Shattered Glass (23 page)

“He lied,” Peter said, standing up. “I’ve been out of that life since Joe took us in. Iss was just pissed because he figured out I put that shit in his house.”

“Quiet. Both of you. I need to think.” A bevy of thoughts chugged through my head. All that money, all the passports, left in a box only Peter had access to. “Ron said Dench would do anything for his boys.” I examined the computer, then turned to Peter. “I need Joe’s records for the diner.”

“What are you thinking?” Luis asked.

“I think the passports and I.D.s were evidence to start an investigation. But an investigation wouldn’t be able to do much with cash. The money could only be for one thing: Peter and the boys. I think Dench was hiding those passports and that money because he was about to turn himself or Alvarado in. Did you put everything from that box in Iss’s house?” Peter nodded slowly, a frown of denial pulling at his brows. “And you’re sure Joe put them in the box.”

Another nod. “No one else had access.” Luis caught on. “Dench was going to turn on everyone? Or he could have been planning to run, leaving the kid here with the evidence to turn in. What will the diner records tell you?” “Dench, Alvarado and who? If I can separate the legitimate businesses from the ones here on Alvarado’s spreadsheet, I can track the other partners.” I shook my head again. “No, I’m wrong somewhere. Missing something or someone. This much money? Monthly? How many people would he have had to smuggle?”

Peter shook his head vehemently. “Joe was not involved like that! Iss did all of Joe’s accounting. All of it. It was Iss’s idea to buy the diner in the first place. Joe couldn’t say no to him really.

But Joe would never—”

“Never say never, kid.” Luis alt-tabbed on the computer and pulled up a list. “These are the disappearances or people who ‘moved away’ which match with Alvarado’s travel. I included unsolveds.”

Luis’s most valuable skills were his ability to find people, to acquire snitches and to recognize patterns in suspects. He could

look at a case and figure out which scumbag was our most likely doer. I thought he had some geographical sixth sense—or instinct. Sort of how serial killer programs could pinpoint the radius of where a suspect lived. It helped that he was from Mexico City, too.

“There are two hundred and thirty names here,” I breathed.

“Two hundred and thirty-nine.” Luis added, “You’re right.

Not enough to account for all that money.” “How long ago did you go back?”

“Not how long. How far.”

“Huh?”

“This only covers the towns and cities I could cross check with Alvarado’s recent travel. Some of these towns have little-to-no telephone access and the local police weren’t helpful in a lot of cases. I couldn’t delve any further. There was a full-scale war between two cartels near where Alvarado was last seen.

Some missing niece or daughter of the Jiménez cartel lord. I don’t see us getting more information from down there. But that’s not the important information. What is important is that even if there were five hundred, it still wouldn’t match up with the amount of cash rolling through Alvarado’s accounts every month.”

I scanned the amounts on the list again and concentrated on the sums less than two grand. “These small amounts here, here and here. Who do they belong to? There has to be two different sources for the cash. Five and nearly ten grand to these businesses,” I pointed, “Only one and two to the others.” I looked at Luis. “How long till forensics is done with the accounting from each business?”

“A week?” Luis answered. “Probably two.” “They’re probably spending most of their time on the big money. Which is probably drug money. I think the smaller amounts are the trafficking funds. I can work on that end.

Meanwhile, we need Peter to study the inventory of evidence from Alvarado’s arrest to see if anything is missing. With cops involved, we can’t be sure we have everything.” Peter was texting when I turned to him. “I need the balance sheets from the diner.”

“Already ahead of you, Detective. Darryl’s emailing them,” he said, holding up his phone to show the text. “Will all this help Cai?”

“Depends. If Cai didn’t kill him, then the partners probably did. Let me ask you something. How did you know Iss was dead?”

Peter’s darted a glance to Luis and shook his head at me.

“I’ve got to get back to the station.” Luis stood after reading Peter’s silent message: N
ot while he’s here
. “Bring him by tomorrow,” he nodded in Peter’s direction, “We’ll see if he notices anything missing. I’ll leave the laptop here.” I walked Luis to the door. My partner stopped with the door half open, his voice low. “You should have contacted your union rep to fight the suspension.”

