Dreamspinner Press Year Three Greatest Hits

by Jenna Hilary Sinclair

  He tugged on his jeans, the worn denim sticking to his shower-slick skin. He didn’t bother with a shirt, shoving his gun into his waistband like second nature. He pressed his back to the wall beside the front door, the way Madrigal had shown him, ready if it was kicked open by a hostile leg.

  “Who is it?” he called.

  The peephole in the center of his door might as well have been invisible. He’d stood on the other side of a door not long ago and watched Madrigal use that particular pathway to blow someone’s brains out through their curious eye. No peepholes for Danny after that.

  “Danny, it’s me. Ortiz.”

  Danny opened the door and found Ortiz’s wide, familiar face grinning at him.

  “Hey, man.” Danny smiled, giving Ortiz a quick, one-armed hug. “Come on in.”

  Ortiz gave a low whistle as he crossed the threshold. His eyes roamed around the spacious living room, taking in the clean, white walls and the new furniture. “Nice place,” he commented.

  “Thanks. You want a drink?”

  “Sure. Soda or something is fine.”

  Danny pointed him toward a set of bar stools pushed under the overhanging counter. There was a rectangular cut-out in the wall above, giving a view into the tiny kitchen. Danny grabbed two Cokes from the refrigerator, passing one through to Ortiz before resting a hip on the kitchen side of the counter. “It’s good to see you.”

  “You too. It’s been a while,” Ortiz said.

  Danny had only talked to Ortiz a half-dozen times in the year since he’d left the car wash. Once, just a week after he started working for Hinestroza, Ortiz had dropped by Danny’s old apartment, wanting to make sure he was okay. The most recent time had been a month ago, when Ortiz had called late at night, drunk, asking Danny for a job.

  “How are things at the car wash?”

  “Terrible.” Ortiz shook his head. “That asshole hasn’t given me a raise since you left. Still working for less than minimum wage.”

  “That’s against the law,” Danny pointed out.

  “Yeah, well, so is being an illegal. He knows I’m not going to complain.”

  Danny had been surprised when he’d first found out Ortiz was an illegal alien. He spoke with a heavy accent but his English was good. Better than a lot of the rednecks Danny had grown up with, that was for sure. Danny had assumed Ortiz had gone to school in the States. But he’d learned at home; Ortiz’s mother spoke English and she had made sure all six of her children were fluent in case they ever got the chance to cross the border.

  “There’s got to be somewhere else you can work.”

  Ortiz shook his head again, flipping the tab on his soda can back and forth so hard it snapped off in his fingers. “What about your job? How’s that going?”

  “Fine,” Danny said, turning away to grab a bag of pretzels. He tore it open using teeth and hands and tossed it down on the counter.

  “I know you said you didn’t have any work for me, that time I asked.” Ortiz looked embarrassed, his eyes focused on the counter. “I’m sorry about that, calling you drunk….”

  “No big deal.”

  “But I’m desperate, man. I need more money. Isn’t there any way you can get me a job?”

  Danny set down his can with a hollow pop. “Do you even know what I do, Ortiz?”

  Ortiz looked up and met Danny’s eyes. “I got a pretty good idea. Hard to miss that gun in your waistband.”

  “You want to get mixed up in this life?”

  Ortiz gestured over his shoulder with a thumb. Danny’s gaze followed to his clean, white living room. “Doesn’t look so bad,” Ortiz noted.

  How could Danny possibly make him understand? Sure, he had money now, and responsibility and people who relied on him. But he also had drugs and guns and fear gnawing away at him day after day.

  “It’s not the kind of life you want. Trust me. There are better ways to make money.”

  “How, Danny? How?” Ortiz burst out. “I’m hardly sending anything home as it is. I’ve been looking for better paying work for over a year now. There’s nothing. Please, I’m begging you. Just tell them to give me a chance. I’ll work hard. You won’t be sorry. Please.”

  Danny knew Ortiz had a wife and baby back in Mexico, even though he was only a year older than Danny himself. He hadn’t seen his daughter since two weeks after she was born, but his wife sent pictures when she could. His little girl was almost three now and wouldn’t recognize her father if she passed him on the street.

