite the obvious discomfort in his expression. The face was the same, yet somehow not. This was not the Marc that Brendan knew, however briefly. This was someone different, recognizable only by his pretty eyes and the familiar coiled tightness to his stance.

“Will you come inside for a beer, so we can talk?” Marc asked, the gruff, forcefulness of his tone jarring, making Brendan wince.

“Brendan, I know you’re probably as pissed off as a person can get right now, but please. Just one beer.”

Seeing Marc was shocking enough, but it was the voice that put Brendan over the edge, so familiar, yet the intonation was completely different. Hearing him speak without the soft Italian accent finally prompted Brendan break his silence, though he couldn’t quite manage to form a sentence. “You...you’re not...you’re not...” 

Marc looked down at his feet, and nodded.

Brendan took a step toward him and let out a humorless laugh. “You’re from fucking Boston, aren’t you?”

“I grew up in Newton,” Marc said, his eyes flicking nervously to Brendan. “I won’t bother to apologize, I know we’re way beyond that. But I’d like to at least try to explain, Brendan, if you’ll give me a chance.”

Brendan took another step toward him, shaking his head. “You knew that I thought you were someone else. You knew this. And yet you kissed me and you...
humped
me. With a
fake accent
!”

Marc flinched.

“Nothing you can say makes any difference!”

“Brendan—”

“Oh don’t bother, Marc, if that’s even your name.”

“It is,” he said quickly. “But it’s Daggett, not DiPietro. But I guess you know that.” He tilted his head. “How did you find me?”

“No.” Brendan paced a circle, then pointed at Marc. “No, you don’t get to ask
me
questions.”

Marc held his hands up. “Fair enough. Will you come into the restaurant with me, so we can talk?”

“I think I can put it together on my own. You were undercover, trying to trap Poppy DiPietro in some fucking something or other and blah blah blah. But why did you sleep with me?”

“Brendan—”

“With a
fake
accent! Do you know how humiliating that is?”

Marc ran his fingers through his hair, cursing under his breath. “Brendan, I know what I did. I know how fucked up this all is. I can’t change any of it.” He took a step closer. “But please, give me a half hour. Don’t take off again. A half hour Brendan,
please
.”

“All right,” Brendan said. “A half hour. But only because I need a beer. Badly.”

Marc’s relief was palpable as he let out a breath. “After you.” He gestured toward the restaurant.

Brendan sneered. “After you.
Detective
.”

Marc’s eyebrows pinched together, and he looked so troubled Brendan almost felt bad for him. Almost. Marc turned and headed for the doors of The Pub. Brendan took a deep breath, unclenched his fists, and followed.

Chapter Eleven

The pub was fairly crowded, a small cluster of people waiting for tables. “Wait here a second,” Marc said to Brendan.

Brendan couldn’t get used to the difference in Marc’s speaking voice. He watched him bypass the waiting customers and lean in to speak with the hostess. Brendan tried to eavesdrop, stepping closer. He heard the words ‘police’ and ‘privacy’. Then Marc opened his wallet and gave her some cash after showing her a badge.

Brendan turned way, rubbing his temples.
This is so fucked up
.

“Come on,” Marc said, touching Brendan’s arm.

Brendan looked up and met his eyes, a thrill running through him for a split second. He was disappointed in himself for still feeling that rush of desire, but damn it, he was still attracted to the guy.

The hostess led them past a bar and through a rustic dining area, then down a small hallway to another doorway, blocked off by a chair. She moved the chair, and they followed her into another small dining room, empty of customers. “This room is closed until later on, you’ll be alone in here,” she said. “Can I bring you something?”

“A pitcher of beer, please,” Marc said. “Whatever you’ve got on tap.”

The hostess left.

Marc chose a booth in the back corner, and Brendan slid in across from him. He watched as Marc removed his suit jacket and set it down beside him on the bench. He glanced at Brendan, then clasped his hands as if in prayer, resting his forehead on them.

Brendan didn’t say a word. If Marc wanted to talk, so be it, but Brendan didn’t feel compelled to help him out. They were interrupted when a waiter came in with their pitcher and two frosted mugs. Marc thanked him, and the waiter left the room. They were alone again.

Picking up the pitcher, Marc filled their glasses, sliding one over to Brendan. He didn’t meet his eyes as he spoke. “Three years ago a man called Paul Quinn was arrested in Boston for various charges, including money laundering, assault and attempted murder. He was found guilty and imprisoned. Shortly after he was locked up, both the judge who sentenced him and the officer who arrested him were killed. One of the murderers was caught and confessed the hits were ordered by Patrick Quinn, Paul’s brother.”