Mug Shot (20 page)

“Well, what are you waiting for?” I demanded impatiently.

“You're feisty tonight. I like it.”

I glared at him in response.

“Okay, sit tight. I'll go find a splint so we can do this thing.”

Gossip seemed to travel around this police station faster than at a beauty shop. Ryder was barely gone a minute when Detective Cromwell stuck his head in the door.

“What the hell happened to you?” he asked, his mustache twitching from trying not to smile.

“I was
assaulted
,” I huffed. “What, were you coming in here to tell me I had it coming?”

“Your words, Ms. Langley. Not mine.” He snickered and ducked back out the door, leaving me alone to fume.

Ryder returned shortly with a finger splint. “Are you
sure
you want me to do this?”

I snapped, “Yes, just pull my finger and get it over with.”

Chuckling, he said, “You said ‘pull my—' ”

“Do it!”

Looking at me apologetically, he gently took hold of my finger. Even his light touch shot pain halfway up my arm. “I'm going to do it on three. One…two…”

He yanked my finger quickly, and an excruciating pain engulfed my entire hand. I yelped, tears springing to my eyes as I tried not to make a big dramatic scene. Ryder adeptly placed my straightened finger in the splint and secured it with the Velcro strips.

“You okay?” he asked, smiling sympathetically.

Finally being able to breathe again, I replied, “Yes.”

“Good. I have some paperwork to do on the suspect I brought in tonight, so it'll be a while before I can get home. You said you'd come over around ten?”

Inwardly breathing a sigh of relief and hoping it didn't take more than an hour to get Bastidas to spill his guts, I said, “I'll see you then.”

He pulled me up out of my chair and took me in his arms. “What am I going to do with you?”

“I'm thinking of a couple of things I'd like you to do with me later.”

A police officer had given Stan a ride back to the funeral home, so I sped straight to my apartment. I quickly changed into the sluttiest thing I could find in my closet—a tank dress much too revealing to wear without the matching jacket. Tonight, though, I was ditching the jacket. I would probably be cold, but it would work. I had to use some creative makeup tricks to conceal the blossoming bruise on my jaw, but it would be dark in Sinclair's, so no big deal. Aside from the big ugly finger splint, I was good to go.

Pete picked me up, frantic after my text explaining that I had to ditch him and Gertie and their horror movie to instead give the police a statement on my assault. The moment he saw me, he rushed to envelop me in a hug. “Are you okay? Your text scared the shit out of me, and then you wouldn't answer your phone.”

“Sorry. I had to turn off my phone while I was giving my statement. Besides, this is way too long a story not to tell in person. We need to get going, though. I'll fill you in on the way.”

Once we got out of my parking lot, he said, “Spill it, Langley.”

“Well, Kent majorly has it in for Stan. He beat him up, threatened him, and now this. We were just walking to my car, minding our own business, when Kent comes out of nowhere and knocks Stan on his ass. I, of course, couldn't keep my big mouth shut, and when I put my hand on his arm to get his attention, Kent swung around and clocked me.”

Pete's eyes were huge. “He hit you in the
face
?”

“Yeah, he backhanded me. Right here.” I showed Pete my jaw. “I put makeup on it, so you can't see anything. My jaw hurts like a bitch, though.”

“It looks like your finger is broken, too,” he said through gritted teeth.

“Yeah. I kind of stuck my finger in his face when I was telling him off, so he decided to break it. He also told me he'd break the rest of them if I went to the cops, but I didn't let that stop me.”

Jerking the car over to the side of the road, he screeched to a halt, undoubtedly angering several motorists behind us. “Jules,” he said with obvious effort, “I'm pulling the plug on this. I can't allow you to get hurt because of me.”

“Well, for one thing, you are not the boss of me, so you're not ‘pulling the plug' on anything I'm doing. So I've got a broken finger. Big freaking deal. That's nothing compared to what happens to people in prison.”

Pete shook his head vehemently. “This is my problem, not yours.”

“The hell it is! You're my best friend. What happens to you affects me. And besides, we've already had this conversation before, and you should know by now that you can't change my mind. Now drive.”

“No!”

I looked up the road and shrugged. “It's only a few blocks. I'll walk.” I got out of the car and slammed the door, walking purposely down the sidewalk toward Sinclair's. It was cold, and even though I had worn a winter coat over my flimsy dress, I was shivering.

Pete pulled back onto the road and drove at the same pace I was walking. He rolled the window down and yelled irritably, “Damn it, Juliet, get back in the car.”

“Not until you agree to go through with tonight as planned.”

He fumed, “Fine. Just get in.”

