Spitfire Suckerpunch (House of Pain Book 2)

by Lavender Parker

  Six years ago

  Tate stood against the back wall of the dark office, his arms crossed over his chest, watching the scene in front of him through two way glass. He could see the girl at the table in the adjacent room, her head down. They'd been in the room with her for over two hours, but she wasn't talking. She had her hands on the table in front of her, crossing and uncrossing her fingers. She had long red nails, he noticed, and she would drum them on the table in a light beat every time the detective asked her a question.

  Shaylene 'Sugar' Spears was going to be a tough nut to crack. She wasn't stupid and she wasn't weak. Unfortunately for her, she was young and she was also very guilty. That was the leverage they had over her and she didn't have much of a chance unless she took a deal. Morales, the detective in the room with her, leaned back in his chair and crossed his legs like he had all the time in the world.

  “We know your father put you up to this, Sugar,” he said in a soft, soothing voice. “He asked you to wait in that alley, didn't he?” She didn't respond, just tapped her nails. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tate shifted on his feet, chomping down on his almost-tasteless peppermint gum. He knew Shay Spears. He remembered letting her go for a minor shoplifting charge, a couple of years before. He'd seen her numerous times around the neighborhood, especially after he knew who she was. He'd seen her smiling and happy with her friends, like a kid should be. It was fucked up that she'd been dragged into her father's mess. It sucked, but her father was in the wind, and she was sitting right in front of them. She was either going to end up being the bait or the scapegoat, it seemed.

  “Can I have some water?” she asked, her voice low and barely audible.

  “Sure. After you answer some of my questions,” Morales tented his hands in front of him. She worked her teeth over her plump bottom lip and shook her head slightly, like she was waging an internal war with herself. He ran his eyes over her face, not able to stop thinking that it was a damn shame that she'd found herself in such a shitty situation. She didn't deserve it. She was so damn young. And she was a pretty girl as well, although that didn't have anything to do with the situation at hand. She had smooth, unblemished brown skin and a heart-shaped face that made her look younger than she was. Her eyes were smudged with dark mascara and eyeliner and her lips were painted red.

  Red like the color she'd tried to shoplift.

  “I'll be honest with you, Sugar,” Morales said, keeping his tone soft and calming. “I know your father's probably told you that you can't trust us. I know you probably think you shouldn't talk to us.” He shrugged lightly. “But if you don't talk to us, you'll be making a huge mistake.” She lifted her hand and pushed a piece of dark hair behind her ear. It was then that he noticed she had what looked like an engagement ring on her finger. Something jumped in his chest. Maybe that was something they could use to get her to talk, he thought. He narrowed his eyes, waited for Morales to pick up on it.

  “You're looking at ten years max, Sugar. Ten years in prison.” He adjusted his glasses, letting the words sink in. “How old are you? Eighteen? You really want to waste your twenties, your best years, in prison?” He shook his head. “I don't think any of us wants that. You want to go to college, don't you? I bet you have a boyfriend and a lot of friends who probably wouldn't stick around for ten years, right?” She closed her eyes for a long second and took a shaky breath, but didn't speak. “If you tell us where your father is, the D.A. will be a lot more forgiving. This is your first offense. You could walk. No prison time.” Morales leaned closer, perhaps sensing blood in the water. “If you testify against the man who put you up to this, everybody wins. We win, you win...” he trailed off, then patted his hand on the yellow pad of paper beside him on the table. “Give me a statement and I'll see what I can do with the D.A.”

  She shifted, the plastic chair creaking under her weight. She raised her eyes to look at the yellow pad. Morales slid it over to her. Tate clicked his tongue and shook his head. He leaned forward involuntarily, knowing somehow in his guts that she was about to go one way or the other. He cracked his knuckles, telling himself that he shouldn't care about this poor girl. She wasn't the important one. She wasn't the endgame; her father was. She'd just been caught in the crossfire. But it still felt shitty. The poor kid didn't know what she was doing. She was scared and alone and her father had fucked her to save his own ass.

