Convict: A Bad Boy Romance (8 page)

The way he walked off after kissing me with no explanation whatsoever.

There was lots of kissing, not just peck
, I think.

His tongue in my mouth, his hand on my back, gripping me like I had something he
needed
.

His rock-hard erection, pressed against me.
That
was a dead giveaway.

Fucking quit it, Rivers,
I tell myself.

Googling Stone doesn’t turn up much, either. There are a couple of people with his name, but by the time I untangle him from the others — a dentist in Nova Scotia, a retiree in Yorkshire, a minor-league baseball player in South Carolina, a sixty-something lawyer in Montana — there’s not much there, either.

Actually, there are two somethings. A mention in the local paper as Eddie’s new mechanic, and a thank-you from the Boys’ and Girls’ Club of San Luis Obispo for his $20 donation. Both in the past six months, with nothing at all before that.

This is getting downright mysterious, and suspicion is starting to bubble through my brain.

Well, really, just one big, glaring suspicion.

He’s on the run
, I think, staring at my computer screen.

He testified against the mafia, and now he has to hide out here so they don’t get him.

That, or he murdered someone, faked his own death, and started a new life for himself.

It’s all wildly unlikely. I haven’t been a detective all that long, but if I’ve learned one thing, it’s that the solution to a mystery is mundane ninety-nine percent of the time.

There’s other possibilities. Maybe he just doesn’t use the internet much. Maybe he’s just got a boring life. It could be anything.

But knowing that doesn’t make the feeling that Stone is definitely,
definitely
hiding something go away.

I
’m
elbow-deep in a Volkswagen when a police car drives into Eddie’s and stops right in the middle of the driveway. I glance up at the two uniformed officers getting out, and even as my palms get a little sweaty, I grit my teeth with annoyance.

Just like cops
, I think.
They think they’re so important they can just park in the middle of the lot and block anyone else trying to come in here
.
Like other people barely exist
.

It’s fine. They’re probably just here with follow-up questions about the vandalism and break-in. Not my problem.

I pull on the broken timing belt and finally get it free, then toss it on the floor next to me. This isn’t looking good: it snapped while the car was driving, and wrecked probably half the engine. I’m not even sure it’ll be worth it to fix on a seven-year-old car.

“Stone,” Eddie calls.

I pop my head around the side of the hood, one hand still in the engine. Both the cops are looking at me with that smug look that only cops seem to have.

“Yes?” I say, even as I get uneasy. It’s never good when cops have
that
expression on their faces.

“Mind coming down to the station with us?” one asks.

It’s not a real question. That’s
never
a real question.

“Hold on,” I say, and pull my head back behind the hood of the car where they can’t see me.

I take both hands out of the engine and wipe them slowly on a rag, staring at the car’s engine but not seeing it. I don’t know what they want, but I’m not stupid. I know it’s not good.

Fight, then run
, I think.

Every muscle in my body is screaming that one word,
fight
, but I clench my fists in the rag, take a deep breath, and force it down. They’ve got guns and I’ve got a wrench set. I know who loses here.

Still behind the hood, I roll the sleeves of my coveralls down to my wrists. Even though anything incriminating that was on my arms is pretty much covered up now, cops never need more reasons to be suspicious.

Citizen
, I remind myself. The muscles in my jaw flex.
You’re a citizen.

“Is there a problem?” I ask, walking around the car. They’re still watching me, still looking smug. I’m nearly twitching with anger, but I think I’m hiding it.

“Just wanted to ask you a few more questions,” the one on the right says.

“Am I under arrest?” I ask.

“No,” says the other cop, but I can tell he means
not if you come willingly
.

I look at Eddie. Eddie shrugs. I hold my hands out, palms up.

“Let me wash my hands first,” I say, and walk to the shop’s bathroom before they can respond.

Even if they’ve got the upper hand right now, I don’t have to be their bitch.

* * *

T
hey don’t handcuff
me to the table in the interview room, at least. I lean back in the uncomfortable chair, arms folded, and stare at the one-way mirror in the wall. I know they’re watching.

After the deal went down and I got released from prison, I spent four months moving from hotel to hotel near the Atlanta airport. One of the conditions of my release was that I see a shrink three times a week, and I had nothing else to do but wait, so I went.