I happily got back in his car, and he angrily drove the rest of the way to the restaurant. Once we parked, I said, “Wait about five minutes before you go inside. You'll probably have to sit at the bar, because there's no way you'll get a table. If you can, try to sit close enough that you can listen in on our conversation.”

“Will do. But if things start going south or if something doesn't feel right, you get out of there immediately,” he said, his face overwhelmed with worry.

“Yes, Dad.”

He put his hand on my arm. “Seriously, Jules, please be careful.”

I patted his hand. “Always.”

Bastidas wasn't there when I got to our reserved booth, so I had some time to gather myself before my big interrogation started. I wasn't sure how I was going to steer a first date conversation to such an intimate place that he discussed a dead girlfriend, but at the same time not get so intimate with him that I got felt up. To be fair, I was totally asking for it by purposely throwing myself at him, so he was actually doing nothing wrong by coming on to me. It was still gross.

Pete came in and found a seat at the bar, luckily only several feet away from my booth. He scanned the room and then called me. “I don't see Bastardo anywhere. Think he stood you up?” he asked hopefully.

I scoffed, gesturing to myself, “Would you stand
this
up?”

He smiled at me. “No. Never. Hey, it's too loud in here for me to hear or record your conversation live. I've got a call recorder app, so set your phone down on the table and don't hang up. I'll take care of the rest.”

“Sweet.” I did as he instructed and ordered a drink while I waited. I thought about ordering dinner, considering I hadn't had any, thanks to my trip to the station. I was halfway through my drink when Bastidas showed up.

He took my hands and kissed them both. Yuck. “Oh, R-r-r-rosalie. Please forgive me, I beg you, for running late.” He was too busy ogling my cleavage to even notice my broken finger. A real gentleman, this one.

I smiled. “Of course. I know you're a very busy, very important man.”

Sliding into the cozy, circular booth beside me, he said, “I have been looking forward to seeing you tonight. I have thought of nothing else since this afternoon.” He pushed up next to me, still leering down my dress.

Barely controlling the urge to slap him, I replied, “As have I, Alejandro. I want to know all about you. Where did you grow up?”

He waved the waitress over and ordered us a bottle of champagne. That was a little overkill, but whatever. I could drink plenty of champagne and still keep my wits about me. Turning back to me, he replied, “On the streets of Venezuela.”

This was going to be easy. I put my hand over his. “That must have been rough.”

Gazing away thoughtfully, he said, “Yes, it was. But it taught me to be a fighter and to work for what I wanted.” He turned, piercing me with his dark eyes. “Once I decide I want something, I get it.”

Yeah, that was kind of creepy.

I took it as an opening, leaning in to him a bit. “And what do you want?”

“You.” He leaned toward me slowly.

There was no getting out of this one if I wanted to keep up the charade. I shut my eyes tightly and braced for it.

“Here you are,” called a cheerful voice. I opened my eyes to find a friendly server setting an ice bucket on our table. I breathed an inaudible sigh of relief. She added, “Would you like me to open the bottle for you?”

Bastidas impatiently waved her away. “No, thank you.” Turning back to me, he purred, “Where were we?”

“You were telling me what it was like to grow up on the streets of Venezuela. Was it dangerous?”

Now that the mood was broken a bit, he sat back and shrugged. “Yes, at times. I did odd jobs as a teenager and saved enough money to come here to America. I worked installing landscaping to put myself through school, and now I own my own thriving business. I am the American dream, no?”

It was a great story, not that I believed for a moment it was actually true. “You certainly are. I hear the ladies around here think you're pretty dreamy as well. Your reputation precedes you, Alejandro, you bad boy.”

He gave me a wolfish smile. “What can I say? I love women.”

“You love lots of women.”

“ 'Tis no crime.”

I looked down, trying to appear shy. “I'm afraid you might not find me interesting enough. I married my husband when we were very young. He's the only one I've ever…you know…”

He took my face with both hands. Damn, that hurt my sore jaw, but I tried not to let on. “R-r-r-rosalie. You are an extraordinary woman. Do not sell yourself short. I find you
very
interesting.”

The pressure he was putting on my face made my eyes water, and I was able to use that to my advantage. Pulling back and letting out a fake sob, I replied, “It's so difficult being close to someone after losing my husband. You'd…be my first.”

His eyes glimmered creepily. He probably got off on shit like that. “Do not worry,
mi querida
, I promise to be gentle with you.”

Blinking to get the tears to spill over my eyelids, I asked earnestly, “Have you ever lost anyone close to you, Alejandro? Someone you loved?”

“Not really, no.”

Bastard! I flicked my eyes toward Pete, and I could tell from across the darkened room that he was about to blow his top. I pressed, “But someone you were close to?”