  “Come on,” he said, under his breath. “Don't fuck this up.”

  “What about your aunt, huh? Regina?” Morales piped up. “Maybe she knows where Sam is. They're pretty close, right?”

  “Fuck,” Tate hissed to himself, feeling in his bones that the interrogation was heading south.

  “She's got a salon over on Morningside.” Morales continued, like an idiot. Tate flicked his eyes to Shay. She was shutting down by the second. “Maybe Sam is hiding out there. Maybe we need to send a few officers over there to check it out. If she's hiding him, we'll drag her ass in here too. Maybe you're willing to do time for Sam, but what about her?”

  “She don't have anything to do with it and you know it,” Shay said, her whole body going rigid.

  “I don't know that,” Morales said. “You're not giving me any information. If you won't talk, maybe she will.” Shay snorted in disgust and Tate felt a cold hard heaviness in the pit of his stomach. The interview had turned. Beside him, the assistant D.A, a sharp-dressed red-haired woman named Daphne, shook her head. “But even if we shut down her salon for a search and drag her in her for questioning, you're still going to be in a jail cell. We got you, girl. We got you.” Morales' voice was still calm, but it was no longer friendly.

  “You aren't gonna do shit for me,” she said. “You want me to be your punk and then you're still going to throw me in a cell.”

  “Now, that all depends on you. I told you, we're going to work something out with the DA. But you have to give me something. You give something, you get something.”

  “I don't need anything from you.” Shay shook her head, her big gold earrings catching the fluorescent light.

  “Come on, you're not a stupid girl.” Morales patted the yellow pad again. “You're not in the position to make demands. We got you, but we want your father. You can help us or you can hurt yourself. Your choice.”

  “I want a lawyer,” she said, crossing her arms over her chest. Next to Tate, Daphne sighed. The mood changed around in the room as Shay's words effectively shut down the interrogation. The lieutenant tapped on the glass and Morales stood and left the room, leaving the pad on the table. The lieutenant and Daphne turned to each other, talking softly. Tate didn't pay attention to their words. He walked closer to the two-way mirror, staring at the girl in the room beyond. She looked so small in there alone. He couldn't shake the feeling that he could have gotten her to talk. He knew her, sort of. He'd been kind to her before. She might open up to him, especially if he got her what she wanted. A glass of water and a friendly demeanor might have made the difference. The difference that might have kept her out of prison.

  “Boss, let me talk to her,” he blurted out, turning to the lieutenant, even though he knew it was no use. It was worth a try though. Shay Spear's life was worth a try.

  “Too late, Grayson. She's lawyered up.” The lieutenant shrugged and opened the door. Daphne, Morales, and the lieutenant filed out, leaving Tate alone in the dark room. He turned his eyes back to her and was startled to see her looking at the double-sided glass, right at him. Her eyes were wide and scared, like she was finally realizing the seriousness of the situation. A single tear ran down her cheek and something wrenched in his guts. He cleared his throat, telling himself that he didn't care. Shay Spears didn't matter in the long run. But even as he said it to himself, he didn't believe it.

  Shay Spears wasn't just another kid on 125th street. She was the one with potential that he couldn't save, the one he'd failed. The one that could have had a bright future if she hadn't been in the wrong place at the wrong time. Or been related to the wrong person. After a mome
nt, she stood, shoving the chair back. She walked to the corner of the room, wrapping her arms around herself. She was cold, he guessed. They usually kept the interrogation rooms cold to throw off the perps. He clenched his fists at his sides, the overwhelming urge to protect her coming over him There was something so sad about her that he couldn't tear his eyes away. She slid down the wall, balling herself up on the floor, making herself as small as possible. Then she put her head down, burying it in her crossed arms, effectively shutting him out.

  After a few minutes, he turned and forced himself to walk out of the room. He left her behind, telling himself that in a few weeks, he would forget all about the poor girl. After he pulled a few homicides and a few big cases, Shay Spears would be a distant memory.

  It was a total fucking lie, but he had to tell himself something.