I shrugged. “It’s a week. I deserved it. And besides, by the time they reinstated me, I’d be back on the job.” “It’s on your permanent record,” Joe pointed out. “The FBI will take it into consideration.”

“I’ll introduce them to Del. They’ll be more impressed I didn’t shove my foot up his ass.”

He chuckled, then got serious. “Don’t trust him.” “Too late,” I replied with a weak smile of my own.

“My neck is on the line with this. He helped today, but the setup of Alvarado is enough to arrest him.” “I know.”

“He lies one more time…”

I nodded at the unspoken threat and shut the door behind him. The knife was no longer stuck in it. Crossing my arms over my chest, I leaned against the wood just inches from where Peter’d stabbed the blade through the mahogany. My brows raised expectantly.

“I went over there to kill him,” Peter said with an amount of stoicism that would make Zeno proud.

Maybe I’m Dating the Sociopath?

“Pardon?” My eyes blinked so many times it could have been considered a tick.

“Darryl and I got back from our gig, to find Cai hysterical in the bedroom. He’s crying like I’ve only heard him do when the depressive cycle hits. One time when he got like that—I went out to make macaroni and cheese. It took like ten minutes.

Fucking microwave,” he set his jaw. “Ten minutes because he has to have the cheese sticking and burnt to the macaroni. I came back in the room, and he’d used a bottle of turpentine and had my lighter—Cai tried to set himself on fire.” My brows shot past my hairline and probably landed somewhere in the back of my neck. But I didn’t say anything, so Peter continued. “So okay, Friday we get home late. Darryl and I hear this sobbing, and we’re frantic.” Peter rubbed the tattoo on

his hand. “Cai was holding his hands in his lap, rocking back and forth.” He begged me to understand with his glance into my eyes. “Iss had branded him. Tried to rape him, then fucking branded him as a message to me.”

Jesus, this case was complicated. This whole fucking boy’s life was complicated. I rubbed my temples. “But Cai wasn’t raped?”

Peter shook his head. “He wasn’t even upset about that,” he laughed tiredly, rubbing the meaty part of his palm between his eyes. “His fucking hand. He’s hysterical because Iss destroyed his canvas.”

“Huh?” That was becoming a recurring response of mine.

“Cai’s skin. When he was younger, he got into a manic phase and carved it up—we covered the damage with tattoos, and since then he’s had this thing about his skin being a canvas for artwork.”

“And you think Cai didn’t kill him?” And Peter thought
I
was the naïve one.

“I know he didn’t, because two other people were there when Iss tattooed him. Cai’s best friend, Rachel, and some kid that held him down. Cai said Rachel got him out of there.” “How do you know he didn’t go back and kill him? You were willing to do it,” I pointed out.

“Because he didn’t try and stop me. We all wanted him dead for it. And they both were creating alibis to cover for me.” As a cop that admission was a twist to the gut, but as a human being? Maybe part of me wanted the man dead, too.

“They told the cops this?”

He nodded. “I think Cai did, not about me going there—but

about Rachel taking him home. Rachel is MIA, though. She disappears for long periods. Usually after she scores.” Oh, good. An addict for an alibi.

I flopped down on the couch. The middle cushion was the only thing separating me from Peter while I attempted to pull all this information in. It was too tiring. My eyes were trying to close. “You should have told me all of this from the beginning.” “I didn’t know you. You didn’t know me. I just wanted Iss out of our lives. I’d have even given up the restaurant, but the day I was supposed to meet you…that Saturday you came to the diner and saw me that first time—”

“You were the no-show informant I waited two hours for?” “Yeah. I planned on giving you everything. The passports, the money, the accounts. Then Cai’s tuition came up, and just like that we were broke. The mortgage was next and the restaurant was the only income we had.” “Not the only income,” I pointed out without mentioning the money from his and Darryl’s “gig”.