  “Ortiz….”

  “If I can make some more money, maybe my wife can come to the States. Right now, we’re barely making it. Half the time they don’t have enough to eat. They’re living with my mother, eleven people in a two-room shack. Please, Danny.” Ortiz ducked his head, but not before Danny caught the sheen of tears in his dark eyes.

  “It’s ugly, this work I’m involved in,” Danny told him, his voice soft.

  “Uglier than my daughter getting bitten by rats when she’s sleeping on the floor at night? Uglier than my wife having to make shoes for her out of old pieces of tire and duct tape? Uglier than that?” Ortiz asked, angry.

  The right thing to do, for everyone, would be to say no to Ortiz’s request. He would be furious; he might never speak to Danny again. But eventually he’d find a job that paid more or he’d go back to Mexico. Either option was better than following in Danny’s footsteps.

  Ortiz was the only friend Danny had in Texas, the first person he’d met when he’d stepped off the bus from Atwood—Dallas was as far from home as his money could take him. Danny had walked twelve blocks that day with a stained duffel bag slung over his shoulder, sweating through his long-sleeved shirt, before he’d come across the car wash and stopped to ask the kid drying cars if he knew a cheap place to eat. That kid had been Ortiz. He’d shown Danny a restaurant that sold tacos for fifty cents and helped him get a job at the car wash and a craphole apartment down the street from his own. Danny owed him; he owed him more than to get him entangled with Hinestroza.

  But Danny was nineteen years old and he was lonely. He wanted to have a friend again. He thought maybe he wouldn’t be so fucking scared all the time if he could work with someone who didn’t make his blood freeze, someone he could trust.

  “Okay,” he said, looking at Ortiz’s pleading eyes. “I’ll talk to my boss. I’ll see what I can do.”

  ONE OF the first lessons Miller had learned at the FBI Academy was not to make value judgments about the person you were interviewing. Recording impressions, drawing conclusions: those things were acceptable. But when you let personal feelings enter the equation, it clouded your ability to accurately assess the information you were receiving. Sitting across from a suspect who had raped and killed a six-year-old girl? You were not allowed to despise him. Hatred stops the flow between suspect and interrogator. Neutrality was the order of the day. But here Miller was, having barely spoken five words to Griffin Gentry, and already he hated his guts.

  The man was just what Miller had expected: tough, cocky, and over-confident. His attitude worked well with his handsome face, although it pained Miller to acknowledge it. His thick brown hair covered one sapphire-blue eye, the muscles in his arms flexing as he reached for a cigarette, his mouth full like Danny’s but not as soft. Everything about him came with a harder edge. Just being in the same room with Griffin, the man whom Danny had smiled at with such familiarity, started Miller’s blood on a slow simmer.

  Half an hour earlier, Miller had left Danny sprawled on the living room couch, bitching about having to eat take-out again and thumbing through a magazine. For the last two days Miller had waited for Danny to mention his nightmare, to bring up the name Ortiz, but Danny didn’t appear to remember, which only made the guilt whispering around the edges of Miller’s mind that much stronger.

  When Miller had said he was leaving, Danny had given him a long look, muttering, “Give Rachel a hug from me,” as the door closed. Miller had considered telling Danny he wasn’t goin
g to see Rachel, but reminded himself that was information Danny didn’t have any right to know.

  On the drive north, Miller had prepped for this meeting. He was going to talk to Griffin Gentry for one reason and one reason only: to find out what, if anything, the guy knew about Danny’s admission of murder. Griffin’s relationship with Danny, past and present, wasn’t relevant and Miller would not allow himself to tread that ground.

  “Mr. Gentry, I’m here to ask you some questions about Danny Butler,” Miller said, pulling out the chair across from Griffin. They were seated at a small table in the living room of the apartment where Griffin was being hidden away. It was similar to the one Danny and Miller were sharing, only smaller and slightly shabbier. Special Agent Sakata had taken the opportunity to escape for a while now that Miller was there, saying he’d be back within the hour.