  Present Day

  As Tate gunned his way down the empty late night streets toward Harlem, he could still see the sad, lonely, lost look in her eyes, as clear as day. She'd been so young and she'd been so fucked. He bet she was remembering that sense of hopelessness now, especially if the detectives already had her alone in an interrogation room. He had to get to her. He had to get to her before she shut down completely. He knew that if she shut down and withdrew into herself like that day six years ago, he would never be able to forgive himself. Not only that, but he might lose her forever.

  It might just be impossible to get her back.

  ***

  Shay sat on the hard plastic chair in the gray room, staring at a dark scuff on the wall. Her eyes felt so swollen, she longed to close them and go to sleep. She wanted to sleep until it didn't hurt anymore. She didn't know how long it would take, and she didn't really care to think about it. She didn't want to think of anything, because when she did, her mind would find its way back to her father. She kept imagining horrible things. While she'd been in the Bronx at Thalia's holiday party, her father had been shot. While she was dancing and trying to make herself have a good time, her father was murdered. She didn't know if she would ever be able to get over that. He'd died alone. He'd died thinking that she hated him.

  Her head throbbed.

  She curled her hands on her lap, her mouth dry and her tongue feeling swollen. She needed water or something, but there was nothing to the room but a table and two hard chairs and four walls and one locked door. She was stuck. She hated being stuck, but she wasn't going to cry anymore. She didn't know if she even could cry. She was all dried up and stiff, like a hard sponge. Her eyes went blurry as she stared without blinking, but no tears came. The door opened and the sound was as loud as a gunshot in the quiet room. She jumped and blinked, crossing her arms across her chest defensively. The detective at the door was rumpled and wide, blocking the exit. His face was as blank as hers, as schooled as hers. As far as he was concerned, she had information and he wanted it. He didn't care about her or her father. No matter what he said, no cop cared about her father's murder.

  It was just a job to the detective. A job to file and sign away.

  “I want to see Sgt. Tate Grayson,” she said, her voice sounding rough and jagged to her ears. The cop didn't answer her, but walked further into the room. It was only then that she noticed another person behind him. It was his partner, she assumed, a hispanic woman with a short dark bob. The woman closed the door and the rumpled detective sat in the chair in front of Shay, the plastic and metal creaking under his weight. Shay was almost tempted to slap her hands over her ears or smash her face into the wall, whatever would make them shut up. They weren't even talking yet. Just the sound of their breathing and the rustling of their clothes was almost too much.

  “Miss Spears, my condolences,” the rumpled detective said, scrubbing his finger through his red mustache. Shay forced herself to take a slow breath so that she didn't explode. She pressed her tongue to the side of her mouth to prevent herself from spewing the barrage of obscenities that were threatening to spill out. “I'm Detective Holder. This is Detective Ramirez.” He motioned to his partner, then turned back to Shay. “We just have a few questions and then we'll let you go.” Ramirez shifted in the corner, her heels clacking on the linoleum.

  “I don't know anything,” Shay mumbled.

  “We'll see,” Holder said, sitting back in the chair. It creaked loudly again and Shay gritted her teeth, her whole body feeling on edge. “You might know something of value.”

  “All I know is what they told me. My father got shot,” she said, her jaw painfully clenched. “And then he died.”

  “You never know what might come in handy in an investigation, Miss Spears,” Holder replied. “We just want to talk.” Shay shook her head. He was asking her to remember all the shit she didn't want to remember and she had no interest in it. She didn't trust them to find her father's killer anyway. The man had a lot of enemies and it was well known. She'd even given up years of her life for him, his own daughter. But she'd still loved him anyway, because he was her father. She didn't apologize for that, even if it had bitten her in the ass more times than one.

  And now he was dead.

  “Let's start from the beginning. Did you see your father today?” Detective Holder asked. “If so, around what time?

  “Sgt. Tate Grayson. I want to talk to him,” Shay said, turning to Ramirez. “Please.”

  “Why don't you talk to us for a bit?” Ramirez said, leaning in closer, her gold earrings glinting harshly in the fluorescent light.