I actually still miss Dr. Gibson sometimes. He was an older black man who wore bow ties and cardigans, and spoke with the kind of slow, patient southern accent you see in movies. But he’d also spent ten years in prison. His entire twenties, down the drain.

He got me, is what I’m saying. He warned me about all this shit, that adjusting would be hard, even harder for me than for people released under regular circumstances. He told me I’d backslide, that I’d like criminals better than regular people, that despite knowing what I need to do, it would be hard.

Dr. Gibson didn’t warn me about hot detectives, but no one’s perfect.

He did teach me the trick about counting backward by threes, which is what I’m doing now. Even though I
want
to flip this table into the mirror and see what fucking questions they ask
then
, I start at two hundred and four. Two hundred and one. One ninety eight.

I hear voices outside the door. One ninety five. They’re muffled, but it sounds like Luna. The last person I want to see right now.

One ninety two. That’s not true.

She’s the last person I
should
see.

“—after the staff meeting tomorrow, sure,” she’s saying as she pushes the door open.

In one hand she’s got a thick manila folder, and in the other she’s holding two plastic water bottles. Then she finally turns to me and the door shuts behind her.

We look at each other. I can’t read her face at all, but I think of her against her car for what has to be the millionth time, and my breath catches in my throat. The door shuts.

Fuck
, I want to do that again, right now. I want to pull her onto this table. I want to undo the buttons on her professional shirt with my teeth.

I hate that I want that.

“Thanks for coming in,” she says, and puts a bottle of water in front of me.

“I didn’t have much of a choice,” I say.

I regret it almost immediately. She flicks an annoyed look at me, and besides, I’m supposed to be a hardworking mechanic with no record. Not the kind of guy who pisses off cops for no reason.

Luna slides into the chair opposite me and opens the manila folder, taking out a couple of photos. She pushes one across to me, her face still carefully blank.

For one split second, I think of her hips moving against mine, and swallow hard.

“There was a double arson on the Palms Road underpass last night,” she starts. “A late-model Nissan and an older Chevy both got torched.”

A fist tightens around my chest. Static fills my ears. It’s them. It’s step two.

They know
, I think.
They know you’re here, somewhere, and they’re going to keep this up until they find you or you give up.

“Stone,” Luna says, giving me a hard look, her eyes narrowed.

I realize she’s still talking. I raise my eyebrows.

“You recognize either of these?” she asks, pushing photos of the cars in front of me.

I shrug. They’re burnt to hell, and I don’t have Eddie’s photographic memory for cars.

“No,” I say.

“Have you been down Palms Road lately?” she asks.

I stare at her and try to remember where I’ve been. My heart is still pounding, my mind swirling as I try to figure out what to do next.
If
I should do something.

“I don’t think so,” I say.

“Where were you last night, around eight-thirty?” she asks.

I was down in San Luis Obispo, helping a guy test the new super-strong shock absorbers in his truck and not asking why he needed them, but I can’t tell her that.

“Home, watching TV,” I answer.

She pushes another photo in front of me, this one of the graffiti on the overpass.

There it is, that dollar sign in a circle. Just like I knew there would be.

“You recognize that?” she asks.

I pretend to examine the photo for longer than I need to, like it’s a secret code that’ll lead me to treasure.

“It’s graffiti,” I shrug.

“That symbol was also on Eddie’s garage,” she points out.

I know
, I think.

“Don’t vandals usually tag the same thing over and over?” I ask. I’m trying to sound nonchalant, and I lean back in my chair.

I still don’t know why I’m here, and I’m not about to volunteer anything to a police officer, hot detective or not.

“There are only two instances of this one, actually,” she says, and looks at me again. “You’re
sure
you don’t know anything about this.”

“Nothing,” I say.

She gives me a long, searching look.

“We found your prints on spray paint cans at both crime scenes,” she says.

I frown. I didn’t do this and I
know
I didn’t do it. For once, I’m innocent.

She pushes another photo across the table, and I look at it. It’s a can of bright orange spray paint, lying in the grass. I almost laugh with relief.

“That’s the paint we use at the garage,” I say. “Usually orange, to mark car parts we’re throwing out. Old tires, busted fenders, that kind of shit.”