  Griffin gave Miller a half-smile around his cigarette, flicking the hair from his eye with a slight toss of his head. “Call me Griff.”

  Miller ignored him. “You and Danny were cellmates in Leavenworth.” Griff didn’t answer. “Well?” Miller demanded, already losing patience.

  “Was that a question?” Griff asked. His voice was rough, full of gravel, like he suffered from a permanent sore throat. “’Cause I’m assuming you already know the answer or you wouldn’t be here.”

  Smart-mouth fucker. “Did Danny ever mention the name Ortiz to you?”

  “No.”

  “Are you sure.”

  “Yeah. Why?”

  Miller tapped his pen against the legal pad on the table. “Danny told me he killed someone.”

  That got Griff’s attention. He ground out his cigarette. “Nuh-uh. Never happened. Danny wouldn’t kill someone. He couldn’t.”

  “He said he did,” Miller replied.

  “I don’t give a shit what he said. I know him, and he doesn’t have it in him.”

  “How well do you know him?”

  Griff’s eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?”

  What, your resolve not to broach this subject is going to last all of five minutes? Don’t go there, Miller. It’s nothing you need to know for the investigation, it’s not— “Danny’s gay. You were cellmates….” Miller let his assumption hang in the empty air.

  Griff tapped a fresh cigarette from the pack on the table. “Since when is Danny’s sex life, or mine, of interest to the FBI?” he asked, eyebrows raised.

  He’s right, Miller. If Sakata was sitting here, too, would you be asking this question? I’m guessing the answer to that is a big fucking “no.”

  “What is it you want to know, exactly?” Griff’s voice was amused, indulgent. “Whether we were lovers?”

  Miller fought hard against the visions trying to form in his brain, mental pictures of Danny and this man, touching….

  Griff smiled, his eyes coming to rest on Miller’s hand, the one clenched into a fist so tight his nails were cutting into the fleshy pad of his palm. Miller forced himself to relax, his hand smoothing out on the tabletop. “I want to know how well you know him,” Miller repeated.

  “We were cellmates for twenty-two months,” Griff said. “So we got pretty close. What else is there to do in prison but talk?” He didn’t continue, watching Miller with cunning eyes.

  “So you weren’t….” Relief seeped into Miller, filling him up like a dry sponge taking on water, cooling the burning in his blood.

  Griff grinned. “I think you misunderstood me. As it happens, Danny and I discovered we were good at more than talking. In Leavenworth and afterwards too.” He wagged a finger in Miller’s direction, like a teacher chastising the errant schoolboy. “But that’s as much detail as you’re getting. I don’t kiss and tell.”

  Miller gritted his teeth, the fiery sting of Griff’s words making him want to reach across the table and smash his fist into that pretty face, bust open those lips that had kissed Danny’s more than once and probably never called it a mistake.

  “Why did it end?” Miller chewed off each word like biting through a stick.

  “Does Danny know you’re here, asking me these questions? He’d probably answer them himself.” Griff paused to blow smoke in Miller’s face. “If you had the guts to ask him.”

  Miller reached over and snatched the cigarette from Griff’s fingers, crushing it out on the table.

  Griff laughed, not intimidated at all. “How do you know it’s over between Danny and me?”

  “Because I’ve watched Danny for the last nine months and I never once saw your face,” Miller said, satisfaction he didn’t even attempt to disguise punctuating every word.

  Griff shrugged. “You’d have to ask Danny why it ended. He’s the only one who can answer that particular question.”

  “Why did he meet you that morning on the street corner? What did you bring him?”

  “Nothing,” Griff said, shaking his head. “He just wanted to see me.” He was good; he didn’t give a single thing away. Miller couldn’t tell if he was hearing the truth or a lie.

  “And he never mentioned the name Ortiz to you?”

  “No. I already told you. Is that who he said he killed?”

  “No. He didn’t give a name or any details.”

  “You’re wasting your time. It never happened.” Griff graced Miller with a dismissive smile. “And if you knew Danny half as well as you think you do, I wouldn’t have to tell you that.”

  “WHAT THE hell are you doing?” Danny asked, waving away smoke with one hand. “You’re gonna set off the fire alarm.”