  “Can you think of anyone who would want to hurt your father?” Holder began again. “A business partner, an old girlfriend...” he trailed off, like he expected her to finish the sentence.

  “I told you, I don't know anything,” Shay repeated.

  “Don't you want us to find who did this to your dad?” Ramirez piped up.

  “I didn't see anything. I haven't seen him since Christmas,” she said, before she could stop herself.

  “Do you know where he's been staying?”

  “I don't know.” She closed her eyes for a moment to give herself some relief from the bright lights. But when she opened them again, the glare was just as harsh as ever. “I have no idea.” Holder scribbled something on the yellow pad he'd brought into the room with him. Then he lifted his head and stared at her, like he was willing her to continue. She stared back until she had to blink.

  “You need something to drink, hun?” Ramirez said. “Coffee? Soda?”

  “No,” Shay said.

  “The sooner you tell us what you know, the sooner you can get out of here,” Holder said, shifting in his seat again. Creak-creak went the chair. “The sooner you can get home to your family.”

  “I can go anytime I want. Unless you're arresting me?” Shay glanced between the two cops. Holder squinted his eyes at her.

  “Now, why would we arrest you?”

  “You wouldn't. Because I didn't do anything.”

  “All you have to do is let us know anything that might help,” Ramirez said, her tone softer than her partners. “We just want to help.”

  “Miss Spears, you're currently on probation. Correct?” Holder said, tapping his pencil on the table. Shay snorted out a laugh, because she knew that her past would come up sooner or later. God, she hated cops. They always had a habit of missing the point. Even when she was sitting there, traumatized and in shock, they were trying to shake her up and intimidate her.

  “I want to talk to Sgt. Tate Grayson,” she repeated.

  “We can arrange that. But first talk to us,” Ramirez prodded. Shay worked her jaw, trying to decide whether or not she should cooperate. Everything in her said not to, but she also knew that without her statement, her father's killer might never be found. She didn't know what was worse. It was in her blood to not trust cops. She hugged her arms tighter around her chest. A wave of longing for Tate swept over her. All of a sudden, she wanted him more than she'd ever wanted anybody.

  A loud knock on the door made her jump. Ramirez and Holder shared a look and Ramirez went to the door and sli
pped out. Holder let out a rough sigh and ran his hand through his mustache again. On the other side of the door, Shay could hear muffled talking. There was a small, yellowed window near the top of the door, but she couldn't see anything without standing.

  “Okay, let's start from the top,” Holder began again. “When was the last time you saw your father?”

  “On Christmas,” Shay said softly, still trying to focus on the voices outside the door. Her heart starting pounding in her chest. She had a bad feeling, almost like she was reliving the day she was arrested, six years prior.

  “And what time did your father come by on Christmas?”

  “Around noon.”

  “How long did he stay?”

  “All day,” she said, her eyes on the door.

  “Did you talk about anything out of the ordinary? Anything strange?” Holder leaned forward. The knob turned and Shay jumped again, her heart squeezing in her chest. Then she felt all of the apprehension dissipate when Tate walked through the door. Tears welled up in her eyes as emotion hit her like a ton of bricks. She gasped in a sharp breath. Holder turned, his brow furrowing.

  “Detective Holder,” Tate said, giving the other man a curt nod.

  “Sergeant,” Holder grumbled.

  “Can I have a minute?” Tate didn't look at Shay, but she knew all of his attention was focused on her.

  “Uh we're actually right in the middle of—” Holder began.

  “A minute, Detective,” Tate cut him off. Holder huffed and shot a look at his partner. “We just need a minute,” Tate said. Ramirez shrugged and stepped out of the room. Holder make a lot of noise following her, but Shay didn't care. The only thing that mattered was that the detectives were gone. She just wanted to get the hell out of the police station. She wanted Tate to make that happen for her. When the door closed behind the detectives and they were alone, Tate crouched in front of her. He didn't say anything at first; he was just there. Like he knew that she didn't want to talk. Like he knew exactly what she needed. It took a long minute for her to compose herself. She didn't want to burst into tears in an interrogation room.