I spread my hands on the table, palms up.

“They probably took it when they broke in,” I say.

Luna watches me carefully and waits for a moment.

“Your prints were on the cans outside Eddie’s too,” she says.

Shit.

The scene replays itself in front of me, clear as day: grabbing each can and hurling it against the gate in a fit of anger. I didn’t tell anyone about that, because I hate when my anger gets the better of me.

I lean back in the uncomfortable chair, take a deep breath, and fold my arms in front of me. I don’t want to tell Luna about my temper tantrum, but I don’t have much of a choice.

“That’s because I picked them up,” I say.

Luna’s face is still, and it’s impossible to tell if she believes me or not.

“Go on,” she says.

I glance at the mirror behind her, wondering again who’s back there. I imagine some fat, middle-aged man, frowning, his arms folded across his belly, just waiting to pin this all on the new guy in town. Anger flickers inside me, and I stomp it back, trying to keep my cool.

“I got there before Eddie that morning,” I say, letting my voice go quiet.

I pause, trying to think of the best way to tell this story.

“I like Eddie,” I say. “I like working for him. He hired me even though all I’ve got is a GED, he pays fairly, and he’s a good boss. So when I saw that shit on his gate, I was
pissed
.”

She’s still watching me, her face unreadable.

“And I threw the cans against the wall,” I say. “It was stupid. It didn’t help anything. It didn’t even make me feel better. I’m still pissed at whoever fucked up Eddie’s garage. But that’s why my prints are there.”

Her eyes lower to the pictures, like she’s considering my story. It’s the truth. I know full well that it’s the truth, but I’m not stupid enough to think that that’s always going to be good enough for the police.

I’ve seen people tried and convicted on less. Not me. I was guilty as shit, but it happens.

I should have asked for a lawyer
, I think.
I can’t believe I’m still this stupid
.

Luna pulls back the photos.

“What brand is the paint you use at the garage?” she asks.

I exhale hard, squeezing my eyes shut.

“Something that ends in EX,” I say, because I can’t fucking remember, even though I
just
looked at the photo of it. “It’s a blue background with big blocky yellow letters, though. We buy cases of it in orange and red.”

There’s a pause.

“Paintex? Spraytex?” I say.

Luna puts the photos back in the manila folder and rests her fingers on it lightly for a moment, then looks back at me.

“You sure you were home last night?” she asks.

“Yes,” I say, and lean forward. “Alone. All by myself, all night. That what you want to know, Detective?”

“Yes,” she says, her voice brittle. “Thank you.”

“You also gonna ask about Friday night?” I say.

I know I shouldn’t be taking my anger out on her, but I’m fighting it for control. She has me brought in by two uniforms while I’m at work, practically accuses me of arson, and now she’s trying to find out what I’ve been up to?

“No,” she says.

“If you want to know what I’ve been doing, you could just ask,” I say, keeping my voice low. “You don’t have to send a couple of assholes in uniform to bring me in.”

“I don’t care what you’re up to except for when you’ve got an alibi,” she says crisply, knocking the lower edge of the manila folder against the table.

Then she looks me in the eye, and something softens in her face.

“And that wasn’t my call,” she says, her voice suddenly quiet, nearly a whisper. “I don’t do petty revenge, Stone.”

We stare at each other for a split second, and I have to fight back a smile.

She’s pissed I left
, I think.
She wanted more, too
.

Not that this makes anything less complicated. Luna folds her hands on top of the folder, sitting up perfectly straight, like someone who’s acutely aware of being watched.

“Is there anything else you haven’t told me?” she asks, her eyes meeting mine.

The things I haven’t told you would take hours
, I think.
Starting with that symbol.

My stomach tightens again.

“Not about this,” I say, holding her gaze.

“Nothing?” she asks.

I could
swear
her voice drops, just barely, and then I’m back in that parking lot with her up against the car. For a second, I forget about the graffiti and the arson, and I lean forward, my elbows on the table.

I tug at one sleeve to make sure my ink is covered. Luna sees. Of course she sees. She’s a detective.

“Like what?” I ask, my voice lowering to match hers.

“You tell me, Stone,” she says. “You’re the only person we’ve linked to the crime scenes so far.”