  “You said you were sick of take-out.” Miller kept his back turned, facing the stove with a brandished spatula.

  Danny finished pulling on his shirt, smoothing back his damp hair with one hand. “When did you get home?”

  “Couple of minutes ago. Figured you’d be starving.”

  “I am.” Danny moved up behind him, peeking over his shoulder. “What the fuck is that?”

  “Grilled ham and cheese.”

  Danny waited a beat. “Is it supposed to be black like that?”

  “Shut up, dumbass,” Miller said, elbowing him backward. “If you don’t want yours, you can order pizza again.”

  Danny groaned. “I never thought I’d say this, but I think I could live happily without ever eating another slice. Living here has put me over my lifetime quota.”

  “Yeah, me too,” Miller agreed. “Grab some plates.”

  Danny set the table with two plates, paper napkins and a couple of beers. “Want chips?” he asked.

  “Sure,” Miller nodded, sliding blackened sandwiches onto each plate.

  Danny took a bite of his sandwich, the cheese and ham overpowered by the flavor of scorched bread. But he didn’t mind; he was actually thankful for the smoky, ozone stench in the kitchen. It spared him having to catch the scent of Rachel.

  “Did you have a nice break from this place?” he asked, washing down a mouthful with a swallow of cold beer.

  Miller poked at his sandwich with one finger. “I wasn’t taking a break.”

  “What were you doing?”

  “Work stuff,” Miller said, taking a hesitant bite of his own creation.

  Yeah, I’ll bet. “Still, it must be nice to get out,” Danny said. He watched Miller chew. “Do you think we could leave tonight? Just for a little while?”

  Miller’s head snapped up. “No! Are you nuts?”

  “It’s dark. Couldn’t we just take a walk around the block? I’m losing it here, Miller.”

  “What if Madrigal—”

  “You really think he’s cruising random city streets at night hoping to spot me?” Danny laughed. “That’s not his style. It would be beneath him. He’ll wait until he knows exactly where I am.”

  Miller shook his head. “It’s too risky. Besides, it’s freezing out there. And they said it might rain.”

  “Are you sure you’re really from rural Kansas?” Danny asked skeptically.

  “What? Yes. Why—”

  “Because if you think th
is wimpy-ass weather is cold, I seriously doubt you’ve lived through a winter on the plains.”

  “Smartass,” Miller mumbled, a little grin inching its way across his face.

  Danny smiled back. “You know I’ll keep nagging you all night if you don’t say yes.”

  “Jesus,” Miller sighed. “We’re only going around the block one time.”

  Danny nodded his agreement. “I just need to get out of here, even if it’s only for twenty minutes.”

  “Ten minutes,” Miller corrected.

  “Okay,” Danny grinned. “Ten minutes.”

  When they were done choking down their sandwiches, Danny rinsed the dishes, saying he’d finish washing them later. Miller shook his head in disgust at Danny’s excitement, but pulled on his coat and brown stocking cap without another word.

  “Your cool factor just plummeted,” Danny said, pointing at the hat.

  “I don’t give a shit about my ‘cool’ factor,” Miller retorted, shoving his feet into boots. “I care about keeping my head dry.”

  “Fair enough.” Danny smiled, flipping up the collar on his jacket.

  Danny wouldn’t admit it, but Miller was right: the night air was cold, their breath escaping in cloudy bursts like a pair of miniature steam engines. But after a block of fast walking, Danny could feel heat bubbling up through his skin, his hands stuffed inside his jacket pockets taking on a thin sheen of sweat.

  It wasn’t raining yet, but Danny could sense the moisture hanging above them, biding its time. They passed a row of houses still decked out in Halloween finery, gossamer cobwebs covering the bushes out front, orange lights twinkling around door frames, and a glow-in-the-dark skeleton beckoning from a porch swing.

  “I used to love Halloween,” Miller said, almost to himself.

  “Yeah? I was never that excited about it.”

  “My mom was good with sewing costumes. One year I was an Indian and she made me a giant headdress. That was my favorite.” Miller smiled at Danny in the dark.