“Yes, a…client of mine died suddenly last week.”

“Oh,” I replied sympathetically. “Was it Cecilia Hollingsworth? Her violent death was such a horrible tragedy.”

“Yes, it was a pity.” He brushed my cheek with his finger. “But the rest of us must go on.”

It even bothered me, Cecilia's nemesis, for someone to speak so flippantly about her passing. “I've heard she was more than a client to you.”

Shrugging, he replied, “Eh. We had a little fling. It meant nothing.”

Pete was standing rigidly at the bar, one hand holding his phone, the other clenched at his side. This had to be killing him. I shook my head slightly at him, willing him not to do anything to draw attention to himself.

“Normally women don't have little flings that mean nothing to them, Alejandro. It seemed as though she was quite taken with you, possibly even in love?”

“Who can say?” he replied nonchalantly. “Alejandro is hard to resist, no?”

I'd had enough. “Actually, no. You're a dumbass. You talk about Cecilia like she was nothing to you, and she was
carrying your child
! Now she—and your baby—are dead, and you don't even give a damn!”

He was completely taken aback, his mouth falling open. “How…?
¡Mierda!
I thought she had told no one about the baby. How do you know this?”

“I know lots of stuff. Like how you killed Cecilia because you didn't want to be a daddy.” There. That should end this farce of a date quickly.

His face twisted into a menacing snarl, and he grabbed my arm roughly. “How dare you accuse me? You know nothing,
puta
.” Tightening his grip, he leaned in closer to me and spat, “Besides, I didn't care enough about her to bother with killing her.”

Pete appeared at our table, and before I knew what was happening, he had already grabbed Bastidas and thrown him down onto the ground. “You don't touch her, asshole,” he growled.

Scrambling up quickly while spewing a torrent of Spanish curses, Bastidas shoved Pete against our table. Pete responded by coldcocking him. One punch had Bastidas knocked out. Just as I was about to congratulate Pete on this ass-kicking, three bouncers showed up and seized both of us. We were unceremoniously whisked out of the place and shoved out onto the sidewalk.

“That went well,” I joked.

Pete only glared at me.

I put my arm around him. “Oh, come on. How great did it feel to punch that pompous ass-clown?”

He smiled slightly, conceding, “It felt awesome.”

Pete dropped me off at home, and I had just enough time to change and get to Ryder's house by ten. After talking to Bastidas, I wasn't convinced that he had killed Cecilia. He didn't seem like the type to get his hands dirty, and when he said he didn't care enough about her to kill her, I believed it. The guy was a world-class douchebag who didn't seem the type to let a little thing like impregnating a woman cramp his style. My money was still on Kent. That man had a screw loose, and he obviously had no problem taking out his aggression on women.

When I got to Ryder's house, he was already there. He opened the door and said, “It's been too long.” Without another word, he scooped me off my feet, kicked the door shut, and carried me to his bedroom.

I had nearly forgotten how mind-blowing Ryder's lovemaking was. Right then, in my moment of bliss, I decided not to screw up this relationship again. Collapsing next to him on the bed, I murmured breathlessly, “You were right. It really has been too long.”

He grinned. “If you hadn't mercilessly dumped me, it wouldn't have been.”

Tracing a finger down the ink lines of his tattooed shoulder, I replied, “Yeah, yeah. It's all my fault.”

He gently brushed my hair away from my face. I could tell from his tone that he was trying not to get angry about what had happened to me. “You know, you're going to have a nasty bruise on that beautiful face of yours.”

“Yep, it's already started to get ugly. Luckily, a little makeup will hide it well enough.”

“I can't believe that son of a bitch would hit a woman less than half his size,” he grumbled.

“Speaking of that son of a bitch, did he get arrested yet?”

He sighed, rolling away from me and onto his back. I could tell all of this assault talk had taken him out of the moment. “Sort of. We hauled him in, but he immediately lawyered up and we were forced to cut him loose. Assault convictions without witnesses or video are tough.”

“Stan was a witness,” I pointed out.

“But he's also a victim with a rocky relationship to the assailant. Kent's lawyer would eat him alive at trial.”

“He said he'd break my other fingers if I went to the cops. Isn't that some kind of crime?”

Ryder clenched his jaw. This was really getting to him. “We could get you a restraining order against him, but they generally don't do any good.”

“How about a murder charge, then? Surely you cops are starting to see a violent pattern with Kent. Did you get anywhere with Cromwell?”

“He's looking into it.”

“In other words, he doesn't care,” I griped, sitting up and pulling the covers around me. “How about Cecilia's baby daddy? You guys figure out who that is yet?”