“So I called Darryl, and we used this snitch everyone knows to pass you the info about Iss. Then I went to his house, hid the stash, and that was supposed to be that. Iss in jail, restaurant safe and those people being looked for. But then you were always hanging around, pushing your way into my life. No matter what I did to send you away.” He bit his lip around a half-smile and fisted one of my pillows to his chest. I let my eyes fall shut.

“You still should have told me,” I scolded, before settling my head onto the armrest, bare feet propping my knees up in the middle of the sofa. “Have you been baking?”

“Cai’s other favorite, cinnamon rolls,” he whispered. My eyes flew open. He hovered over me, bracing himself on either side of my head.

“What are you doing?” My voice cracked on an unsteady breath.

“You’re hard.”

“Yeah well, I keep trying to explain to my dick that you’re a lying, manipulative whore, but it has selective hearing and chooses to focus on that last part.” I immediately regretted saying it. Hurt flashed in his eyes. But Peter never gave me any emotion for long.

His hips pressed against mine. He was hard, too. My brain fogged and my hands moved of their own accord to his hips, pulling him closer.

“Try to think of me as a person, Austin. I know that’s a novel idea for you, but I’m not just a whore.” I wasn’t sure why he felt it necessary to say that while rocking his hips into mine. “Peter…?” “Hm?”

“Shut up.” My fingers closed around the back of his neck and I pulled him into a kiss.

Frotting Should Replace Baseball as the National Pastime Our lips clashed together, teeth clacking, making me wince and him grin. I’d had better delivered kisses, but the Fourth of July had fewer fireworks than this one. Just one more incongruous Peter-phenomenon in a list long enough to satisfy Santa’s naughty roll.

The slight rock of his hips opened my lips for an intake of

breath. His tongue swept in to steal it away. I delved fingers in his hair, gripping it in a fist and pulling him tighter to me. He responded by nipping my bottom lip and rubbing his cock harder into mine.

“Wrap your legs around me,” Peter ordered bending his elbows to cradle around my head. He scooted us both down the couch.

“I’m older. I should be on top,” I said stupidly.

He laughed gently, skimming a hand down my side and lips trailing heat across my jaw. He paused then whispered, his breath damp and hot along the curve of my ear, “Austin.” He pushed hard with his hips, my zipper and his pressing together almost painfully. My brain skittered to a halt.

“Yeah. I know. I’m shutting up.” Okay. I could handle being a homo. Clothes on and rubbing against each other like teenagers was the best pre-sex experience I’d ever had. Sadly.

“I’m going to make you come without even touching your cock,” he promised.

“Oh, God. You’re a control freak,” I groaned, pulling harder at his hair. He nipped at the skin on my neck. Every touch of his lips was like kindling. I slipped my hand from his hips and down the back of his pants, more heat from his skin to my palm.

“You’re seriously…making…me consider…a gag.” He rolled his hips, making my back arch with the zing of heat that shot from my groin up my spine. He thrust again, and my other hand clenched into a fist.

“Now who’s talking…Oh, Jesus…” I forgot what I was going to say as he trailed a tongue from collar to earlobe. Done talking. Couldn’t through the moans anyway. And somehow in

the middle of all that, I wrapped my legs around his waist and began rocking into him.

Control was never my issue. Not in bed, not in life.

Overthinking was my problem, which was what I was doing as Peter made me realize what I had missed by repressing who I was.

Do I move my hand up or in? Am I supposed to stick my fingers in his ass? He’s on top. Does that make me the woman?

What do women do in this situation? They never stuck their finger in my ass, that was for sure.

“Stop thinking,” Peter whispered. How he knew was anyone’s guess. Experience? Or my twitching hand in his pants was more likely.

“I can’t reach,” I laughed. Delightfully, he laughed too.

Though both of us shut up as he covered my lips and sought my tongue with his. The smell of cinnamon enveloped my senses, but it couldn’t overpower the tang of sweat. My hand moved up his back, slipping under his shirt then back down again seeking to map out every inch of his damp, warm skin. His breath quickened as did the pace of his hips. He curled his tongue around mine, sucked at it, drove me to slamming my hips against him until our lips were wet from breaking apart with the force of our rubbing.